Faithful

by Janet Fox

  The other “dudes” in my coach included the Hodges family from Philadelphia: a man, his wife, and their young girls, Emmy and Eliza. There were two older ladies—schoolteachers, I wagered—Miss Braggs and Miss Pym, both bony and wiry, stretched thin. A single man with a nervous demeanor, Mr. Connoly, settled on the seat in front of me. A young couple snuggled beside him, the Monroes; they were clearly on their honeymoon.

  And, of course, a joy to my heart, Mrs. Gale. She sat down next to me, her camera box in her lap.

  Papa stood at the coach door and cleared his throat. “Enjoy the Tour, Margaret. You deserve this. Maybe when you get back we’ll . . .” He paused as if uncertain what to say next. I felt a tug of sorrow for him. I knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Hopefully my trip would be a success, but I wasn’t ready yet to forgive him for the lies. I looked away.

  The coach started with a jolt. Papa lifted his hand. I lifted mine and thought about finding Mama and bringing her back to him and making us a family, the three of us.

  Our driver was a thin man with a handlebar mustache that almost reached his throat. He called out the sights in a shout. “At any moment, ladies and gents, prepare to see wild beasts—elk, bears, maybe even a moose! The flowers are all wild, too, but they’re harmless, leastwise we think so. We’ll stop to feed critters we meet along the way.

  “If you want to see a mountain lion, just look off over to your right and you can see a mountain lyin’ in the distance, hah! Ah, there’s steam rising from springs on your left! Yellowstone is a natural thermal wonderland!”

  I had to laugh. My spirits rose as Mrs. Gale and I exchanged glances, shook our heads, and smiled. When the Hodges girls giggled helplessly, the rest of us pitched into fits of laughter.

  The road wound through stretches of tall, lodgepole pine and open rolling hills covered in groves of aspen and wildflowers. We stopped at the Apollinaris Spring to sample the sweet water there and to stretch our legs. We passed the Obsidian Cliff—“Arrowheads ! The Indians carved their sharpest points from those rocks!”—and Roaring Mountain.

  At the Devil’s Frying Pan, a hot spring, the driver regaled us: “the birds round about drink that water and they get so hot they lay hard-boiled eggs! Yessir, you just check out them nests and see for yourself!”

  His banter and the jollity that rocked the coach put me at ease, and provided a respite from my painful memories and lingering sadness. I almost forgot the reason I was taking the Tour. And the landscape took my breath away.

  Mrs. Gale, beside me, swayed as I did with the rocking motion of the carriage. The camera box rested on her lap. There, in that black box, was a mystery and a promise. What if I didn’t go back east? What if? I saw blooming, line by line, shadow by shadow, a future of my design, one that I might focus on right here and now.

  We began climbing the steep mountainsides along roaring rivers. I could not bear the sway of the carriage as we negotiated the steep hills, so I leaned toward Mrs. Gale. “Tell me about your camera, please. How does it work?” Mrs. Gale was happy to oblige. She distracted me from the sheer drops by explaining the camera’s workings. She opened the bellows and instructed me on the focus; she showed me how the plates were mounted. As we rode mile after mile, I grew increasingly fascinated with this otherworldly instrument and grateful to Mrs. Gale for her kindness to me.

  A few hours later, we smelled Norris Geyser Basin, though we were still miles away from it.

  “Hottest place in the Park!” said the driver as we drew nearer. “Scores of hot springs, including the second-largest geyser in the world! Why, just two years ago when Steamboat blew its top, yours truly was one of the lucky witnesses!”

  The carriage crested a hill and I spied a bleak landscape from the window. It was gray, barren, with steam from fumaroles spiraling into the sky. The sulphur smell here was almost overpowering. Norris was ugly and I wasn’t alone in thinking so.

  “Good heavens,” exclaimed Miss Pym. “A frightful place!” She turned to the other ladies in the coach as we pulled up to the carriage dock. “I’ve brought my own water,” she said conspiratorially, holding up a flask. “I’m sure there’s none fit to drink here.”

  A genial gentleman waiting to help us out of the coach said stiffly, “I beg to differ, madame! Here you will find the finest foods in the Rockies and your thirst will be slaked by the most magnificent vintages of imported ales!”

  Mrs. Gale and I sat together at the long table under the tent’s shelter. Our luncheon was simple—tinned biscuits and slices of ham—but served as if it were a rare feast.

  “Your father and I had a nice chat while we were waiting to board. He told me about his plans to stay in Yellowstone,” said Mrs. Gale.

  I looked at my plate. They were his plans, I wanted to say. They might not be mine. But I changed the subject. “Do you live here year-round?”

  She laughed. “I can see that you are not kindly disposed to your father. That’s all right. It’s quite natural at your age.” She paused. “I began to take photographs some years ago, when my husband and I had a ranch and ranching wasn’t profitable. By the time Harold died, I’d made a career of photography. Haynes has hired me for the season.” She smiled. “People like having their picture taken. I prefer the landscapes.”

  This was a mystery to me: How could a woman manage without a husband? She was so strong and sure, but most of all, she was comfortable. I found the idea frightening but thrilling, too. “You must miss your husband.”

  “Of course. But we had an excellent life, and I have my memories. Harold gave me permission to do what I wished. Not to worry. He was good and kind, and he brought me to Yellowstone. I would live nowhere else.”

  “Why?” I looked down to the end of the tent and out the door to the white wasteland that lay beyond. Why would she want to live here?

  “It’s beyond the confines of society.” Mrs. Gale sat up, spreading her broad hands, the rings on her fingers catching the light. “Here I’ve been able to do all the things I was never allowed to do as a girl back home. I ride, I wear comfortable clothes, and I don’t have to attend social engagements that don’t suit me.”

  I knit my hands together. While I couldn’t say I liked being under the control of my papa, or, potentially, my grandfather, social engagements had suited me just fine back home. I missed Newport’s swirl: the gay music, the whispered gossip, my silk dresses, Kitty. I missed having my debut. I even liked my corset, on occasion. At least, I had liked the way it made me look—not as wasp-waisted as Kitty, but still fashionable. I tugged on the whalebone pressing on my ribs, as if that might settle the matter.

  But what I missed most was what I’d dreamed about since I was little: Mama helping me through my season, with my wardrobe, with my debut, laughing with me over boys, gossiping with me about girls. I didn’t have that. I might never have it. My throat constricted.

  It was as though Mrs. Gale read my mind. “Your father told me about your mother,” she said. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  I placed my fork, then my hand, on the table.

  “It must be difficult for you, her passing,” said Mrs. Gale.

  My emotions welled, all the sorrow, all the hope, tears in my throat. “I think Mama left us. I think she ran off. Maybe she had someone else. I don’t know. But I don’t think she’s dead.” I met Mrs. Gale’s eyes and leaned forward and whispered. “In fact, I think she may be here. In Yellowstone.” I sat up then, straight as a stick. I put my hand on Mama’s cameo, pinned at my collar. “That’s why I’m going to find her. And then I’m going to get my life back.”

  Mrs. Gale said nothing; she pursed her lips, her eyes flicking between mine and the cameo.

  Mrs. Gale spoke in a gentle voice. “It isn’t easy being a young woman without a mother.” She patted my arm. “Margaret, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  I whispered again, pleading almost. “She might not be dead.”

  “Ah.” She sighed. “I suppose it is . . .”
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  “Possible.” It was. The letters from Uncle John. Papa dragging us out here. It had to be possible. I needed it to be possible. I stared at the table. “I’m not crazy.” Hoping that something was true didn’t make one crazy. Having a dream didn’t make one crazy. The image of Mama at her easel, unseeing, flashed through my mind. I clenched my fists as I recalled the old whispers: mad; eccentric; the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. “I’m not crazy.”

  “No, dear. Of course you’re not.” Mrs. Gale was silent. I wove my fingers together carefully, making a nest. “Would you care to help me with my photographic work? I could use a hand now and then.”

  I looked up at once. “I . . .” I felt a swing of emotion, from sharp sadness to quiet joy. I was being offered a gift. I composed myself, watching Mrs. Gale. “I’d like that very much.”

  “After all,” said Mrs. Gale, “while you’re waiting, you might as well keep busy.”

  I smiled at this wonderful new friend, grateful for her. Images, appearing like magic, from a box. Something I might hold on to. Something I might have forever. I was scared and thrilled all at once.

  We heard exclamations from up the path. “Come,” said Mrs. Gale. “You haven’t even begun to see the beauty here. Come see what waits for you in Yellowstone.” We stood and left the tent, carrying Mrs. Gale’s equipment. When we rounded the bend of the trail, my mouth fell open in the astonishment of seeing something I’d never imagined.

  A fountain played straight from the ground, alternately bubbling and roaring, every few minutes sending up a jet of water forty feet into the air.

  It was my first encounter with a geyser.

  “Steamboat,” shouted the driver, who’d come along as a guide. “This is just a little play, not the real thing.”

  “How high is the real thing?” I asked, thinking that this little play was high enough.

  “Oh, hundreds of feet! Taller than these tallest trees!” The driver threw his arm wide to take in the pines, which topped out at several hundred feet.

  I stepped back in terror. “Could it erupt now?” Oh, please, no. “Why, any minute now!” exclaimed the driver. “You can’t predict this one!”

  Unpredictable, uncontrollable, and only a few feet away: scalding hot water that might sweep us into a deadly pool like the one that had swallowed the doe. I stepped farther away.

  At that moment the geyser sent up a great spray, the earth rumbled, and sulphurous droplets of wind-borne water splashed my cheek. I gathered my skirts and ran back up the path, my hat flapping about my neck, fear driving me like hounds at my heels.

  “Maggie! My dear!” called Mrs. Gale.

  I ran until I reached the lunch tent. Panting, sweating, I collapsed at the long table, empty now except for the linen tablecloth. I rested my head on the table. What was I doing here, so far away from home? I couldn’t erase from my mind the vision of the seething hot spring that had trapped the doe, and the terror in her eyes as it swallowed her alive.

  Chapter TWENTY - THREE

  July 8, 1904

  Now, of course, I might have jumped on him . . . but he might have gotten me . . . generally the man who blows the loudest gets his hands up the highest when the time comes . . . We think we got off cheap and would not sell our experience, if we could, for what it cost us.

  —“Echoes on Frontier Days—Holdups,” quoted from Hiram M. Chittenden (1858–1917), describing a 1908 holdup

  MRS. GALE ENTERED THE TENT CARRYING HER equipment. I sat alone at the far end of the table staring at my fingers. Waiters padded in and out clearing the remaining lunch dishes.

  My hair tumbled about my shoulders, my combs lost; I didn’t care. This was an alien and inhospitable place, and like a whiny child, I wanted to go home. Mrs. Gale came up behind me. I mumbled, “I’m sorry. I guess I won’t be much help to you.”

  “I’ve managed alone for some time, dear.” Mrs. Gale’s hand rested gently on my back. “But I do enjoy your company.” A waiter passed by. “Water, please.”

  “Doesn’t it frighten you?” Fear like a thousand writhing snakes stirred in me.

  The waiter came back with bottles of water and glasses. The water was icy and refreshing.

  “What, the geysers? Not at all. Occasionally a foolish tourist has fallen into a hot spring. But you don’t strike me as foolish.”

  Not foolish, maybe; but filled with enough guilt to feel that this indeed was my boiling, steaming, personal hell. The doe’s eyes loomed; Mama’s eyes pricked.

  “I understand your caution, my dear. Nature is a powerful force.”

  A powerful force. Nature’s raw power threatened to send me spinning out of control. Which might send me spinning right into madness. Mama’s paintings drifted into my mind’s eye. I didn’t want to be like her. I could hear the rush and rumble of the geyser and feel the tremor in my feet through the soles of my boots.

  Mrs. Gale sat with me until our party regrouped to head farther south. The others bubbled with enthusiasm; I felt exhaustion steal over me. Once we were in the carriage and under way, I shut my eyes, leaned back against the seat, and listened to the excited chatter of the Hodges girls and the soft laughter of the other passengers. The carriage swayed over the dusty road and I dozed in fitful spurts.

  We stopped once to allow a view of Gibbon Falls. I took one look out the window without thinking and yanked myself back inside, plastering my back against the seat and shutting my eyes. “Does he have to have us so close to the edge?”

  I heard Mr. Connoly’s voice. “Come out on this side.” I opened my eyes and saw that he’d extended his hand, and I slid out if only to put my feet on solid ground and to place the coach between me and the gaping gorge. While the other passengers scrambled down the steep trail, Mrs. Gale took photographs from the road’s edge. I kept as far from the edge as possible and sat on a rock playing simple guessing games with Emmy and Eliza Hodges, who were too young to risk the trail.

  The falls roared; the sun warmed my shoulders. Emmy climbed into my lap and touched Mama’s cameo. Eliza picked up small rocks to show me tiny, glistening minerals. I tried to forget that behind the coach was a sheer drop; I swallowed my fear by burying it deeper within.

  Finally we got back on the dusty road, away from the falls, from the gorge. We passed one narrow meadow where the driver stopped the coach and pointed out a bull elk lounging in the tall grass. The elk’s massive antlers showed above the grass, moving as his head drifted in our direction.

  “Can be mean, those bulls. That one, he’s got a mighty big rack,” said the driver.

  A powerful force—a huge force. Steep cliffs, unpredictable geysers, terrible animals. It was a raw place, Yellowstone. It had more power and unpredictability than even the ocean. The coach swayed and rocked through dark pine forests that blossomed into broad meadows strewn with wildflowers like stars in the heavens; we jostled past vistas of high peaks laced with snow. I felt alone and insignificant, a tiny bug easily crushed. I’d come on the Tour to question my uncle, to find my mother, and that thought alone kept me from succumbing to fear. As the coach jiggled and bumped over the road, I closed my eyes again, putting the geyser and the cliffs out of my mind.

  The muffled scream jolted me out of sleep, and the terror rose from deep in my dreams. Dazed, I thought I’d entered a nightmare.

  “Whoa, there; hey, there!” the driver called to the horses, reining them in.

  I remembered the bear and peered out the window.

  But it wasn’t a bear. Four men straddled the road, barring our way. They wore scarves that covered their faces except for their eyes; they carried what looked like long sticks. I shook, trying to clear my head of confusion. Four horses, tied to a nearby tree, whinnied anxiously. Then I realized that the men were carrying rifles, not sticks, and the rifles were pointed at the carriage. I leaned back hard against the seat, trying to breathe.

  “It’s a robbery!” said the young groom, Mr. Monroe, in a coarse whisper. “Highway robbers! I’ve hea
rd about this!” I remembered what Tom said when we’d met: “Watch out for highway robbers.” He’d been grinning, joking. Mr. Monroe was not.

  “Oh!” Miss Pym leaned back in a faint, her eyes closed. Her companion fanned her face with her hat. I barely moved a muscle.

  “Get down from there, and be quick about it,” one of the robbers called to the driver. The driver leapt from the coach and moved to hold his stamping, nervous horses.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your valuables please!” called another of the men as he waved his Winchester at the coach. He mounted his horse and rode up to the window across from me. “You there,” he said to Mr. Hodges, “use this and take up a collection!” He tossed Mr. Hodges a bag. “Alms for the needy!”

  Another of the men snickered. No one in the coach laughed; fear circled us; Emmy whimpered quietly in her mother’s arms.

  Mr. Hodges stared at the bag, and then looked at his wife and two young daughters, who watched him with wide eyes. “Let’s do as he says,” Mr. Hodges said, his voice soft and calm. “I’m sure they don’t mean to hurt us.” He smiled at his daughters to reassure them. Then he gazed around him, and his fear was obvious to the rest of us. “It’s best if we do as we’re told.”

  He held out the bag as the passengers emptied purses and pockets. I emptied my purse, thankful that my small roll of bills was buried deep in my traveling bag, stowed away out of their sight.

  “What’s that?” The robber pointed the end of his rifle at Mrs. Gale’s camera box.

  “My camera,” she said. She stared straight into his eyes, calm and sure. “Not easily sold.” Her hands gripped the box, and I glanced at her sidelong in admiration.

  “Too big,” he muttered.

  “Exactly so. Too big,” Mrs. Gale added.

  “The rings, then,” he said, pointing at her hands.

  Mrs. Gale’s wedding band! I felt anger begin to boil in me and I almost spoke out. But the older woman tugged the rings from her fingers without a word and dropped them into the bag. Her eyes were cold steel.