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traveling through rough terrain. Reed insisted that they make their way through the Wasatch Mountains to the Utah Territories via Hasting’s Cutoff, as it promised to shave critical time and distance from their race against the coming snows. But the eighty-one people, including thirty-five children, soon found themselves struggling to travel through mountains where boulders blocked their way, and across deserts where sand mired their wheels. They were a month behind schedule by the time they reached Jim Bridger’s trading post at the foot of the Sierras. What they didn’t know was that taking that route was Reed’s way to justify his rendezvous with Lanford Hastings at Bridger’s. That is where the conspirators intended to transfer the stolen gold, and what those poor people didn’t know was going to kill more than half of them and cause the memory of those who survived to live in infamy.”
    Max described the research he had conducted when preparing to write his book, how he had studied diaries, letters and other contemporary accounts. He talked about the trips he had taken, arduously retracing the settlers’ route. April Quist passed around photos Max had taken when he’d visited the Alder Creek and Donner Lake where the Donner Party had spent that fateful winter. He held up a piece of a broken ceramic plate that he said he’d found there and, in his expert opinion, must have belonged to the settlers.
    Max admitted he had no irrefutable proof to back his claim of stolen gold being secretly transported by the Donner Party, but I saw more than a few people in the audience nodding as he listed what he claimed were irrefutable pieces of evidence that supported his conjecture.
    However, what regard Max had built up in me for him was tossed away by his answer to an innocuous question by a fan. “Mr. Carson,” gushed a middle-aged woman with dyed hair and too much makeup, “I admire you so much. You go out and live your life to the fullest while the rest of us stay at home and only dream.”
    “Thank you, Ma’am,” he answered. “Yes, I was just saying to young Greg over there,” he pointed to where I was standing behind the counter. “I was just telling him that while he’s lived his life inside of books, I’ve been outside in the real world living life as it really is.”
    I began to speculate about what would happen if Max were to find his wallet missing.
    The question and answer portion of the evening went on for another fifteen minutes. The audience then dispersed to taste the snacks and drink the coffee we’d set out and buy autographed copies of Max’s book. April took one photograph after another of Max with his fans.
    At length the event was over. The chairs were folded and put on carts for rolling back to St. Timothy’s in the morning. I made certain a signed copy of Max’s book was placed with them for the rector. I know The Reverend Cathy Walton and also know of her love for westerns.
    “So, son, I don’t suppose you know a good place where a fella can get a decent drink around here, do you?” I started to answer, but Max cut me off. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got a nose for such things.” He placed one long finger against his nose. “I’m sure I can sniff one out quick enough.” He turned to April, who was hovering nearby. “Come along, little lady. You and I are gonna’ do the town.”
    April protested that they had an early morning guest spot on a local radio show, but Max would have none of it. They left with April trying to get Max to agree to just one drink before going back to the hotel.
    I closed the door behind them, glad to be finished with the Great Max Carson.

 
     
     
Chapter Twelve
     
     
    The woman standing next to me on the bus was an ideal target. She was talking on her cell phone, making plans for that evening, oblivious to what was going on around her. The bus was crowded enough that I was justified in standing only inches away.
    I gave a quick glance to ensure