A Distance Too Grand

by Regina Scott

  Perhaps that was why his father had taken Ben’s choice of profession so badly.

  “An engineer?” he’d scoffed. “There’s no fame in that. No one remembers the builders. You rise in rank through courage, determination.”

  But rising in rank wasn’t all that important to Ben. And building—whether roads to claim new lands, ramparts to protect civilians in time of war, or structures to house hard-working government employees—held so much more appeal.

  He’d forged his own path for once, away from his father’s influence, or so he’d thought until a conversation with the superintendent at West Point during his second year.

  “What do you hope to achieve here?” Colonel Cullum had asked him when he’d ordered Ben to his office. He’d been a military engineer, one who’d served well during the war, and one the cadets could look up to. With his silver hair on top and dark beard below, he always seemed to be considering things from all sides.

  Ben had stood at attention across the polished desk. “I want to become an engineer, sir.”

  “A noble profession,” Cullum had assured him. “It requires hard work, discipline.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ben said, certain he was ready.

  Cullum had smiled. “I would expect no less from your father’s son.”

  At the time, he’d thought Cullum had known enough about his father to assume any son of Colonel Coleridge would have the same drive to succeed. It was only later he’d learned the truth about his appointment. His previous schooling, haphazard as it had been with the Colonel’s constant movement, would never have qualified him for the prestigious academy. The recommendations he’d been told had earned him the recommendation from the district Congressional representative didn’t exist. He’d been granted admission because he was the Colonel’s son.

  And that meant another man with better credentials, who had merited the right to attend, had been turned away. The matter still sat heavily on him.

  “She has a way about her, that Miss Pero,” Hank said, recalling Ben to the present. “Reminds me of Dot.”

  Ben shuddered theatrically. “I’m not sure the world is ready for another Dot Newcomb.”

  Hank grinned. “Sure would be interesting.”

  “I’m more interested in this survey,” Ben assured him.

  Hank shifted in the saddle. “What did you have in mind?”

  “We’ll follow Wheeler’s model—establish a base camp and chart terrain.”

  Hank glanced back at the wagon and mules. “You didn’t bring a naturalist or a meteorologist. Who’s collecting samples?”

  “I’ll be looking at the minerals and noting weather. Private Larson and Private Meadows have enough knowledge to note basic flora and fauna on my direction.”

  “What if we find something new? Wheeler has.”

  Ben shook his head. “This is just a preliminary survey. Our primary objective is to locate a possible crossing point.”

  Hank nodded as if accepting that, but then he was a skilled cartographer, used to these surveys. His maps formed the foundation for many of the roads west of the Mississippi. By teaming him with Corporal Adams, who would keep everything organized and moving forward, Ben ought to have enough time to work on achieving their other objective.

  They lapsed into silence, until the loudest sounds were the creak of the saddles and the call of a hawk circling overhead. Ben was just glad everyone kept moving. An itch between his shoulder blades made him feel as if someone was pushing at his back. He glanced around from time to time, but the only humans visible were the members of his team. The mules trotted readily behind Larson and Meadows. Adams grimaced as the van tilted over a rock. Dot’s mouth was moving as she talked with Meg.

  And Meg rode, head high, like a warrior queen going into battle. He faced front and kept going.

  The sun was low among the trees when Pike rejoined them.

  “All clear,” he reported, more civil than when he’d left. “Follow that draw about a mile, and you’ll find a plain that runs south toward the rim with a stream down the middle. Plenty of places to camp alongside.”

  All clear. No sign of any other inhabitants. It seemed Meg and Larson had been wrong. No one was on their trail or ranging ahead to cut them off.

  Meg was right about one thing, though. He still felt as if they were being chased.

  6

  They reached the canyon by late afternoon on the third day out from the fort. Though she knew it was coming, Meg was unprepared for the sight. Privates Larson and Meadows had transferred her plates to the mules and given her charge of them. One moment, she was riding along, towing her mules, trees clustered all around. The next, the world opened up and dropped away.

  Ben and Mr. Newcomb were mounted side by side as she came abreast of them, gazing with the same wonder she felt. It was as if a mighty fist had struck the ground, sending cracks spreading in all directions. Banded cliffs, rough and rugged, dropped thousands of feet to the Colorado River, visible only in places as a thin line the color of Ben’s eyes. Other than the cry of the wind through the pines, the stillness was complete.

  “I have to get a picture,” she said, though she suspected not even her father could have done this justice.

  Ben turned from the view. “One shot. I’ll have Corporal Adams stay with you. The rest of us will set up camp to the east. Private Meadows, after Miss Pero removes her plate, attach the other mules to your train.”

  As the private hastened to obey, Meg hurried for one of the packs that held her plates, fingers twitching and mind whirling. One shot? It would take dozens to capture every angle, each direction. But he was right. She had to ration her plates, or there would never be enough for the expedition.

  Corporal Adams held the mule team steady as she entered the van and prepared the plate.

  “Is everything all right?” he called from outside, just as she reached the final verse of “Amazing Grace.”

  Had he heard her? Her cheeks heated.

  “Fine,” she called as she slipped the plate into her stereographic camera. A solidly built box of fine-grain cherry with brass fittings and black leather bellows, the camera had cost her dearly, but she had never regretted it. Being able to take the two pictures of a stereograph at the same time all but guaranteed a good result.

  “Might I be of assistance, Miss Pero?” he asked as she came down the steps. He eyed her camera as if he expected it to leap up at him.

  “No, thank you,” Meg said. “Just see to the mules and my horse. I’ll be back shortly.”

  She pulled the tripod off the door and carried it and the camera closer to the rim. The ground crumbled easily under her boots, reddish stone cracking anew. How would she take the shot if she couldn’t get close?

  She craned her neck to see beyond the rim. That cliff didn’t look so sheer. The ground broke away in terraces until it plunged for the river. How much better to get a glimpse of the water in the shot! Now to find a way down. She glanced around.

  A short distance to the left, rocks jutted out from the rim like a giant staircase. Perfect! Holding her camera and tripod close, she eased out onto the upper rock. Pebbles skittered away from her feet to leap off and disappear into the void. The wind tugged at her hat, pushed on her camera. She could almost hear her father’s voice.

  Get the shot, Meg. That’s all that matters. Without the shot, you’re no photographer.

  She sat on the rough ground and dropped her legs over the edge. The next outcropping was five feet below her. Not too far. She rolled onto her stomach and shimmied over, drawing the camera and tripod after her.

  She landed with a jolt that sent more rock flying, but she quickly righted herself and drew in a breath. Every inch closer opened new viewpoints, more vistas. Why hadn’t she brought more plates!

  Because her aunt and cousin wouldn’t have allowed it. They begrudged her the plates she had. They would never have given her the money to buy more, and she’d needed what money she’d had to reach the fort.


  She pushed away the thought of what lay behind and ventured closer to the end of the outcropping. The next step was a longer drop, with a narrower ledge at the bottom. But she could see more of the river. Just a little closer, and the light would be perfect.

  Get the shot, Meg.

  She lay on the ledge on her belly, stretched her arm down as far as she could, and let the tripod drop. It clattered against the rock but settled, and she could breathe again. Swiveling, she hung off the edge once more, feet feeling for any purchase. There! She eased herself over, camera clutched in one hand. She didn’t dare turn, not until she was all the way down. Once she was down, she would be able to spot the handholds and crevices that would help her get back up. Anchoring her free hand on the rock at her waist, she bent one knee and reached down with her other foot.

  Air.

  Meg swallowed. She dared to glance down and saw only the dun of her riding habit turning rusty with the dirt. Where was the ledge? It couldn’t be more than a few feet or so below her now.

  She bent lower, felt deeper. It had to be here. Perhaps she should just let go and jump.

  Trust that she would make it.

  Taking a deep breath, she let go and stepped back.

  The ground rose up to meet her, but the landing jarred the camera. She clutched at it to keep it from falling and nearly lost her balance. She caught one glimpse of the river before she pushed herself forward against the cliff. The rocks scratched her nose. That was better than falling. Too bad her pockets weren’t deep enough to hold rope. Now she had a pocketknife that had been her father’s and not much else. She took another deep breath, then sneezed at the dust and nearly overset herself again.

  That was quite enough of that.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned, head high and thoughts determined. The sight before her took her breath away anew.

  The near-ground undulated like wrinkled crimson fabric. Dusky green trees clung to any surface that wasn’t perpendicular. Directly in front of her, the highest point was a fist of golden white stone, pointing to the heavens as if to remind her there was someone else above all this.

  Her Creator.

  She swallowed. She hadn’t thought much about God since her father had been taken away. Papa hadn’t bothered with churches, except for the occasional photograph of a worthy steeple. She’d always wondered why he’d chosen “Amazing Grace” to time plate preparation. She’d asked once.

  “Who doesn’t need a little grace?” had been his response.

  Still, he’d always had a respect for the One who made such vistas possible. She felt that same awe slipping over her now. Some had called her work art, but this, this was true artistry, humbling her with its majesty.

  “Halloo!”

  The echoing call came from behind and above her, and for a moment she thought God had deigned to speak. She shook her head at her own whimsy.

  “Just a while longer, Corporal!” she shouted back. And then she went to work.

  She set up the camera, angled it this way and that until she was certain she was catching as much of the grandeur as she could, that fist of rock to one side and the river far below. As the tableau settled into a satisfactory stereograph, she set the exposure. Now, if nature would just oblige by staying still.

  Off to the left, closer to where the camp must be, something flashed.

  Meg pulled her head out from under the hood and stared across the rugged slope. A bright spot flickered against the rocks, there and gone and there again, far too low to be caused by Ben or her other team members. It was almost as if the light had reflected off metal, a mirror, a piece of equipment, or the brass on another camera.

  Was someone here ahead of them?

  They had the tents erected, Dot was plucking the turkey Pike had shot for dinner, and still Meg and Adams hadn’t returned. Ben stood on the edge of the campsite, arms crossed over his chest, gazing back the way they had come.

  Where was she?

  He turned to stride to the picket line, where Larson and Meadows had tied the horses and mules. Larson looked up expectantly from where he was examining a hoof on one of the pack animals.

  “Saddle me a horse,” Ben said. “I’m going for Miss Pero and Corporal Adams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Larson was quick. Cavalrymen had to be. They were expected to be able to mount at a moment’s notice, shoot accurately from the saddle, and use a cutlass at a gallop. Ben might never follow in his father’s footsteps, but he knew how to move quickly as well.

  “If I haven’t returned in a half hour,” he instructed Larson as he mounted, “send Newcomb and Pike after me, and tell them to bring rope and their rifles.”

  Larson’s eyes widened, but he saluted.

  Ben rode back, keeping the horse well away from the rim. The sight of the canyon had shaken him. He’d read some of the reports from Powell’s first expedition, heard the famed geologist describe the dangers of the place. The explorer had lost supplies and photographic plates to the rapids and had barely escaped with his life. Some of his men had fared worse. Fearing they might never survive the canyon, they’d set off on their own and had perished in the rough side draws. But even knowing all that hadn’t prepared him for the depth, the height, the panoply of color and shape. And the incredible stillness, as if everything was waiting.

  Men prided themselves on their ability to construct elaborate buildings that reached higher every year, mighty monuments that would stand the test of time. One look and the canyon made even the loftiest steeple a child’s toy. This was true achievement, true glory.

  Grand treachery.

  He’d seen that immediately. The fissure existed for a reason. The ground bent easily to the trials of nature, the pressure even of a foot. He wouldn’t risk a horse too close to the edge.

  Even if Meg would risk her life.

  He clucked to the horse and broke into a canter.

  Adams was standing near where Ben had left him, clinging to the horse’s halter and the mules’ reins and muttering to himself. At the sight of Ben, he sagged with relief, then straightened and managed an awkward salute. “Sir.”

  Ben reined in and swung down from the saddle. “At ease, Corporal. Where’s our photographer?”

  Adams was so rigid he might have been carved from the stone of the canyon, but he managed a nod toward the crevice directly in front of him. “She remains at large in that direction taking her picture, sir. I asked if I might be of assistance, and she refused.”

  He sounded highly aggrieved by the fact. Ben tied his horse at the back of the van. “Call to me every few moments. If you don’t hear an answer, take the animals east to camp and gather a search party.”

  His eyes were wider than Larson’s. “Yes, sir.”

  Ben started for the rim. He was barely out of sight of the van when he heard the call.

  “Halloo.” Adams’s voice echoed against the rock.

  “Here,” Ben called back. He eased himself out, heart starting to pound harder. He’d never considered himself anxious around heights, but the drop below, the sheer depth, sent a wave of dizziness over him. If he called to Meg, would he cause her to lose her balance and fall?

  The very thought chilled him, but he refused to turn back. Not until he knew she was safe.

  “Halloo!” Adams called.

  “Here,” Ben answered.

  “Will you cease that racket?” Meg’s voice floated up out of the abyss. He stopped, then nerved himself to peer over.

  She was a good fifty feet farther out into the canyon, perhaps a dozen feet below him, and standing on an impossibly narrow shelf, head buried in the hood of the camera.

  “Are you mad?” he shouted.

  She yanked out her head and glanced up at him. Even from here he could feel her glare.

  “Quiet!” The command ricocheted off the rock, and pieces clattered over the edge. “I’ll be done shortly.” She disappeared inside the hood.

  Of all the willful, determined, ridiculous things
she could have done. She might have sprained an ankle, broken a leg, fallen to her death. He couldn’t speak for the enormity of it.

  “There.” She pulled out and sent him a smile. “Just a few minutes now.”

  He’d go insane.

  “Halloo!” Adams shouted.

  “Here!” His voice must have sounded as tense as he felt, for he thought Meg flinched.

  He had to answer Adams three more times before she gathered up her equipment and moved back to the base of the ledge. By then, he was sweating. She must have heaved her tripod, for it sailed up and clattered onto the rock below him. He shifted as close to the western edge as he dared so he could keep her in sight.

  Shoving her camera onto a rock partway up the cliff in front of her, she positioned her hands and began climbing. Her skirts parted to show breeches and boots beneath. He wasn’t sure whether to be shocked at the display or impressed by her ingenuity.

  Suddenly, rocks began sliding, and so did she. He was scrambling down to the lower ledge before she hit the ground.

  “Halloo,” Corporal Adams called.

  “Help!” Ben shouted. “Now!” He righted himself, leaped over the tripod, and raced to the edge of the second ledge.

  “Ow!”

  He skidded to a stop. “Meg! Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” The annoyance in her tone was somehow more reassuring than the words. “But could you please stand still? You’re making it rain rock.”

  “Captain!”

  Ben glanced back to see Adams peering over the edge of the first ledge. Ben held up a hand to hold him back. Then he dropped to all fours and crawled cautiously to the edge of his own shelf.

  Meg glanced up. “I don’t suppose you have a rope.”

  “Sorry. I’ll come better equipped next time you decide to throw yourself off a cliff.”

  She made a face. “I didn’t throw myself off. It was all very well planned. I thought I’d be able to spot the handholds, but I can’t seem to find a reliable one.”

  “Allow me.” Just the sight of her—face dusty, pale hair falling from its bun, eyes bright—steadied him. He stretched out on the ledge, reached over. A moment later, and something square and polished hit his hands.