“A bit of an exaggeration,” Young said, “but I’m flattered, nonetheless.”

The drinks arrived and they sipped them for a minute. Donner took the time to study the pictures of turn-of-the-century Colorado silver kings that hung on the walls. Their faces all projected the same intense stare, as if they were trying to melt the camera lens with their wealth-fortified arrogance.

“Tell me, Mr. Donner, how can anyone file a pension claim on a seventy-six-year-old accident?”

“It seems the widow didn’t receive all she was entitled to,” Donner said, skating onto unsure ice. “Her daughter is demanding the back pay, so to speak.”

“I see,” Young said. He stared across the table speculatively and then began idly tapping his spoon against a plate. “Which of the men who were lost in the Little Angel disaster are you interested in?”

“My compliments,” Donner said, avoiding the stare and unfolding his napkin self-consciously. “You don’t miss a trick.”

“It’s nothing, really. A seventy-six-year-old mining accident. Nine men missing. It could only be the Little Angel disaster.”

“The man’s name was Brewster.”

Young stared at him an extra moment, then stopped the plate tapping and banged his spoon against the tabletop. “Joshua Hays Brewster,” he murmured the name. “Born to William Buck Brewster and Hettie Masters in Sidney, Nebraska, on April 4 … or was it April 5, 1878.”

Dormer’s eyes opened wide. “How could you possibly know all that?”

“Oh, I know that and much more.” Young smiled. “Mining engineers, or the Lace-Boot Brigade, as they were once known, are a rather cliquish group. It’s one of the few professions where sons follow fathers and also marry sisters or daughters of other mining engineers.”

“Are you about to say that you were related to Joshua Hays Brewster?”

“My uncle.” Young grinned.

The ice parted and Donner fell through.

“You look like you could stand another drink, Mr. Dormer.” Young signaled to the waitress for another round. “Needless to say, there is no daughter who is seeking a claim to a pension; my mother’s brother died a childless bachelor.”

“Liars never prosper,” Dormer said with a thin smile. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you by foolishly painting myself into a corner.”

“Can you enlighten me?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“You are from the government?” Young asked.

Dormer showed him his credentials.

“Then, may I ask why you’re investigating my long-dead uncle?”

“I would prefer mot to,” Dormer repeated. “Not at this time, at any rate.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“Whatever you can tell me about Joshua Hays Brewster and the Little Angel accident.”

The drinks came along with the salad. Dormer agreed that the dressing was excellent. They ate in silence. When Young had finished and wiped his tiny white mustache, he took a deep breath and relaxed against the backrest of the booth.

“My uncle was typical of the men who developed the mines in the early nineteen hundreds; white, eager, and middle class, and except for his small size-he stood only five feet two-he could easily have passed for what the novelists of the day vividly depicted as a gentlemanly, two-fisted, devil-may-care, adventurous mining engineer, complete with shining boots, jodhpurs, and a Smokey-the-Bear ranger hat.”