by Regina Scott
He came out into the sunlight, glanced up toward the rim. Hank stood, one foot braced on the rock, rope clutched in both hands, ready to haul Ben up. Meg stood next to him, camera aimed down the slope. Between him and them lay a field of tumbled rock. Most was weathered a dull gray, attesting to the amount of time it had withstood the elements. But here and there patches of red or black showed vividly, as if someone had recently overturned the stones.
Why? Who else but an Army engineer would be out this way collecting samples?
He picked his way up the slope, carefully touching the tumbled stone with his bare hand. It wouldn’t do to disturb a rattlesnake. He studied this rock and that, but none that had been turned over appeared any different from the other stones he’d seen so far.
Then something sharp pricked his fingers. Ben jerked back his hand and listened. No telltale dry rattle warned of a snake nearby. His skin didn’t appear to have been punctured. Slowly, he reached down among the rocks and drew out the culprit.
It was a many-pointed steel star, the edges barely dulled. It looked just like one that adorned the spurs on a cavalry officer’s boots.
9
Meg had planted her tripod beside Hank, screwed her camera into place, and aimed it down the cliff, trying not to think about the slender line of safety deployed over the edge. She had forced herself under the hood that draped the back of her camera. Normally, when the cloth fell, the rest of the world fell away with it. Sounds were dampened, smells minimized until the predominant scent was from the leather of her bellows and the faint whiff of iodine from the plate. Sight was restricted to what she could see through the lens, the world as imagined in her photographs. Too easy to imagine Ben’s body, lying cracked on a rock, blue-gray eyes forever blinded.
She had shuddered and yanked her head out. Only when Ben had come out from under the outcropping had she found breath again.
Still, he took his time returning, pausing here and there to touch the rocks.
“What is he doing?” she asked Mr. Newcomb.
His gaze remained on the slope below, as if he counted every second as she did. “Looking for the best samples.”
All at once Ben stopped. Why? Was there something dangerous down there after all? A bandit hiding from the law? A mountain lion?
Don’t be silly, Meg. Mountain lions don’t light fires.
Hank straightened. “Here he comes.”
Meg scrambled closer to the edge and peered over. Ben was climbing toward them, hand over hand along the rope, boots braced. She dashed back to the camera. Ducking under the hood, she waited until he crested the edge. His face was tight, mouth hard.
“Hold it!” she called.
He glanced her way but didn’t pause as he jumped onto firm ground and began untying the rope from the harness. “Sorry, Miss Pero. You’re here to photograph the terrain, not the staff.” As if to make certain she didn’t capture his likeness, he turned his back on her and started talking to Hank.
Oh! She was shaking as she pulled off the hood, but it wasn’t just from frustration for once. He’d risked his life to climb down there. The least he could do was let her document his heroism after scaring the wits out of her.
She stalked up to him as Hank began coiling the rope. “So? What did you find? Was it worth your life?”
He eyed her. “I asked you the same question.”
She stilled. “This is hardly the same thing.”
“It’s exactly the same thing,” he said, cocking his head as if hoping to see her perspective. “You risked your life to take a picture. That’s your profession—taking pictures. I went down the cliff to prove to myself there was no danger to my team. That’s my profession—leading teams to achieve objectives.”
Why did he have to be so logical? She puffed out a sigh. “Very well. I concede the point. But you were very stern with me yesterday, so I see no reason I shouldn’t be as stern with you today. Fair is fair.”
His mouth twitched. “And you saw fit to ignore my concerns, so I’ll do the same with yours. Fair is fair.”
The man was impossible!
“So do you want me to keep surveying the canyon after services?” Hank asked, laying the rope aside.
“Yes,” Ben said, working the buckles on the harness. “I want to know if so much as a mouse moves on that slope.”
“You found something,” Hank surmised.
Meg tensed, not sure what to expect but knowing it must be bad.
“Campfire,” Ben replied. “Cold now, but someone was there recently. I’d like to meet him. I have a few questions.”
His reaction only raised questions of her own. A shame he was clearly not disposed to answer. Instead, he nodded to her camera. “I believe you have work to do as well, Miss Pero, after Sunday service. If you finish early, you could help Mrs. Newcomb with provisioning.” He strode off, calling for the rest of the team to join him by the fire for Sunday worship.
Meg shook her head. She’d take her pictures, but she had other things in mind than gathering plants with Dot. When she had the opportunity, she intended to ask her questions. He might be the leader, but she had every right to protect herself and her equipment, from whatever he thought was coming.
It wasn’t easy conducting a worship service with the rowel of the spur weighing heavily in his pocket. All he could think about was the Colonel.
The star had to have belonged to him. While ranchers might wear similar spurs, that particular star was a mark of a cavalryman, a rite of passage. Those new to the regiment had to earn their spurs. The Colonel would never have parted with his willingly.
So how had it reached that slope? And where was his father now?
He would gladly have relinquished command to investigate further. But he was the leader of this expedition. It was his duty to see to his team members’ needs, even the spiritual ones. Larger expeditions like Wheeler’s took along a chaplain or a soldier trained as a chaplain’s assistant. Colonel Yearling, interim commander of Fort Wilverton, had deemed Ben’s detail too small.
“Read a few passages, sing a few hymns,” the lieutenant colonel had advised when Ben had questioned him about the matter. “Remind them of their responsibilities. Inspire them to lead lives of honor and productivity.”
He hadn’t felt up to the task then or now.
Corporal Adams must have requisitioned a Bible, for he handed one to Ben before stepping back into place with the others around the fire. The black leather binding felt stiff in his hands as he opened it to Psalms. Even here, his father intruded, for Ben found himself thumbing to Psalm 144, the Colonel’s favorite.
“Blessed be the Lord my strength,” he read aloud, “which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.”
Larson and Meadows nodded, even though neither could have seen much of war yet. They would have been too young to fight in the War Between the States. Before Ben had joined West Point, the classes of 1861 and 1862 had been graduated early to serve, some on one side, some on the other. He was thankful he’d never had to face a friend across a battlefield.
“My goodness, and my fortress,” he continued. “My high tower, and my deliverer.”
Now Dot was nodding too, her hand reaching for Hank’s where he stood beside her.
“My shield,” Ben read, “and he in whom I trust; who subdueth my people under me.”
Meg shot him a glance. Did she think he expected her to be subdued under him? His mother had played that role with the Colonel. Really, everyone had played that role, even some generals above him. Ben had never wanted that in a wife. Better someone who stood beside him, encouraging, challenging, helping him to grow.
Meg certainly challenged him. Was she still smarting from his refusal to let her climb down the cliff with him? A shame he couldn’t tell her his reasoning, but even Hank and the cavalrymen didn’t know about his other charge. His superior in Washington had been adamant.
He finished reading, sang along as Corporal Adams led a few hymns in a squeaky tenor, then dismissed
them all to their duties. He wasn’t sure why he was disappointed when Meg went off to her camera without another glance his way.
But work proved no easier than worship. He had his own routine that had proved efficient on other surveys. Divide the area into a grid with one-foot squares. Start in the northwest corner. Take rock samples, note flora and fauna. Move one square to the east and record any differences. Continue to the edge of the grid, drop down a row, and continue back across. He set Larson to start a similar pattern in the southeast corner, knowing they would eventually meet, and had Meadows run samples back to Adams for further testing and archiving.
It was slow, methodical, painstaking work, the results of which would allow the Army to determine whether to build roads, construct outposts, and encourage settlement. The information could help people start new lives or safeguard them from danger as they traveled through to richer lands beyond. He never knew what he might discover—a new species of beetle, a hardier form of wheat, a vein of copper. He always started expecting great things.
Today, the work seemed more tedious than expectant. He wanted to be down in that canyon. Surely he could learn something more. Perhaps that trail led not to a meadow frequented by pronghorn but a trapper’s cabin. His father could be staying there.
He snorted at the fantasy, and Meadows glanced his way with obvious concern. Was Ben so desperate for news he’d clutch at any possibility like a drowning man a rope? Or was it duty that drove him?
He’d told Meg leading teams was his profession. That was true enough. But he also had a responsibility to his mother and sister, who were waiting for any word from him. He had no answers, only more questions. Most in the Army would have considered this a futile quest. The general directly above his father had listened to his mother’s pleas with solicitous attention and an unforgiving attitude.
“He told Mother it was only to be expected,” Diana had written. “That the Colonel had died as he had lived—on the field of battle. But there wasn’t a battle, was there, Ben? He rode out of the fort and never returned. Why didn’t he just send a scout? That’s not like him. Why won’t they listen to us?”
One official had listened—Ben’s commanding officer in the nation’s capital. After serving under Wheeler on a survey in Nevada Territory, Ben had suddenly been reassigned to the Monuments Division in Washington. He had done his best to work on testaments to the country’s leaders and accomplishments, but his heart remained out West. Then Colonel Katlin had called him into his office.
“There’s a need for a survey leader in Arizona,” he said. “I promised your father I’d keep you here long enough to win promotion to major, but after recent events, I can’t in good conscience continue to comply.”
It hadn’t been easy to stand at attention when every part of him was fuming. How dare the Colonel interfere in his life again? Had he no faith Ben could win promotion on his own? He’d made captain, hadn’t he?
“I’d appreciate the recommendation, sir,” he’d said.
Katlin had leaned back in his padded leather chair. “And I’d appreciate information. The survey starts from the same fort your father left. Help me discover what happened. For now, keep the matter to yourself.”
He’d needed no further encouragement. A day later, he’d headed West.
Yet what had he accomplished? The Colonel was still missing. No one at the fort had been able to shed any light on his disappearance. Colonel Yearling seemed content to let matters rest. If the truth was to be discovered, it was all up to Ben.
He called a halt when the sun reached its zenith, sent them all into the shade of the trees, where Dot had cups waiting.
“Located some lemonade-berry,” she reported. “Couldn’t cool it like I’d prefer, but it’ll keep you going until dinner.” She glared at Pike, who had ridden in after an easterly sweep. “That is, if we have dinner.”
“Pronghorn hide in the heat too, you know,” he said, hitching up a suspender. “I’ll find a rabbit or two.”
“Or four,” Dot retorted. “We have a hungry boy to feed.”
Meadows turned pinker than the sun had left him.
Meg appeared to have forgiven Ben for their earlier disagreement, for she moved closer and perched on a rock near him, tin cup in one hand. “I took shots to the north, west, and south. I’ll have to wait for the eastern exposure until later this afternoon.”
He nodded. “The light should be better in an hour or two.”
“Or four,” she said, mimicking Dot.
He chuckled and took a sip of the tart liquid. It was thicker than real lemonade, not much more than mashed berries and water, but easier to come by on the trail. “Talk to Dot about gathering plants outside the sample grid. Man doesn’t live on meat alone.”
“Don’t tell Mr. Pike,” she teased.
With the temperature high over the next few hours, Ben set the team to sedentary tasks—writing up the notes from the morning’s survey in duplicate, mending gear, and testing rock samples for useful ore. He checked hardness against the Mohs scale by scratching each sample against sharpened quartz, evaluated cleavage with a chisel, peered through a magnifying loop to spot crystallization. The samples were sandstone, mostly, tinted red from iron, as he had suspected, with limestone chunks. Once again, the work failed to capture his attention.
He set aside the samples and moved in next to Hank, who was sketching the terrain to the east in his journal.
“See anything in the canyon?” Ben murmured.
Hank glanced up at him. “Nope. Nothing unusual, that is. Hawk, skunk, few chipmunks, and a female mountain goat with a kid across that game trail. Whoever was there has moved on.”
The observation dampened his hope of finding a trapper’s cabin. But where had the person gone? And why had he been here to begin with?
He forced himself to finish the first survey before dinner. Pike had brought in a brace of rabbits, which Dot had made into a stew with beans. He and his men reviewed their findings, and Ben talked to Hank and Pike as well. Everyone had been fruitful, and he felt useless.
As they headed for bed and he prepared to start his watch, Meg sat beside him once more.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, ever forthright.
“Nothing,” he said, resting his rifle across his knees. “It was a good first day.”
“So why are you so tense?” she challenged.
He could not have been so obvious. “I just want to make sure we remain on schedule.”
She shook her head. “You’ve been on edge since we spotted that smoke in the canyon. Come on, Ben. It would do you good to talk. A burden shared is lighter. Ask the mules.”
His smile rose despite himself. “I’m not a mule.”
“Do tell.”
Why was it so easy to laugh around her? “All right. I’ll admit to being as stubborn as a mule on occasion. But I’m an Army officer, Meg. The only person I should share concerns with is my commanding officer.”
“A shame he isn’t here.” She scooted closer. “But I am. And I promise not to tell.”
“Or record it in a photograph?”
“Don’t push me that far.”
The urge to tell her was strong. Hank and Dot had known his father professionally, but, of anyone on the team, Meg alone had interacted socially. She knew the potency of the Colonel’s personality, the effect he had on people, the reason men died at his command. She would understand the importance of Ben’s secret commission. And she might have insights into what he could tell his mother and Diana. He’d just have to go carefully.
He ran his hand over the cool metal of the rifle. “You remember my father.”
She inched closer, until her skirts brushed his trousers. “Absolutely. Those eyes could cut through steel.”
They could indeed, though he remembered them bright with pride more often. “I forgot. Your father photographed him, didn’t he?”
She nodded, firelight flickering over the planes of her face. “Papa was delighted with the op
portunity. He kept telling people he’d shot Colonel Coleridge.”
Ben smiled. “He had reason to crow. The Colonel didn’t sit for many portraits, painted or photographed. He was a man of action.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry you lost him, Ben.”
One step at a time now. “That’s just it. I’m not sure I have. He just disappeared.”
She pulled back her hand. “But it’s been two months. Surely if he was alive, we’d have heard by now.”
“Out here?” He waved to encompass the trees, the plateau, the canyon. “There are dozens of places to hole up.”
She sucked in a breath. “The outcropping, the fire. You think that was your father.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out the star. “I found this on the slope.”
She took it from him, angled it to the light. “What is it?”
“The rowel of a spur. The Colonel wore two, one on each boot, held in place by brass bands shaped like an eagle’s head.”
She glanced up, eyes widening. “How many other people have them?”
“Most of the cavalry officers in the area wear spurs. But those officers are all accounted for, and I imagine their spurs as well. No one else from the fort has come out this way in months.”
She looked down at the rowel again, turning it slowly in her hand as if she thought the points might prick her. “I don’t understand. What would the Colonel have been doing on that slope? Why didn’t he report back to the fort? How could he have left this behind?”
“All that,” Ben said, “is what I want to know.”
She nodded slowly, handing the star back to him. “Of course. I’d want to know if it were my father. If there’s a chance he’s alive, we have to find him.”
Ben cocked his head, hope plucking at him. “We?”
“Of course.” She grinned. “You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun, did you?”
10
She always loved learning other people’s stories. The great portrait artists of the past had depicted their subjects with something that showed their work—a globe for an explorer, a quill for a writer. She wanted more from her pictures. When she photographed people, she tried to weave in their emotions—hope, sorrow, excitement.