But now it was time to revel in the present. Time now to draw up plans to extract the gold he knew was there, never mind the old fart‘s assertion that he‘d never pulled out more than an ounce of dust at a time. A sluice box, perhaps, creekside. Or, dare he think it, a dredge? A small one, to begin with, and then he‘d see. God helps those who help themselves.

A smile spread beneath the thick white beard that flowed from chin to waist. His Carhartt bibs were frayed and stained, the black-and-red plaid Pendleton shirt beneath it patched and faded, and the Xtra Tuffs on his feet looked like they‘d been gnawed on by ferrets, but there was a spring in his step and a sparkle in the bright blue eyes beneath the brim of his hat. He wore the creased and grimy leather fedora at a sober angle, as befit a man of substance and property.

He‘d hitched a ride from the courthouse in Ahtna to Niniltna with Martin Shugak, who had a crush on Abigail, the eldest of Father Smith‘s daughters. In a place where men outnumbered women seven to one, that crush was shared by every other male Park rat between the ages of sixteen and forty. Abigail, erstwhile fiancée of the late Louis Deem and the seal on the land deal between the two men, remained uninterested. On the whole Father Smith was pleased. He wanted a suitor for Abigail who would bring something more to the Smith table than raging testosterone. A strong back, a willingness to work, and his own Caterpillar backhoe loader, say. By all accounts, Martin Shugak was not that man, but a ride from Ahtna to Niniltna over fifty miles of lumpy, bumpy, unmaintained gravel road, offered for whatever reason, was not to be refused.

Martin let him off at the edge of town after trying and failing to secure an invitation to dinner at some future date. Niniltna was in the throes of its Memorial Day celebration, which featured a parade, to be followed shortly thereafter by a potluck barbecue at the gym. The parade began with the white Blazer with the gold shield of the Alaska State Troopers on the door moving in slow and stately fashion up Riverside Drive, followed by a dozen veterans in clean but tattered uniforms, marching proudly out of step, with Demetri Totemoff and George Perry carrying the flags and Bobby Clark driving Jeff Talbot‘s camo Jeep with Miss Niniltna sitting in the backseat. Someone had coached her in the beauty queen wave, elbow-elbow, wristwrist.

An anonymous flatbed had been commandeered by the Niniltna Native Association and was manned by the four aunties, sitting in a half circle on upright wooden chairs, a quilt checkered with the colors of all fifty state flags spread over their laps. Spaces between the floats were filled with every kid in Niniltna who had a trike, a bike, or a four-wheeler, dressed in their interpretation—or their parent‘s—of wounded Revolutionary War militia men bearing flag, fife, and drum. They clustered close behind the dump truck, and some of their imitation leather jerkins were so full they were leaking lines of candies, the instantly recognizable spoor of the eight-yearold Niniltnan during a parade.