In Central City, the last message proclaimed that if the situation is in the eternal graces of the almighty, the opening will be sealed as a tomb and the missing men will rest in blackness through the ages, never again to see the “grass” or sunlight.

The grim reaper’s list of the men caught up in this most terrible of disasters is as follows:

Joshua Hays Brewster, Denver

Alvin Coulter, Fairplay

Thomas Price, Leadville

Charles P. Widney, Cripple Creek

Vernon S. Hall, Denver

John Caldwell, Central City

Walter Schmidt, Aspen

Warner E. O’Deming, Denver

Jason C. Hobart, Boulder

May God watch over these brave toilers of the mountains.

No matter how many times Dormer’s eyes traveled over the old news type, they always came back to the last name among the missing miners. Slowly, like a man in a trance, he laid the paper in his lap, picked up the phone and dialed long distance.

<<14>>

“The Monte Cristo!” Harry Young exclaimed delightedly. “I heartily endorse the Monte Cristo. The Roquefort dressing is also excellent. But first, I’d like a martini, very dry, with a twist.”

“Monte Cristo sandwich and Roquefort on your salad. Yes, sir,” the young waitress repeated, bending over the table so that her short skirt rode up to reveal a pair of white panties. “And you, sir?”

“I’ll take the same.” Dormer nodded. “Only I’ll start with a Manhattan on the rocks.”

Young peered over the top of his glasses as the waitress hurried to the kitchen. “If only someone would give me that for Christmas,” he said, smiling.

Young was a skinny little man. In decades past he would have been called an overdressed, silly old fool. Now he was an alert, eager-faced seventy-eight-year-old bon vivant with a practiced eye for beauty. He sat across the booth table from Donner in a blue turtleneck and patterned, doubleknit sportscoat.

“Mr. Dormer!” he said happily. “This is indeed a pleasure. The Broker is my favorite restaurant.” He waved his hand at the walnut-paneled walls and booths. “This was once a bank vault, you know.”

“So I noticed when I had to duck through the five-ton door.”

“You should come here for dinner. They give you an enormous tray of shrimp for an appetizer.” He fairly beamed at the thought.

“I’ll bear that in mind on my next visit.”

“Well, sir.” Young looked at him steadily. “What’s on your mind?”

“I have a few questions.”

Young’s eyebrows raised above his glasses, “Oh my, now you have tickled my curiosity. You’re not with the FBI are you? Over the phone you simply said you were with the federal government.”

“No, I’m not with the FBI. And I’m not on the payroll of Internal Revenue, either. My department is welfare. It’s my job to track down the authenticity of pension claims.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“My particular project at the moment is the investigation of a seventy-six-year-old mining accident that took the lives of nine men. One of the victim’s descendants has filed for a pension. I’m here to check the validity of the claim. Your name, Mr. Young, was recommended to me by the State Historical Society, which glowingly described you as a walking encyclopedia on Western mining history.”