Despite a careful search of the greasy remnants of the briefcase, the only legible scrap to emerge is a piece of corporate letterhead, and even that is half-eaten by whatever Carson had set up in his briefcase.<br/><br/>"...aney Mining Corpora...<br/>...er's Folly, Color..."<br/><br/>The time is nearly 3:20.  Outside, the snow has stopped, but the wind continues to howl like some mournful spirit on the mountain.