They spent the first night by the side of the road, sleeping on blankets in a stand of Digger pines, with a small fire burning to keep away the wildlife, human or animal. The next morning they led the horses down to a broken flume to drink, and then Collis and Theodore shaved with ice-cold water and soap. Wang-Pu kept his chin clean the Chinese way, by plucking out each hair individually.

They reached Gold Run, sixty-four miles out of Sacramento, a little before noon. It was sharp and clear up here, and the mountain wind was snapping a flag on a tall flagstaff. The settlement of Gold Run itself was a cosy collection of shacks and cabins in a clearing of pines and sequoias. A wide flume curved in from the mountains and down beyond the trees to the slopes that were Gold Run’s whole reason for being there. Theodore halted the buckboard alongside a rough boundary fence, and they all climbed down.

A toothless man with a grey beard was leaning against the door of the cookhouse. Thick smoke issued from the tin chimney, and there was a rich, greasy smell of stew. The old man was whistling between his gums and spitting from time to time on to the pine needles.

‘Sharp morning,’ he remarked, as they tied up their horses and walked over towards him.

‘Good for the lungs, after the valley,’ said Theodore. ‘How far is it to Dutch Flat?’

‘In a hurry, or dawdling?’

‘Shortest time possible.’

The old man looked over his shoulder into the cookhouse to make sure the food wasn’t bubbling over. Then he said, ‘Not more’n two hours. Lookin’ for anyone special?’

‘Daniel Kates, as a matter of fact,’ said Theodore.

‘Doc Kates? You ain’t sick, are you?’

‘No, no. This is just business.’

‘That’s okay then. But you can’t be too careful. Had a whole bout of cholera last year. Fellows was dropping like fir cones.’

Collis looked into the smokey interior of the cookhouse. There were rows of cleavers hanging up, and a large smoke-blackened cauldron boiling over a brick range. He sniffed in the aroma of the stew.

‘Smells good,’ he told the old man. ‘What’s in it?’

‘The usual.’

‘What’s the usual?’

‘Well, I got twenty-two men to feed, barring myself. That works out at eleven squirrels, two jays, a couple of nutcrackers, and eight pounds of greens.’

Collis nodded. He suddenly didn’t feel so hungry any more. ‘You take the tails and the beaks off before you start cooking, I hope?’

The old man spat. ‘Sometimes. Did today. Want some?’

‘No, thanks. Thanks all the same.’