“What’s on your mind?”
Benton glanced at Jason Salazar. “Um, what I’m about to say is confidential.”
“Jason’s a curatorial assistant at the Institute, and I can vouch for his discretion,” Nora said. “A lot of what we do as archaeologists is confidential, so you needn’t be concerned.”
Benton nodded, his black hair ruffling in the breeze. He remained a bit flustered, as if not knowing where to start. Finally he reached down, opened the backpack, and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag. He opened it and removed an old, tissue-wrapped volume, which he laid reverently on the table between them, unfolding the tissue with delicate fingers.
“The original journal,” he said, “of Tamzene Donner.”
Nora stared at the book blankly. The name meant nothing to her. “Who?”
“Tamzene Donner.” He looked sideways at her and Salazar. “You know, the wife of George Donner, who led the Donner Party? The emigrants who got trapped in winter snows in the Sierras and were forced to resort to cannibalism?”
“Oh. Those Donners,” Nora said. “So I take it this journal is of historical significance?” She wondered where this was going.
“Incalculable significance.”
This pronouncement was followed by a brief silence.
“Maybe I’d better give you some background,” Benton said. “I’m an independent historian specializing in nineteenth-century westward expansion. I also happen to be a distant descendant of some of the Donner Party survivors: a family named Breen. But that’s not important. I’ve been researching the tragedy for years. Anyway, one of the few things the Donner survivors agreed on was that Tamzene Donner kept a journal, in which she recorded every detail of the journey. Historians have long speculated one of the survivors must have preserved and carried out her journal, but it’s never been found—until now.” He made a rather dramatic gesture at the stained and frayed book on the table. “Go ahead—open it up.”
With the utmost delicacy, Nora reached forward and opened it to the title page.
“You see what she wrote? Tamzene Donner, My Journal, October 12, 1846 to…Note that there’s no end date, because she died of starvation and then—” he paused and cleared his throat— “was eaten by a man named Keseberg.”
“Wasn’t Keseberg also accused of murdering her in order to eat her?” Salazar interjected.
Benton turned in mild surprise. “Yes, that’s right. You seem familiar with the story.”
Salazar shrugged. “They taught the Donner tale in history class at Goleta High. I found it intriguing.” He gave a quick smile. “Who wouldn’t?”
Nora agreed. “But where do I come in?”
“Well, I’m here to ask you something.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
Instead of answering, Benton paused. “First of all, you’ve directed several archaeological digs in the Sierra Nevada. You know those mountains.”
“To a certain extent.”
“You’re a top field archaeologist who also has experience with sites where cannibalism occurred, including Quivira—a cliff dwelling you found in Utah.”
“True.”
“And you have the legitimacy and backing of the Institute.”
Nora leaned back. “I’m starting to have the feeling I’m being interviewed for a job.”
“You’ve already got the job—if you want it. You’re the ideal person for what I have in mind.”
“Which is?” All this dancing around was starting to get on Nora’s nerves.
“I have to ask for your word of honor that—for the present at least—nothing I say will go beyond us.”
“Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”
“I’m sorry,” Benton said hastily, nervousness returning. “I know how this must sound, but once you hear what I have to tell, you’ll understand why I want to keep it under wraps. It’s a long story…and, I warn you, a disturbing one.”
Nora checked her watch. It was not yet four thirty. They still had half an hour of sunlight left and it was pleasant out there in the desert. With a faint smile she crossed her arms. Despite herself, she was intrigued by the man’s earnestness. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
Clive Benton took a deep breath, placed his hands on his knees, and began to speak slowly, in measured tones. It was clearly a story he knew by heart.
4
I FIRST HEARD the story of the Donner Party as a young boy growing up outside San Francisco,” Benton began. “I mentioned to you that my family—my mother’s family—are collateral descendants of the Breen family, who were part of the Donner group. My mother told me the story as a child and I was hooked. It led me into historical studies and eventually a PhD from Stanford.
“The Donner catastrophe was one of the greatest calamities of the westward migration. Here was a group of emigrants who set out to civilize an untamed land—California—but in the