This flat-out surprised Nora. “Why not?” she asked, a little more forcefully than she intended.

“For one thing, high-quality excavations have already been undertaken at the other two camps. Frankly, what more is there to learn?”

Nora took a deep breath. “Dr. Fugit, the last excavation was over twenty years ago. We have new techniques—especially in DNA extraction.”

“I’m aware of the new techniques.”

“Of course. Sorry.” Nora was used to dealing with bureaucrats out of date with technology. “As you can understand, then, with a fresh dig site to work with, we might be able to finally identify some human remains by name. We can figure out who died when, and who…” She paused, trying to make it sound least objectionable. “Who, ah, consumed whom.”

At this point the coffee service arrived: a rickety cart pushed by a fifty-year employee of the Institute named Jones, with an urn, cups, cream and sugar, and stale ladyfingers. The discussion paused while they were served.

“At this point, is there tangible scientific value in knowing who consumed whom?” Fugit asked. “Besides, although Dr. Benton’s evidence is persuasive, you’re assuming you’ll be able to find the Lost Camp. But most fundamental is the question of cost.”

Nora knew this was coming. Ten years ago, the Institute had fallen into financial difficulties. Now, with Fugit in charge, they were no longer pinching pennies. But one reason for that was because the president was very careful with their budget.

“It’s true that, until now, the Lost Camp was, in fact, totally lost,” Nora said. “But Dr. Benton’s discovery changes all that. By all accounts, the eleven people trapped in this camp underwent some highly unusual sociological and psychological changes. This is an incredible opportunity for the Institute, a high-profile excavation that’s sure to get a lot of press.”

Fugit turned to Benton. “Dr. Benton, do you have any grant monies to bring to the table? I don’t see any mention of support in the proposal.”

“No, frankly, I don’t.”

“Do you intend to apply for grant monies?”

“No.”

“Just a moment,” Nora interrupted. “Of course we’re going to apply for grant monies, but we need the Institute’s stamp of approval first.”

Fugit continued to look at Benton. “Surely you weren’t assuming the Institute would fund it?”

“I was, in fact, assuming that.”

Nora frowned. Benton was suddenly on the brink of screwing everything up. But as she opened her mouth to put things back on track, he continued.

“There is one aspect to the story that I didn’t put in our proposal,” he said.

Fugit put down her saucer. “Which is?”

“It’s a part of the story that needs to be kept under wraps—for reasons you’ll soon understand.”

Fugit waited, hands folded.

“You’ll recall from the proposal that a man named Wolfinger was carrying a chest of gold.”

“I do recall that.”

“Then you’ll recall that when Wolfinger’s wagon became stuck while crossing the Great Salt Lake Desert, two men—Reinhardt and Spitzer—volunteered to go back and help dig it out. Those two men returned, claiming Indians had killed Wolfinger.”

“Yes, yes,” Dr. Fugit said, concealing a growing impatience.

“Well, that was a lie. Even at the time the members of the party were suspicious that something untoward had happened to Wolfinger. Reinhardt and Spitzer were viewed with a great deal of suspicion, and the two men afterwards kept to themselves and were somewhat ostracized by the rest. When Reinhardt was dying of starvation in the Lost Camp, he made a deathbed confession: Wolfinger had not been killed by Indians. Reinhardt and Spitzer had gone back, murdered Wolfinger, and taken his gold.” He paused. “This information has been known to historians for over a century, but nobody, incredibly enough, thought to ask the next question: what happened to the gold?”

“Please continue.”

“Naturally, they must have carried the strongbox back to their own wagon and hid it. And they transported that gold as far as the mountains, where they were snowbound. Because the two of them were basically ostracized, they were forced to make their own shelter some distance from the others. There they died of starvation. Nobody mentioned finding gold or taking it out. Which brings us to the question: where is it?”

A long silence filled the room.

“Are you saying the gold is still hidden somewhere in the vicinity of the Lost Camp?” Fugit asked.

“Precisely. And in fact, probably close to that crude shelter they built from their wagon boards.”

Nora stared at Benton, surprised and annoyed. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before?”

“I’m sorry. I had to be super careful. Think what would happen if this got out. During their snowbound months, they must have hidden the box. With all that snow they wouldn’t have been able to hike very far to hide it. Which is why I think they hid it near their shelter.”

Fugit looked searchingly at Benton. “How did you come by this information?”

“Nobody else had thought to do the research. I searched through old bank records from where Wolfinger worked and lived. And in the basement of the historical society, in an old ledger book from the First Depository Bank of Springfield, Illinois, I found a page—dated six days before the expedition’s departure—showing a large withdrawal of ten-dollar ‘Liberty Head’ gold eagles: all dated 1846 and uncirculated, fresh from the Philadelphia mint.”

“How many?”

“One thousand.”

“And the record specified that the withdrawal was made by Jacob Wolfinger?” Nora asked. She was still smarting from having been kept out of the loop.

“No—I couldn’t get the name of the withdrawer. That particular ledger page had been damaged by silverfish. But I have corroborating evidence.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out an old piece of paper, sandwiched within archival plastic. “In an adjoining file cabinet, I came across a letter from the First Depository Bank to Wolfinger, dated the following day, hoping he’d found the withdrawal transaction had been to his satisfaction and thanking him for his business.”

He passed the letter to Fugit, who looked it over carefully and then passed it to Nora.

“Very intriguing,” she said, returning it to Benton. “But how can you be sure it was Wolfinger who withdrew the thousand gold eagles? He could have just withdrawn a few hundred dollars.”

“Anything is possible,” Clive said. “But consider: This was a small bank. A withdrawal like that would have been exceedingly unusual—and it would have taken time to arrange. They might have had to send to Chicago or even Philadelphia for it. Wolfinger was a wealthy man; he had liquidated a very prosperous farm and business, and he was moving to California. Remember, this was before the days of Wells Fargo. Wolfinger couldn’t just wire the money to Sacramento—he’d have to carry it on his person. Ten-dollar gold pieces were the lingua franca of the day, like one-hundred-dollar bills for drug dealers today.” Clive leaned forward. “We know a withdrawal of one thousand gold pieces was made right before the expedition set forth. We know Wolfinger made a withdrawal from that same bank. We know he had gold in a strongbox that he was taking to California.” He spread his hands. “The evidence is irrefutable.”