by Regina Scott
Now Pike narrowed his eyes. “You’ll be moving fast, then.”
Faster than usual, but he couldn’t tell them what drove him. That part of his mission had been disclosed to him alone.
“We have a lot to do before the snow flies, Mr. Pike,” he said. “We’ll be following the line of the side canyons, dipping down where we can. Our goal is to find a way for wagons, while Powell’s survey team follows the river looking for a way across and up the other side. We’ll keep going until we run out of canyon or we spot the first sign of snow. Any more questions?”
They looked at each other, then him, many shaking their heads. Once again his gaze was drawn to Meg, who nodded, smile widening. He had a feeling she was the last one he had to worry about being ready. She’d always been ready, for everything but commitment.
She’d been the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and it hadn’t taken much encouragement from his friends to seek her out. She’d made him work for that first dance, but the other dances, the picnics, helping her as she captured photos of the area, those had been some of the best moments of his life. There’d been a sense of adventure about the Academy, the idea that when graduated they would be building the future, that made him dream of building a future with Meg. That was when he’d introduced her to his family.
The Colonel, who had been visiting West Point between assignments, had approved, as Ben had hoped. “Smart, beautiful, engaging. She’d make an excellent officer’s wife.”
Mother had been less complimentary.
“Who is she?” she’d complained, hitching her silk-tasseled shawl closer. “I’ve never heard of her family. Not a single military man that I can tell. If you ask me, she’s trying to further herself through you.”
He hadn’t believed it for a moment. Meg was everything his father had said besides being a genius behind the lens. He was the fortunate one.
He’d convinced himself she cared as much. Certainly her father had liked him. But the night he had attempted to propose, she’d cut him off.
“Oh, Ben, I’m sorry. We’re simply too different to make a marriage. Forgive me for not realizing it sooner. Father’s already planning to travel West. Of course I’ll accompany him.”
Too different? In what way? They conversed easily, about anything, everything. They were both eager to see what lay behind the horizon. He’d blindly thought the camaraderie, their closeness, would go on forever. How could she cut him off like this? Stunned, he could only watch, immobile, while she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss against his cheek. He hadn’t said a word as she’d turned and walked away.
How could he have so mistaken her? Was he so arrogant? Was his focus narrower than that of her camera? Had he made rash decisions, thinking only to benefit himself?
Time for that to end. He wanted to lead men, open new lands, not push himself forward to glory out of a mistaken sense of pride. He’d tucked away his feelings, focused on his studies, each decision made with careful forethought, detailed planning. No more did he listen to his heart first. Funny how just seeing her brought all those memories rushing back.
But he wasn’t that boy anymore. He’d led details on his own, helped build ramparts, mapped stretches of land untrammeled by booted feet, faced the worst nature and man could throw at him. He had a job to do now. Meg Pero was no different than any other expedition member.
Perhaps if he kept repeating that, he might come to believe it.
3
They left on schedule two days later. The first leg would be on an established trail south toward Camp Mohave. Dot drove a short-bed wagon and team with most of the supplies, a canvas top stretched over for protection. Corporal Adams drove the photography van. The rest rode on horses. Meg caught the cook eyeing her riding habit as she prepared to climb into her sidesaddle.
“Mighty fancy, Miss Pero.”
Meg swished the dun twill skirt aside to show Dot the denim breeches and leather boots underneath. “Mighty practical, Mrs. Newcomb. And it has pockets.”
Dot’s brows went up. “Might need to order one of those myself.”
Meg looked past her to where the two privates were checking the closed van that held her photographic equipment. It was square and narrow, perhaps six feet deep and high and four feet wide. Railed shelves inside held the bottles of her chemicals securely, while drawers fitted into one side sheltered pans and utensils. Corporal Adams was already at his place on the bench, four mules in harness in front.
Dot must have interpreted her look. “Don’t you worry about your plates, now. You packed them well.”
“Just like my father taught me.” It had taken her a while to prepare the glass, secure it in wooden frames, and slip them upright into boxes cushioned with lambs wool. Longer expeditions had been known to use one hundred plates on mammoth cameras up to twenty-four inches in width, besides fifty or so of the narrower stereographic views. She could only hope the fifty plates and twenty stereographs she’d brought for her smaller cameras would be enough.
She had been so concerned about the van that she hadn’t considered her own transportation until Private Larson brought her a chestnut mare. The lanky cavalryman had proven the more talkative of the two younger men. The most she’d gotten from Private Meadows so far was a shy smile.
“With nigh unto a thousand horses and mules at the fort, they don’t generally name the spare mounts or pack animals,” Private Larson had confided as he’d handed her the reins. “But I call her Stripe for the white down her nose.”
Papa had generally purchased their horses, and he’d tended to buy whatever was convenient rather than looking for a horse likely to give them a comfortable or easy ride. She’d ridden her share of swaybacked nags, including one that had attempted to take a bite out of her every time she mounted.
Stripe, however, appeared to be a gentle beast, with warm brown eyes and a luxurious mane. Her chestnut coat and hooves seemed in good shape, but Meg would have expected no less from a cavalry horse, spare or no. She’d stood patiently while Meg cinched the sidesaddle in place and didn’t flinch when Private Larson slung on saddlebags with Meg’s personal gear. Meg had just mounted when Ben rode past on a sable-coated beast, broad-brimmed black felt hat pulled low, gloved hands gripping the reins in an easy fist.
“Ready?” he called.
“Of course,” she answered.
She thought she caught sight of his grin before he turned the horse for the front of the column. “Move out!”
Something hitched inside her. Excitement? Anxiety? Perhaps a little of both. Determined, she clucked to Stripe, and they headed south.
Ben led the short column, with Mr. Newcomb right behind. Corporal Adams came next with the photography van, followed by Dot with Meg at her side. The two privates brought up the rear, each towing a train of eight mules. Mr. Pike ranged ahead, dark horse soon dotted with red from the dust of the trail.
The guide had intimated he thought the pace of the trek Ben had planned might be too fast. He appeared to be correct, for Ben broke into a canter that forced the others to follow at the same jarring gait. Ben had said they must be back to the fort before snowfall, but as she glanced around at the rocky ground, the sharp emerald spikes of grass and the minty clumps of sage, she found it hard to imagine the area covered in white.
“Are we expecting trouble?” Meg asked Dot.
“Not that I heard,” Dot said over the rattle of the wagon. “Maybe he wants to make the spire by noon, rest the mules.”
Meg shook her head. Had he learned nothing of planning since his days at West Point? “He might not need to rest them if he slowed down.”
The trail lay straight across the plain, past odd little knobs of red rock and through the occasional dry draw she assumed carried runoff during the rainy season. As the sun climbed, the temperature rose. Meg unbuttoned the top flap of her habit, let the dry breeze cool her neck.
Dot wiped sweat off her brow with her sleeve. “Ever been on one of these before?”
“
Columbia Gorge, with my father,” Meg told her, guiding Stripe around a particularly large clump of sage. “It was a private expedition, and the wife of the guide was along, so one more woman wasn’t any trouble.”
“Speaking of trouble.” Dot nodded at Ben as he rode back toward them. “Here it comes.” She raised her voice. “Indians on our trail, Captain?”
“Nary a sign,” Ben assured her. “How’s the wagon holding up?”
“Fine,” Dot said. “Though I may have to repack the pots and pans the way they’re jangling. I didn’t expect quite this pace.”
“We’re late,” he said. “Until we aren’t, we move.” With no more than a nod to Meg, he rode around the wagon and headed back toward the front of the cavalcade. She supposed she should be glad he hadn’t questioned her about her ability to keep up.
He must have taken Dot at her word, though, for he called a halt as the sun reached its zenith. Meg was glad to dismount and sit in the small patches of shade afforded by a copse of pine while Dot passed around water. Corporal Adams and Dot’s husband followed her back to the wagon to help with the repacking.
“How much farther to camp?” Private Larson asked, leaning his back against a tree.
“Good five hours,” Mr. Pike said before taking a long draw of the water.
The two privates sighed in unison. Meg was more interested in Ben’s behavior. Instead of sitting, he paced across the area, gaze on the ground. What was he looking for? This was an established path. Surely it had been surveyed before.
Mr. Pike rose, adjusting his battered hat as if to better shade his eyes. “Come rest, Captain,” he called. “It’s a harder ride from here. We’ll leave the trail in about an hour and head across country, right past Deadman’s Tower.”
Meg perked up. “Deadman’s Tower?”
The guide chuckled. “Scared of ghosts, are you, Miss Pero?”
“No,” Meg told him. “I don’t believe in them. The place just sounded picturesque. What is it?”
“It’s a sandstone spire,” Ben said, joining them at last and propping a booted foot up on a rock. “Legend has it the first explorer who tried to climb it fell to his death.”
“How horrid,” Meg said with a delighted shiver. “I’ll want a picture.”
He straightened. “No time.”
What? Was he trying to beggar her? Meg scrambled to her feet. “But this is an expedition. You’re supposed to take pictures, collect samples.”
“Which we will do when we reach the rim,” Ben promised her. He glanced about at the others. “Rest’s over. Mount up and move in five.” He stalked off.
“Who put a burr under his saddle?” Mr. Pike muttered, but he went to get his horse.
Meg climbed a rock to slide herself back into the sidesaddle. She’d used their late start to convince Ben to bring her along, but what difference did an hour here or there make? She had every intention of documenting the expedition in photographs, but the stereographs would make her the money to be self-sufficient. Pictures of western landscapes could reach one hundred thousand printings. Papa had been living off the proceeds of his pictures for years, but on his death the rights to his photographs had gone to the distribution company. If she wanted income of her own, she had to create her own pieces.
As the next hour passed, Meg grew more restless. She’d spotted a butte rising on the east that would have made an excellent stereograph, a sweeping view across the plain that begged to be captured. But Ben continued resolutely on, seemingly oblivious to the growing grandeur around them.
“Why did he want a photographer if he refuses to stop long enough to take pictures?” she complained to Dot as they neared Deadman’s Tower. The ragged red rock jutted out of the ground, boulders tumbled around the base, like a finger pointing accusingly at the sky. “Look at that thing. Have you ever seen anything more striking?”
“It would make a pretty picture,” Dot said. “A shame the wagon’s about to break down so I won’t see you set up your equipment.”
“What?” Meg asked, but Dot reined in the team and Meg slowed as well.
“Hey!” Dot shouted, and Private Larson brought his mount closer, tugging the mules along behind him.
“Got a problem,” Dot told him. “Need to stop, and I’ll want Corporal Adams’s help. Pass it up to the Captain.”
“Right!” He drew back, handed the lead of his train to his buddy, then urged his horse into a gallop to catch up to the front of the line. Corporal Adams reined in as well and glanced back around the side of the van.
Dot set the brake of the wagon and climbed down. “Well, what are you waiting for? I can only fuss about so long. Go get your picture.” She waved the corporal over.
With a grin, Meg slipped out of the sidesaddle and hurried to fetch her equipment.
“Captain!”
Ben reined in as Larson rode up to him and Pike.
“Problem with the wagon,” he explained. “Corporal Adams’s gone to see how he can help. I’ll stay with the mules.” Wheeling his mount, he headed back.
“I’ll scout ahead,” Pike offered.
Ben nodded, turning in the saddle to glance behind. Meadows had stopped just short of the wagon, mules milling about uncertainly. Hank must have decided to help as well, for he and his wife were examining a hoof on one of the horses while Adams lay on his back under the wagon as if inspecting the undercarriage.
Ben scanned the way ahead, seeing nothing but more red earth dotted by shrubs and grasses growing brittle with the summer sun. His father had traveled this way two months ago with only a guide. He’d claimed the need to personally check the route for the upcoming survey. Why? There hadn’t been trouble for months. The Colonel had even joked with Mother and Diana about how safe it was, encouraging them to join him during his expectedly short tenure. One of his duties in taking command had been to assess the continued need for the fort.
His father was in excellent health, a crack shot, and a brilliant strategist. The guide, by all accounts, had been experienced and reliable. The weather had been good, and there’d been no reports of unrest. What had prevented them from coming back?
The Army hoped to find a way across the canyon to encourage settlement. He’d become an engineer rather than a cavalryman like his father for that very reason—opening areas, giving people more opportunities. He’d become painfully aware that many of his opportunities had been gained because of his father’s influence. Other men deserved the right to try.
A movement caught his eye. Meg had dismounted and carried a camera and tripod toward the spire. Frustration warred with admiration. He urged his mount forward.
She had her head under a cloth draped over her camera when he reined in, but she must have heard him for she called out, “Almost finished. Just a few more minutes, and I’ll have a fine stereograph.”
He shook his head. “Stereographs must be taken at precise angles. You taught me that. We could be here another hour.”
“Not at all.” She emerged from the cloth, hair spiking with the static of the dry air, like a dandelion turned to the sun. “I have a stereographic camera now. Two lenses, one shot, and just a few moments for the exposure.”
“That easy?” he mused.
She grinned at him. “Well, I did have to coat the plates first. But at least I don’t have to bribe the spire with a lollipop to get it to stand still.”
“Lollipops would be safer,” he said, fighting not to share that grin.
She wrinkled her nose. “But so much more boring. Give me the sky, the sweeping vistas, any day.” She dove back under her cloth.
She might be busy with her camera, but did she have any idea of the picture she presented? Trim figure bent at the waist, riding habit twitching as she shifted. Ben shot his gaze skyward, counted the few wispy clouds. Behind him he heard Larson call to Meadows to let the mules graze while they waited.
“There,” she proclaimed, reappearing once more. “All done.”
“Impressive.” He swung down fro
m the saddle to help her with the tripod. “But what about developing the plate?”
She made a face as she cranked the bellows on the camera closed. “That will take a few minutes. I have everything set up in the van. We can look at the negative tonight if you’d like.”
She had thought it all out. He carried the tripod in one hand and led the horse with the other. “Is there really something wrong with the wagon?”
She cast him a quick glance, then fiddled with the camera. “You’ll have to ask Dot.”
He sighed. Just as he’d suspected. Either Meg had convinced the cook to pretend they had a problem or Dot had thought of it and Meg had gone happily along because it furthered her plans.
“This isn’t a private expedition, Meg,” he warned her as they headed for the van. “It’s a military operation. You and Dot and the others are under my command. I’m responsible for your safety.”
“I understand that.” She offered him one of her sweet smiles. “But there’s nothing dangerous at the moment.”
He wished he could be so sure. Something had stopped two grown men, both fully capable of defending themselves, from returning to the fort. A band of Navajo warriors intent on revenge? A rockslide or flash flood? Or something worse?
“This is the wilderness,” he informed her. “Unless you know otherwise, it’s best to assume everything’s out to kill you.”
She raised her brows. “The Ben Coleridge I knew was ready for anything.”
“I’m not the man you knew.”
She shivered, as if she’d felt the frost in his tone. “Pardon me, Captain. I never intended to countermand your orders. But the Army hired a photographer to document the survey, and you won’t have much documentation unless you allow me to take pictures.”
They had reached the van, and she picked up her skirts to clamber inside. He caught a quick glimpse of shelves, one of which was wider so that it could be used as a table, before she shut the door. He turned to find Dot back at her place on the bench of the wagon.
“Thought one of the horses might have picked up a stone,” she said. “My mistake. Corporal Adams is looking over the wagon just in case. You ready to move on when he’s done?”