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not that simple. None of these sources say exactly where the Camp of Death was, only that it was near what is now Emigrant Gap. I looked at a USGS topo., and that area is riddled with mines. Could be anywhere in that area. We need some more info.”
    “So where to?” Sam asked.
    “Virginia City,” Bobby said, closing his notebook.
    “What’s in Virginia City?”
    Bobby stood up. “The Aces and Eights Saloon.” The chair legs screeched on the library floor in that unique way reserved for library chairs. Bobby winced at the sound. “It’s a hunters’ hangout. I figure we’re not the first to hunt this thing. Someone’s gotta know something.”
    Dean and Sam stood up, too. “Sounds good to me,” Dean said. “Let’s go.”

SEVEN

    A cold wind blew over Virginia City. The main street of the town stood before them, apparently unchanged since 1879. The city had been built on the side of a steep mountain, with forested slopes above and the high desert stretching away beneath. Wooden sidewalks ran the length of the street. Old saloons, hotels, and casinos rose on both sides, some of their wooden structures leaning. The sidewalk creaked beneath Dean’s feet as he walked toward the Aces and Eights Saloon. A motorcycle roared by, pulling over in front of the Delta Saloon, whose windows advertised the “World Famous Suicide Table.” Up one of the steep streets stood Piper’s Opera House and Millionaires’ Row, home to huge mansions built with the riches from the famous Comstock lode of silver.
    A few people milled around the streets, and he could hear the bluegrass music of a live band filtering out from one of the bars.
    It was a strange, exotic place, like stepping back in time to the Old West. They passed the newspaper office where Mark Twain had worked, and a place that offered ghost tours on the weekends. Just looking around at the old buildings, the leaning balconies, hearing the lonely whispering of wind through the streets made Dean think you wouldn’t have to look very hard to find ghosts in this place.
    The Aces and Eights Saloon appeared on their right, a large, white wooden building. A weather-worn sign swung and creaked in the wind, depicting hands holding a set of playing cards.
    “This is it,” Bobby said. A few tough characters hung out in front smoking, and Dean nodded to them as he passed through the saloon doors.
    Inside music played on a jukebox, a country western tune Dean didn’t recognize. It was an old place, nineteenth century, with a large wooden bar with brass railings along the bottom to rest your boots on. A haze of smoke filled the room, drifting around the ceiling by Victorian shaded lamps. A scuffed-up piano stood in one corner, the keys yellowed and the ivory missing altogether in places. Old paintings hung on the walls, desert landscapes and one of a saloon girl fanning her face. Three leather-faced cowboys played cards at a beat-up wooden table in one corner. The only thing missing was brass spittoons next to the bar stools.
    At the bar, a line of beer drinkers looked over their shoulders with disinterest at the three men who entered.
    “What’ll it be, boys?” asked the bartender, a tall woman with so many tattoos on her arms that Dean couldn’t see any bare skin.
    “Beers all around,” Bobby said, “and a whisky.” He looked at the shelf above the bar, its bottles glowing in the fading sun. “Make that two.”
    They took three empty stools at the far end of the bar. Through the floor-to-ceiling window, Dean watched the sun paint the desert mountains gold. It was a beautiful spot.
    The bartender slung a towel over her left shoulder and poured the drinks, eyeing Dean and the others surreptitiously. Dean caught the guy next to him sneaking a glance, too. He wondered how many people in there were hunters, and how many tourists. The bartender slid a lager to him and he took a sip, spinning on his stool to check the place out.
    Apart from the poker players in one corner,