Together, they fit the lid on, and Nora screwed it down through predrilled holes. “Let’s go.”

Corrie and Nora raised the coffin to their shoulders—it was quite light—and together they brought it out of the tent and into the brilliant sunlight, Pendergast following. Nora led the way up the valley a few hundred yards to where she’d dug a grave. It was a dramatic if not exactly cheerful spot, with dark cliffs all around, framed by the skeletons of dead trees.

Using a pair of ropes, they lowered the coffin into the ground.

“Now we each say a few words,” said Nora. “That’s the Quaker way.”

A silence, and then Corrie said: “I don’t know who led Maggie and the rest of us to Wiggett’s body, or who it was that pulled me out of the snow. But if that was you, Samantha, thank you. May you rest in peace, little one.”

Nora said: “Your life was short and your death tragic. But I find inspiration in your courage and spirit—both during life and after. The least I could do was make you whole again. May you rejoin your family in a better place.”

Both women looked at Pendergast. He raised his head and cleared his throat. “Samantha Carvilleae ossua heic. Fortuna spondet multa multis, praestat nemini, vive in dies et horas, nam proprium est nihil.”

Corrie looked at Pendergast. “What exactly does that mean?”

“‘Here lie the bones of Samantha Carville. Fortune makes promises to many, keeps them to none. Live for each day, live for the hours, since nothing is forever yours.’”

“That’s rather dark,” said Corrie.

“It’s a favorite quote of my ward, Constance. Besides, the graveside is no place for pleasantries.”

All three took turns shoveling, dirt hitting the coffin lid with a hollow sound. When they were finished, Nora packed down the area and restored the clumps of grass she had removed earlier.

“You’d never know it was there,” Corrie said.

“I’ve recorded its GPS location in case we ever need to find it again.”

As they began walking away from the gravesite, Pendergast murmured: “Tell me more about this missing gold, if you please.”

Nora gave him a quick summary of Wolfinger, his withdrawal of gold from the bank, his murder, the death of the two killers at the Lost Camp, and the gold pieces she and Clive had found in their boots.

Pendergast listened intently. “A curious story. And where exactly have you searched?”

“We scoured the lower sections of the cliffs, from the base to about twelve feet up.”

“And why did you choose that area?”

“We figured that the two men must have hidden the gold before the wagon was broken apart for a shelter. We know the snow was six feet deep at the time of the breakup, in mid-November. So we figured it had to be in the cliffs somewhere between six and twelve feet up. Six feet would have been ground level, relative to the snowpack. Twelve feet was in case they put it as high as they could reach. The cliffs are the only place to hide something, since the ground was frozen.”

Pendergast nodded. “All perfectly logical.”

“We searched every damn hole on both sides of the valley. Below the six-foot level, too, in case they buried it in some crevice beneath the snow line. Yesterday I even searched the area underneath the cornice that fell on us and broke Corrie’s arm. Nothing.”

Another slow nod from Pendergast. “And you have a record of snow depths and dates?”

“Yes. Tamzene Donner kept a chart in her journal.”

“When did the two robbers die?”

“Spitzer died on January twenty-first, and Reinhardt on January twenty-eighth.”

“And what was the snow depth on January first?”

“I’d have to check the journal. It’s in the tent.”

They reached the work tent and Nora took out the photocopied journal. She turned to the page where Tamzene had recorded snow depths.

“On January first, it was eighteen feet.”

“And on January fifteenth?”

“Um, let’s see. Twenty-one feet.”

“And January twenty-eighth?”

“Still twenty-one feet.”

“And the maximum depth?”

“It reached twenty-six feet by early March before it started to go down.”

“Most intriguing.”

“I’m not sure of the relevance of the later snowpack. They had to have buried it back in November, when the snow was a lot shallower.”

But Pendergast simply wandered back outside and stared up at the cliffs, his silvery eyes glittering in the sunlight. “Investigating every hole and crack up there would be an exercise in futility.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Nora.

“You mentioned earlier that the camp was marked by the profile of an old woman in the cliffs, since fallen. Where was that?”

Nora pointed. “See that area of lighter rock along the upper bluff? That’s where we believe the old woman was.”

Pendergast squinted up at the bluff. “Would you, perchance, have a pair of binoculars?”

“Right here.” Nora pulled a pair from her day pack. Pendergast took them and examined the cliff face for some time. He handed them to Nora.

“Do you see those holes below the patch of lighter rock?”

Nora raised the binoculars. “I see.”

“Count five holes down.”

“Done,” Nora said, peering up.

“The treasure is in that hole.”

Nora lowered the binoculars. “But that’s over twenty feet high!”

“Indeed.”

“Why would it be way up there?”

Corrie snorted. “He’s pulling our legs. We’re going to climb up there and find nothing, and he’ll be laughing his ass off.”

Pendergast turned to her. “Agent Swanson. I do not engage in low pranks and ignoble humor. I assure you, the gold is there. Or, just perhaps, in one of the holes directly above or below.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“I’ll explain once the treasure is safely in our possession.”

Nora looked at Corrie. “The climbing gear is still in the tent. You want to belay while I go up?”

“Why the hell not?”

Nora unpacked the gear and they brought it to the base of the cliffs. Nora climbed into the harness, buckled on the carabiner, and tied a figure eight knot. Corrie put on her own harness and braced in a belaying position.

Nora began to climb. It was not difficult, the pockmarked basalt offering numerous hand- and footholds. In no time she reached the hole in question. She anchored a piton and threaded the rope while Corrie took in the slack. She peered inside.

“Oh, my God!” About three feet in, she could make out the dull outline of an iron strongbox. “It’s here!”

“Excellent,” the dulcet voice drifted up from below. “Most excellent.”

Nora reached behind and pulled a small cargo net out of her pack, slipped it around the chest, and dragged it to the edge of the hole. She rigged up a pulley, fixed it to the piton, threaded a second rope through it, and dropped the end of the rope to the ground.

“That’s for lowering the box. Someone grab the end and hold tight, because this sucker must weigh at least fifty pounds.”