A Distance Too Grand

by Regina Scott

  “Report,” Ben said.

  “I was patrolling the campsite, sir,” Larson said, “when I thought I saw something move under the trees.” He pointed toward a gap between the pines. “When I got closer, I heard something.”

  “Something?” Ben pressed.

  “Yes, sir.” The next sound was suspiciously like a gulp. “Real heavy breathing.”

  Ben could only hope the moonlight wouldn’t give away his quickly suppressed smile. “Is this heavy breathing still evident?”

  Larson shook his head. “No, sir. I went to fetch Josiah, that is Private Meadows, to confirm it, but he didn’t see or hear anything.”

  Meadows nodded.

  “Show me,” Ben said.

  The two scurried across the camp. The ground was littered with pine needles—he could feel the slippery prickles and occastional poke under his stockinged feet. If Meg’s shadowy watcher had come close to camp, he would have left no tracks.

  “Is Fort Wilverton your first trek out West?” Ben asked, listening to the melancholy sigh of the breeze through the pines.

  “Yes, sir,” Larson admitted. “For both of us.”

  Ben thought he understood. An edgy private on the frontier for the first time might easily mistake the wind for the breath of an unseen enemy.

  “Well, you were right to investigate the noise,” Ben said. “Can’t be too careful. If you hear it again, come get me and we’ll trace it to the source.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Larson saluted, and Meadows copied him.

  But the two must have settled down after that, for Ben returned to his tent and didn’t wake again until someone rattled the tent flap. Pearly light trickled through the crack in the canvas. Dawn. He tossed back the blanket and rose.

  As he pushed open the flap and came out, he was pleased to see everyone else up and moving. Meg was striking her tent while Dot offered coffee and hardtack to a yawning Adams and a tousle-headed Hank. Larson and Meadows were checking horses and mules. They’d be loading the wagon and packs next. He intercepted them.

  “The rest of the watch uneventful?” he asked, glancing from one to the other.

  Larson scratched his ear, pushing his brown hair back. “Never heard anything else.”

  “Owl,” Meadows reminded him.

  “Oh, right,” Larson said, dropping his hand. “An owl. Two of them, actually. One on one side of the camp, one on the other, like they were having a chat.”

  “But no more breathing?” Ben asked.

  They shook their heads.

  “Listen while you’re riding today,” he advised them. “See if you hear anything like it.”

  Hoping they’d accustom themselves to the sounds of the West, he went in search of Pike.

  The big guide was checking his saddle. He looked up as Ben approached.

  “There’s a possibility we’re being followed,” Ben said.

  Pike’s heavy black brows drew down. “What makes you think that?”

  Ben didn’t want to mention Meg or Larson and have either face the guide’s disdain. “Just a feeling. Swing back a little, and see if you spot any evidence, then rejoin us. I’ll follow the route we discussed.”

  Pike scratched his chest with a broken nail. “Will do, but I doubt I’ll find anyone. Mesa Springs is the only water for miles. If someone else is out there, he’s mighty thirsty by now.”

  Ben could believe that as they set out a short time later. Their path led through stands of pine that scraped at the low-hanging clouds. Downed limbs and fallen trees spanned the forest floor, making a difficult crossing for the wagon and van. Any grass had turned yellow with the summer heat, and red soil showed through. Even the air felt dry.

  “Not quite as rough as Pike predicted,” Hank ventured, riding beside Ben at the head of the column. “The land’s fairly flat. Still, I can’t see too many homesteaders coming this way.”

  Neither could Ben. “But any Army road from the south or north would have to cross through here. We just need to find the easiest route.”

  That this wasn’t the easiest route was apparent by midmorning, when a shout came from behind him. Ben reined in, then turned in the saddle to find the wagon at a precarious angle. Clucking to the horse, he rode back, Hank beside him.

  Meg was on the ground next to Dot, and both were examining the underside of the big wagon. Meadows and Larson were controlling the milling animals behind. From where he sat, Ben couldn’t spot anything wrong. Frustration made him shake his head.

  “So, like your father, you’ll go to extremes to get the shot,” he said.

  Meg glanced up with a frown, hat failing to hide the red dust speckling her cheeks like freckles. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s no trick, Captain,” Dot assured him. “Wagon’s been rolling strange since we started this morning. I think all this jolting set the rear hound out of balance.” She pointed to a long strip of wood that connected the back axle to the longer strip of wood that reached from axle to axle. “Wouldn’t have thought one would crack so soon into the trek, but I’m guessing this isn’t the first time this wagon’s left the fort.”

  “How long to fix it?” Ben asked, trying to ignore the call of the canyon ahead.

  “Couple of hours, if I can have Hank and the corporal to help.”

  “They’re yours. And once it’s fixed, double time to camp.”

  Hank grimaced, then quickly dismounted to help his wife. Ben felt Meg’s disapproval more surely.

  He couldn’t tell her what drove him, last night or now. He was under orders. Besides, if Meg and Larson were right, and an enemy stalked them, the last thing he wanted was to be caught in open country after dark.

  5

  He made it sound as if this was all her fault. As if she would damage government property and risk their food supply, much less Dot’s safety. She’d never been that desperate to get the shot.

  Though the pine forest did have a rustic charm.

  The trees were tall, their resin scenting the air. She’d spotted a jackrabbit bounding away from their approach and felt a little selfish for hoping the fellow escaped anyone’s sharp eye and fast bullet. A few wildflowers clustered here and there. She could imagine framing that cluster of blue asters between the pine and spruce, and catching a cloud at the peak, white against the sky. The scene would be uplifting, hopeful.

  Rather like her feelings at the moment.

  By tomorrow they should reach the rim, and her work would start in earnest. Plodding along in the saddle, warm air drying the perspiration from her forehead, was only a prelude to something finer.

  If only she could convince herself she wasn’t being watched.

  It was an odd feeling, creeping up on her from time to time as they moved through the forest. She’d peered around but sighted nothing she wouldn’t have expected. Still the plentiful trees, the occasional gulley, provided sufficient cover. And she hadn’t missed the fact that Rudy Pike had ridden north this morning instead of southeast. Combined with the posted guard last night, she could only conclude that Ben was concerned too. Was that what fueled his determination to continue at a faster pace?

  Corporal Adams had crawled under the wagon to examine the hounds, mallet in one hand, with Hank calling instructions and Dot issuing contrary ones. Private Larson had gone to hold the mules on the photography van. Meg went to the back of it and lowered the steps to climb inside.

  Shut off from air, the interior was close and stuffy, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Corporal Adams had helped her outfit the van, which had previously been used as an ambulance to carry wounded soldiers.

  “Though I’m thankful we haven’t had many,” he’d explained as he’d tucked her chemicals onto the shelves behind the rail that kept them from falling in transit.

  Now her hands moved from long practice—mixing the light lemon-colored liquid of gun cotton dissolved in alcohol and ether into a brick-colored solution of iodine potassium bromide in her tray
until the color turned rosy, then submerging her glass plate. She no longer sneezed at the sharp scent of the chemicals as she set the plate in its frame to dry, though she still felt as if something was burning the inside of her nose. After returning the chemicals to their places, she pulled down the nitrate of silver, waiting only until the plate was dry before immersing it in the shimmering bath.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,” she sang to herself as she gathered the camera and popped open the hinged top panel, so she could insert the plate when it was ready. “That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.”

  The words were as routine as her movements. The plate had to soak for several minutes, about the length of time it took her to finish all four verses.

  Up came the plate, all wet and silvery. She slid it into place, then picked up her camera and opened the door to the van.

  Sunlight set her to blinking. Ben was standing near the base of the steps, looking for all the world as if he’d been waiting for her. He’d never worn such a frown at West Point.

  “So you did want a picture,” he said.

  “I always want a picture,” Meg replied, descending. She nodded to the tripod hanging on the inside of the door. “You could help.”

  She thought he might argue, but he took down the three-legged contraption and followed her to a spot well away from any dust the mules might kick up.

  The vista through the trees wasn’t quite what she’d hoped. The cloud had moved on, but she could still capture something pretty. Ben leveled the tripod, and she positioned the camera, screwing it into place on the broad top rail.

  “What do you think?” she asked him. “More trees and ground or sky?”

  He didn’t answer, and she glanced up to find that his gaze had gone past her. Following it, she saw their guide approaching. He didn’t appear to be coming at a particularly fast clip, one arm loose at his side while he held the reins in the other, so he didn’t seem to think they were in any danger. Still, she went no further in setting up her shot. For one thing, his movement would quite spoil the frame. For another, she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  He reined in beside them. He’d removed his coat, which was rolled up in front of him, and perspiration circled his arms and neck. Even his black beard glistened.

  “Captain,” he acknowledged with a nod of his head that somehow took in Meg as well. “All clear.”

  So the guide had been looking for trouble. She wasn’t sure whether to be glad or disappointed he hadn’t found any.

  “Good,” Ben said. “We’ve had some difficulty here. See if you can help Corporal Adams.”

  Mr. Pike headed for the wagon.

  “Thank you,” Meg said.

  Ben swung a gauntleted hand to brush flies away. “Just doing my duty, ma’am.”

  Maybe. But she preferred to think that he’d taken her concerns seriously. She bent to her work.

  The view was quaint. It might make a popular stereograph, particularly if she titled it something romantic. “Glen in Far-Off Arizona Territory,” perhaps, or “Forgotten Wilderness.” People slid her pictures into their stereoscopes and peered through the dual lenses to view exotic places and foreign cultures they’d never visit in person, after all. The best pictures told a story.

  She had barely finished washing and varnishing the negative and packing it and her camera away when Corporal Adams reported the wagon repaired and Ben called the order to saddle up and move out.

  “I’m going to be sore tonight,” Dot’s husband predicted, pausing to pat his wife on the shoulder.

  “I’ve got liniment,” Dot promised. She glanced to the head of the column, where Ben sat, finger drumming on the cantle as he gazed back at them with a frown. “But I may not share it with everyone.”

  If the pace Ben set that morning had been bad, the one they attempted the next two hours was worse. Even after the repair, the wagon continued to list to one side, bumping and swaying. The van was nearly as bad, though Corporal Adams seemed to be trying to avoid the worst of the dips. Still, Meg began to fear for her equipment.

  “I want to transfer the plates to the mules,” she told Private Larson when Ben allowed a short break late afternoon. “We can’t risk them breaking if the van tips over.”

  He glanced to where Ben and Mr. Pike were having a heated conversation, the guide’s face turning redder by the moment. “I’d have to check with the captain.”

  And was clearly reluctant to do so. His dusty boots tapped at the red earth as if he danced on coals.

  “I’ll ask Corporal Adams,” Meg offered, and his sigh of relief was like a breeze.

  Unfortunately, Corporal Adams was equally reluctant to approach Ben.

  “I have endeavored to drive as carefully as possible, Miss Pero,” he informed her, back straight and head high. “I would not want the captain to consider me lacking in doing my duty.”

  “And I would prefer to reach the canyon with my plates intact,” Meg replied. She gave him her best smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  He grimaced, pulling away as if she had offended him. “That is all well and good, but I am hopeful of a promotion as a result of this expedition, and arguing with the commander is inadvisable to reaching that goal.”

  She could understand that. Some commanders took their frustrations out on their men. She didn’t think Ben would act that way, but she didn’t really know the man he’d become since West Point.

  She stepped back. “Wait here. I’ll ask.” She moved toward Ben.

  “I tell you you’re wrong,” Mr. Pike was saying as she approached. “You and Newcomb both. We should head west. Did you hire me as your guide or not?”

  “I appreciate your experience and recommendation,” Ben said. “But the decision on where to survey is mine. Scout to the east and report back. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Their guide pulled his hat down and strode away.

  Ben drew in a breath as he turned to Meg. “What is it, Miss Pero? Is this view particularly good?”

  “No,” Meg said. “Too many trees. And the terrain is only growing rougher. I’d like to transfer my plates to the mules. They’re surer-footed. Your men would like your permission.”

  “Denied,” he snapped. “The plates will have to make it to camp tonight. We’ll distribute them to packs then if we must.” He started to turn for his horse.

  Frustration pushed her in front of him. “There are fifty plates to document the entire expedition. We can’t afford to lose one.”

  Again, he drew a breath, as if struggling with his temper. “We can’t afford to lose any more time, either. I thought you understood that. Isn’t it one of the reasons you gave for joining this expedition?”

  Oh, the man was insufferable! “Yes, sir. Sorry to have questioned your unquestionable orders, sir. But if we reach your campsite with nothing but broken glass, don’t blame me.” She marched back to her horse, feeling as if the sun had lit a fire inside her. Corporal Adams averted his gaze as she passed.

  “Never mind, Private,” she said to Mr. Larson, taking the reins of her horse. “We will continue as we have.”

  He touched his cap. “Very good, ma’am. Thank you.” As if he feared she might change her mind or countermand Ben’s orders, he hurried back to the mules.

  “You all right?” Dot asked as Meg led her horse to a fallen tree to allow her to mount.

  “No,” Meg said. “But short of appointing a new commander to this expedition, there’s not much I can do about it. I was concerned about my plates. Captain Coleridge says there’s no time to protect them.”

  “Maybe Corporal Adams can drive more carefully,” Dot suggested.

  Adams must have heard Dot, or felt guilty about refusing Meg, for the mules on the van plodded along as they set out once more. Dot was forced to slow the wagon as well. Mr. Larson and Mr. Meadows let the mules behind them stop to graze. Ben and Mr. Newcomb had nearly outdis
tanced them all when Ben suddenly wheeled his mount and galloped back to them.

  “Problem, Mrs. Newcomb?” he demanded.

  Dot beamed at him. “Nary a one, Captain. You?”

  His mouth worked a moment before he spoke. “I need this wagon to move faster.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Dot said. “Just talk to your fancy corporal. I’m following him.”

  He glanced at Meg before focusing on the cook. “Of course you are. I have no concerns I can convince Corporal Adams to move along. Should I find another driver to spell you?”

  Dot drew herself up. “I’m no greenhorn. I can outlast you and the horse you rode in on.”

  “Then keep up,” he said. Turning, he galloped back to where Dot’s husband waited, pausing only long enough to bark an order at Adams.

  “Someone’s a mite too big for his britches,” Dot grumbled. But she called to the horses, and they continued at a faster pace along with the van. Meg could only hope her equipment, and her future, would survive.

  They were all fighting him. Pike disagreed with the direction Ben had set; Dot and Meg held back. As he had feared, his men were all too willing to take Meg’s side.

  “I suppose you have an opinion on the matter too,” he said to Hank as he rejoined him at the head of the column.

  “I always have an opinion,” the cartographer said. “But after living with Dot for twenty-five years, you learn to keep unimportant matters to yourself to maintain the peace.”

  Unimportant matters. Ben didn’t see the pace or the direction as unimportant. They had work to do and a short time to do it. And he needed to know what had happened to his father.

  For as long as he could remember, the Colonel had dominated his world. Tall, muscular, with a booming voice and commanding disposition, his father had led his troops, his friends, and his family. One look in those steely eyes, and men rode to glory, risking life and limb. He had commendations from every campaign, gifts from families he’d rescued from nature or hostiles. No one argued with the Colonel.