He ripped open the envelope with his thumb. The boy was still there, so Collis delved into the pocket of his vest, brought out two bits, and handed them over. The boy hesitated for a moment and then ran off.

The letter was addressed ‘Colusa, South Park, San Francisco,’ and it read:

Dear Mr Edmonds,

I have heard, belatedly, the details of what happened between you and my son, Grant, out at Lake Merced. I wish simply to record that while I thought your provocative behaviour was in some ways contributory to the unfortunate events that followed, I am grateful for the restraint you showed during the duel, and for the manner in which you forbore to take a life which both etiquette and law had given you the opportunity to claim.

I am hopeful that if chance should ever bring us to meet again, we can exchange our respects as gentlemen, and put to rest all of the unpleasantness that has arisen between us.

If nothing else, sir, I am obliged to you for the life of my son.

The signature was large and dignified. Laurence S. Melford. Collis read the letter again, then folded it up and tucked it into his vest pocket. He wouldn’t do anything for now. But the time would come when it might be just the lever he needed to loosen the grip that South Park’s powerful hierarchy of shipowners, freight handlers, and stagecoach presidents still maintained on Northern California’s commerce. When it came to building a railroad, they would be just as lofty an obstacle as the Sierra Nevada, and twice as harsh.

One of the casual labourers had stopped work to light his pipe. ‘You!’ Collis called. ‘Go smoke your pipe some place else, on your own time. Collect half a morning’s pay from Mr Tucker, inside, and then get going. I don’t want to see you around here again.’

The man paused in his pipe-lighting, aggrieved. He wore the red-flannel shirt and the patched britches of an old-time prospector.

‘Are you going,’ Collis said, ‘or do you want to make something of it?’

The man sucked at his pipe, then took it out of his mouth and spat. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘But goddam your eyes.’

Collis looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said, as if he were talking about something else altogether.

He met Theodore Jones for lunch at Thomas’s Restaurant on G Street. They sat in a straight-backed wooden booth and ordered plates of roast wild duck served very hot and very rare on wild rice, and glasses of cold steam. The place was crowded with state congressmen and local storekeepers, and waiters in long blue aprons hurried between the tables carrying trays of casseroled meat and beer.

‘Well,’ said Theodore, breaking off a piece of warm sourdough bread and buttering it, ‘what happens now?’

‘We go to Washington, I suppose,’ said Collis. ‘You seem to have it all mapped out.’