November 29
THE ASSISTANT OPENED the door and Nora stepped into the office of Jill Fugit, PhD, president of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. Clive Benton followed behind. The office itself, though not large, was warm and cozy and, Nora thought, had a friendly feeling—with an old Spanish tiled floor, adobe walls, and a small fireplace. The windows along the far wall overlooked a garden, now blanketed in white from the previous night’s snowfall. A 1920s Two Grey Hills rug adorned another wall, while a shelf displayed a row of Zuni ollas from the late 1800s.
Dr. Fugit raised her head from a stack of papers and rose, shaking both their hands. Her smartly tailored suit, long blond hair, and habitual sense of style were hardly the standard image of a fussy, unimaginative academic—something Nora silently applauded. Fugit had been a controversial choice for president when the post became vacant a few years earlier, but her credentials were impeccable, while her keen and at times acerbic intellect was a pleasant change from the usual mumbling fossils who’d inhabited the office. The Institute was already showing the tangible benefits of her business and fund-raising acumen.
“Nora, nice to see you,” she said briskly. “And you must be Dr. Benton. So good to meet you. Please sit down.”
She indicated seats for them on either side of the fireplace. Dr. Fugit resumed her seat at the desk and looked at them both with a pleasant but searching expression.
“Can I offer anyone coffee or tea?”
One of the perks of working in the Old Building at the Institute was the coffee service. Fugit picked up the phone and put in their requests. She then pulled a manila folder off the top of the stack, slid it in front of her, and opened it. “So, Dr. Benton. I see you’re a Stanford graduate.”
“For my PhD, yes. I did my undergraduate work back east.”
“My alma mater as well. But let’s get down to it. I’ve read through the report you and Dr. Kelly prepared.” She paused. “I knew about the Donner tragedy, of course, and I’m somewhat familiar with earlier archaeological work on the two main camps. But the details you’ve outlined are remarkably vivid—particularly of this Lost Camp, apparently a scene of exceptional deprivation and despair.” She closed the folder. “I couldn’t help but notice your spelling of Mrs. Donner’s first name. She was perhaps the central figure of the tragedy, and one of the most studied by historians, but I recall her name always being spelled as ‘Tamsen.’”
“That’s correct. Her mother’s name was ‘Tamesin’ and that was the name she was given at birth. However, she chose to spell her own name as ‘Tamzene’—and I’ve tried to respect her wishes.”
“Of course.” There was a brief pause. “So—Dr. Benton, you want the Institute to sponsor a search for this camp and excavate it.”
“Exactly. I’m a historian, not an archaeologist. The Lost Camp is almost certainly in the Tahoe National Forest, on federal land, so we’d need to get state and federal permits to excavate. The prestigious reputation of the Institute would be extremely helpful.” He paused. “And I’m convinced Dr. Kelly is the perfect person to lead this expedition.”
Fugit’s penetrating gaze did not waver. As usual, Nora found herself unable to read the president’s expression with any accuracy.
“Well, as I said, the proposal is admirably thorough. I’ve given it much thought. But I don’t think it’s right for us at this time.”
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.”
He sat back, a smile of triumph on his face.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Fugit murmured. “That was a great deal of money in 1846.”
“Yes. But what’s it worth today? We’re not just talking about the melt value here—we’re talking about the numismatic value. A single gold eagle in uncirculated MS-60 or better condition with a date in the mid-1840s is currently valued between fifteen and twenty thousand dollars. In other words, somewhere in or around that camp is a strongbox containing up to twenty million dollars’ worth of gold coins.”
Benton stopped and the silence in the office was impressive. Finally the president spoke.
“This is all well and good, but if the Institute excavates the site and finds the gold…who owns it?”
“Any artifacts uncovered in a permitted excavation by a qualified 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization are normally owned by the organization.”
“So the gold would be ours?”
“Debatable. California will claim the treasure as its historical patrimony. The Federal government will also want it, since it will have been found on federal land. Wolfinger had no descendants that I can find, so there’s little concern in that direction.”
“I’ve seen situations like this before. Descendants or no, it could very easily get ugly.”
“Yes. But Dr. Fugit—” Benton leaned forward— “here’s where the Institute and its stellar reputation come in. As part of the archaeological permitting process, the Institute will negotiate ahead of time how any treasure will be divided, should it be found. That arrangement will be written into the permits themselves. The Institute’s reputation would ensure no one objected to you getting a goodly share—to increase your endowment. Fund important research. Raise salaries. If the Institute offered a third to California, a third to Uncle Sam, and kept a third, who could argue with that?” He lowered his voice. “In other words, you don’t need grant money to fund this expedition.”
“It would still be a rather expensive gamble.”
“If the Institute felt it was too risky, I’d understand. Our joint alma mater, Stanford, has a world-class archaeology program, as does Berkeley.”
A line of displeasure creased Fugit’s brow. Nora knew the director wouldn’t respond well to threats, and she was startled by Benton’s directness.
“I’m sure we can find the funds,” the president said sharply. “But in this division you propose, where would you come in?”
Benton laughed. “You mean, how much gold for me? None. My interest is purely in history. If I wanted the gold, I could have gone up there myself and searched it out—and nobody would be the wiser.”
“Commendable,” Fugit said drily. “But how do you know someone else didn’t find it years ago?”
“If somebody had, there would be an unusual number of uncirculated 1846 gold eagles floating around. Nobody had any idea where the Lost Camp was located—except us, now, thanks to Tamzene Donner and her journal.”
There was a brief silence. Then Fugit closed the folder on her desk. “The Institute will accept your proposal and bear the cost of the expedition. Nora, you will be the archaeological director if you so choose, and Clive—may I call you Clive?—will be chief historian. My office will take care of the permits. We have the winter months, which isn’t much time to put together a major expedition.”
She stood and shook both their hands. “Dr. Benton, I wonder if you’d give me a moment with Nora?”
“Of course.” He smiled at them both, turned, and stepped out of the office.
Fugit watched him close the door. They resumed their seats and she turned back to Nora. “This is a very intriguing proposal.” The president’s expression remained formal, but her face betrayed a hint of enthusiasm.
“Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”
“Where do we stand on that Pueblo ruin out by Pedernal Peak?”
“The final room has been fully excavated and documented. It’s just a question of cataloging the potsherds and artifacts. Lab work.”
“And that outlier settlement you were working at Bandelier?”
“Our job is complete; I’ve handed it off to the Antiquities Department to handle the legal issues.”
The president looked at her searchingly for a moment. “You know, I’ve been here almost two and a half years. And in all that time, I can’t remember you once taking a vacation, or even just getting your head out of a test trench.”
“It’s simple: I love my work.”
“Is that all there is to it?”
“Yes,” Nora said, a little more abruptly than she intended to.
“I’m not trying to pry. But I’m aware of your history. I’m glad you love your work—I just don’t want to see you bury yourself in it.”
Nora said nothing.
“This expedition may not exactly be a walk in the park. The high Sierras are rugged, dangerous mountains. You know that Ted Curtin is just champing at the bit for a dig like this. Fact is, he needs to get one under his belt. If you want to hand off the fieldwork to him, you could take some time off, and then direct the work from back here and pick up when—”
“Dr. Fugit,” Nora interrupted, “I thank you for your concern—truly I do. And I want to see Ted Curtin get his fellowship. But the fact is, Clive Benton sought me out personally. I don’t know how he’d feel about handing the dig off to somebody else. And in all honesty, I’m not burying myself in my work—that work is my life. I can’t imagine anything more exciting than finding the Lost Camp of the Donner Party. There will be downtime over the winter as we prepare—it isn’t like I’ll be going without sleep or anything.”
Fugit remained quiet, listening.
“I know you’re aware of my history. Honestly, it’s not relevant. And…well, to use your own words, I really do appreciate your sensitivity in not prying.”
Fugit’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at this. Silence fell over the office for a moment. And then the president nodded.
“Very well,” she said briskly. “Best of luck with your preparations, Dr. Kelly.”