by Regina Scott
“Six of them,” he said with a grin. “If you ever get to Pennsylvania, Miss Meg, I’d be proud to have you take their picture.”
“And I’d be proud to take it,” Meg told him. She’d much rather think about composing that shot—the private in his dress uniform, brown hair combed, smile bright, framed by six little girls in pinafores, gazing at their brother in admiration—than to remember the horrors of the War Between the States. The fighting had ended more than six years ago now, but the wounds would take much longer to heal.
She glanced back at Ben. Though they could have ridden, he continued walking, as if satisfied with the leisurely pace for once. With Hank at his wife’s side, it was easy for Meg to drop back next to him. The wind pushed at her as if urging her forward, deeper into the unknown. Her spirit rose to meet it. The war was over. The country was expanding, just as Ben had predicted. Who knew what they might discover through the trees? A fertile plain perfect for farming. Ben’s wagon road across the canyon. The secret to his father’s disappearance.
Ben’s head turned from side to side, gaze sweeping the way as if he watched for any potential danger. Sunlight and shadow striped the planes of his tanned face. He must have taken time to shave that morning, for that firm chin showed little sign of stubble. How warm his skin had felt to her touch once when she’d dared caress his cheek.
She forced her gaze forward. “You’re particularly quiet. Penny for your thoughts.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I was wondering how all this came to be.”
“Why, Captain, I would have thought a West Point graduate could tell me all about it,” she teased. “The action of water and wind on stone or some such.”
“The Colorado River and its tributaries carved these canyons,” he agreed. “But they are more than geologic wonders. There’s always a reason for God’s creation. What was he trying to tell us? What are we to learn from all this?”
Meg reared back. “God didn’t put this here for us. We just stumbled upon it.”
“Did we?” He focused ahead, as if he could still see the canyon in all its majesty. “Or did he have it ready when we needed it?”
What a strange idea. She couldn’t remember hearing anything like it. Of course, she hadn’t heard all that many ministers pontificate. The way they’d kept moving, she and Papa had attended church sporadically when she was growing up.
Certainly, her aunt had as narrow a view of the Creator as she did everything else. The few times Meg had attended church with her, Aunt Abigail had been more interested in Meg’s behavior than in anything the minister had said. It seemed Meg didn’t sit up properly, appear pious enough. Ladies were not to frown when the minister spoke, for all it was Meg’s habit as she carefully considered his words. And ladies certainly didn’t sing with any sort of gusto. She was to be quiet, still, unremarkable. If that was what God wanted, why create something completely remarkable!
No, it made much more sense to her to consider God a distant being. He’d set things in motion. It was up to them to see how those things played out. The only time she’d truly prayed with all her heart was when she’d realized her father was ill. God hadn’t given her any indication that he was listening. He certainly hadn’t acted. How could Ben assume God cared enough about them to plant this canyon for their pleasure?
“You’re in an odd humor,” she said.
He shrugged. “Perhaps I need to think about something other than my father’s disappearance. We’re moving away from where I found the only clue. And I can’t go back. I have a duty.”
And he’d do it despite his own longings. That was the difference between him and her father. Papa’s good intentions had never lasted long. He had craved the excitement, the movement, the change. There was something to be said for predictability.
Particularly when it came to income.
“I have a duty too,” she said. “I need more stereographs. I can see shots in every direction. The train’s moving slowly. Mind if I stop at the first good view of the canyon and set an exposure?”
He hesitated. “I don’t want you to fall behind.”
Meg raised her brows hopefully. “It will only take a few moments.”
The jaw she had been admiring looked as hard as the stone of the canyon. “It’s not safe being out here alone.”
“I can protect myself,” she reminded him. “Papa taught me to use a gun. Besides, we haven’t seen any sign of predators.”
“Yet,” he said darkly.
He was being difficult again. She would not resort to harsh words. She forced herself to count to ten, then pasted on her sweetest smile. “Well, if you’re concerned, you could wait with me.”
His eyes narrowed, and she could only hope he was considering the matter. It wouldn’t do to push him further. She’d seen that in West Point. Ben Coleridge had a stubborn streak as wide as the Colorado.
But then, so did she.
“Very well,” he said. “One shot. And then we catch up with the others.”
Meg beamed at him. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll make sure it’s worth waiting for.”
She had her opportunity a short while later. They had run into a denser group of trees and were picking their way along. She’d lost track of direction, but she’d seen Ben consulting his compass from time to time and knew he was keeping them on a steady heading.
Suddenly, all vegetation stopped, and the world dropped away once more to reveal another view of the canyon. Meg stopped to stare. Everywhere she looked was red. And so many shades! Fiery at the base of the cliffs rising to brick and vermillion with maroon in the distance. Despair welled up inside her.
It must have shown on her face, for Ben paused to frown at her. “Meg? What’s wrong? Isn’t this the shot you’ve been waiting for?”
“Yes,” Meg said, voice catching. “But look at it. The colors, the textures. And all I have is black and white!”
His mouth quirked. “Quite a challenge, but I believe you’re up to it.”
She had to be. Determination building, she turned to hail Corporal Adams ahead of them and went to prepare her plate.
Ben helped her plant the feet of the tripod and level it on the soft soil. Dot and Hank pulled up to watch and rest the mules.
“Now, that’s a picture,” Dot said, gazing out at the sculptured cliffs.
“Not yet,” Meg said. “But it will be.” She plunged under the hood.
Darkness wrapped around her. Sound faded. All she could see was the glory before her. She turned the camera slowly, looking for the best angle, the right light. The canyon called to her, drew her closer. Such beauty! Such majesty!
Had God known she needed this, not only for a picture that would produce income for her future but to fill her empty heart?
Perhaps it was Ben’s words, perhaps this view through her lens, but for the first time in a long time, she wondered whether there truly might be Someone who cared.
At that moment, the sun broke free, setting the cliffs on fire. She caught her breath, adjusted for the change in light, and set the exposure.
Normally, while she waited, she pulled her head out from under the hood. But now she wanted a moment more alone with her thoughts. Though her lens was fixed on a narrow portion of the canyon, she felt as if her world was widening. Or perhaps she was widening.
Thank you, heavenly Father.
The prayer came from her heart. Was she mad to think she heard a response? More awed than by the view, she drew in another breath and brought herself back into the light.
“Got it?” Dot asked, brows squeezed together in concern.
“I think so,” Meg said. “I hope so. You only get one chance at glory.”
Ben smiled. “I have a feeling you’re wrong. But saddle up. We need to catch the pack train.”
She was a wonder. That artist’s eye had pinpointed one of the best views looking northeast along the canyon: the rugged cliffs that seemed to go on forever, the snaking curve of the river far below. He could understand h
er frustration on seeing it. God had pulled out every shade of red in his paint box. But if any photographer could do it justice, it was Meg.
She seemed to be delighted with her work. Dot was asking questions, so Meg dropped back to chat with her as they followed the rim to the southwest. With the way more open here, they had all remounted. Hank was the logical person to ride beside Ben. He wasn’t sure why the cartographer’s company seemed less satisfactory than usual.
“We’re going to have a problem,” Hank said.
Ben frowned. “Oh?”
Hank grinned. “There are too many places to take a picture. What will she do when she runs out of plates before she runs out of canyon?”
Pike rejoined them midafternoon, when Ben had called a halt to rest the animals. The sun had risen high and with it the temperatures. The breeze had evaporated, leaving the musky scent of the mules hovering like an unseen cloud. Flies buzzed about, accompanied by the sound of slaps as his men fought off their attack. They’d have to break out the mosquito netting to sleep tonight.
“Might want to be careful with that.” As he reined in, Pike nodded to the canteen Adams was using. “Couldn’t find a good source of water for the next little while. We’ll be camping dry tonight. We’ll need to make do.”
“What about meat?” Dot asked. “Salt pork will be mighty salty without anything to wash it down with.”
“I spotted a few pronghorns to the north,” Pike said. “I’ll see what I can do. Follow the rim another two miles until you see a lone pine. That’s where we’ll camp tonight.” Clucking to his horse, he moved off.
“Not much for conversation,” Hank commented.
Dot shook her head. “Never was, from what I hear. The only person he kept company with was Willy McCoy. I think he feels the loss keenly.”
Meg frowned, but Ben stiffened. He knew that name. It had been on the report about his father’s disappearance.
“McCoy?” he pressed.
“The guide who went out with the Colonel,” Dot explained.
Meg’s brow cleared, and she gazed off after Pike, who was disappearing through the trees. “It seems Mr. Pike has a reason to be terse.”
Perhaps. It was hard to imagine the taciturn Pike being close to anyone. Still, the guide might have his own ideas of what had happened to his friend and the Colonel. Maybe Ben had another opportunity to learn the truth about his father after all.
He didn’t have a chance to talk to Pike privately until later that evening. The guide had returned with a pronghorn, which he’d skinned, gutted, and prepared so Dot could roast it over the fire. The rich scent hovered in the air. Meadows licked his lips. Dot served the meat with apples and currants in a sauce that hinted of cinnamon.
Still, he couldn’t quite enjoy the feast as much as Meg and the others when all he could think about was cornering Pike.
While the others finished cleaning up after dinner, he had his chance at last. Ben took Pike aside. The only one who appeared to notice was Meg, who looked up from drying a plate to nod encouragement. Had she too wondered what their guide might know? Funny how her thoughts so often aligned with his.
The night’s camp was near the edge of the canyon again, but already darkness wrapped the landscape in mystery. Ben and the guide stood at the extent of the fire’s glow, the night air cooling rapidly.
Might as well start out officially. “No surprises on your reconnaissance?” Ben asked.
Pike pursed his lips. “Nope. Everything was pretty much as I expected. There’s usually a pond at the neck of the peninsula we crossed. I was thinking we’d camp there, but I found the ground dried up. Too late in the season. A shame we didn’t start sooner.”
“A shame I couldn’t get here sooner,” Ben agreed. “You’ll scout ahead for a water source?”
“Tomorrow,” Pike promised.
Ben nodded. “Good. We can make do in many ways, but water’s not one of them.”
“For any of us,” Pike said with a look to the rest of the group.
Ben shifted a little closer. “By the way, I understand Mr. McCoy who disappeared with the Colonel was a good friend of yours. My condolences.”
Pike looked away. “Part of the job. He knew what he was getting into, same as me.”
Something in the guide’s tone poked at him. “And what was he getting into? He and the Colonel were only supposed to be confirming the safety of the route to the canyon for the survey team.”
Pike snorted. “Safety? No such thing out here. An hour after they passed, a rockslide could have closed the trail behind them. A day, and they could have been surrounded by natives, who don’t generally take kindly to a fellow wearing a cavalry uniform.”
Surrounded by natives? That made no sense. If there had been rumors of an uprising, someone else in the fort would have heard about it.
“We haven’t seen any signs of natives,” Ben pointed out.
“Nary a one.” Pike almost sounded disappointed. “But never fear, there’s plenty out here that can kill a man. Cold, heat, flash floods, wildfire, cougar, failure to find meat or water.”
He’d thought of the same risks when trying to decide whether to bring Meg with them. “There’s a beauty too,” he told Pike. “You can’t deny that.”
Pike shook his head. “This canyon might be beautiful to some, Captain, but it’s no fit place for man or beast, I don’t care what the Army says. You’ll see that for yourself soon enough, and then you can tell them to build their road somewhere else.”
13
Meg woke up to a blowing wind that whistled through the branches of the tall pine at the edge of the camp and rushed through her tent every time she or Dot opened the flap. It tugged at her hat as she sat near the fire to eat the hardtack and leftover meat Dot had served up.
“No mush or coffee this morning,” the older woman said. “Can’t risk using up more water.”
Adams sighed.
“It’s not just us,” Larson put in. “The mules will need to be watered tomorrow at the latest.”
“Thirsty mules don’t move,” Meadows agreed, pausing to yank a hunk off his hardtack with his teeth.
Meg smiled at him, and he hastily looked away as he chewed the thin, dry bread.
“I’ll find you water,” Pike promised, rising and dusting his hands on his already dusty trousers. “Don’t get too comfortable here. The captain asked me to keep looking. I’ll be back by midday.” He loped for his horse.
“Adams, Larson, Meadows, report,” Ben commanded, coming out of his tent.
The trio scrambled to stand and salute.
“I finished transcribing Mr. Newcomb’s journal into the second set of records,” the corporal said in his precise voice.
“Excellent,” Ben said, and Meg thought the stiff-backed clerk relaxed a little.
“The animals are fed and healthy, sir,” Larson said when Ben looked to him next. “There’s plenty of forage hereabouts. Mr. Pike says he’ll find us water.”
Ben nodded, then turned to Meadows.
“No corn mush, sir,” he said, a mournful note in his voice.
Ben’s mouth quirked, but he didn’t go so far as to smile, and Meg liked him better for it.
“Form a grid while we wait,” he told his men. “Five by five with the last square at the cliff edge. We should be able to sample that much before Pike returns.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“I’ll take what measurements I can,” Hank said. “Miss Pero, care to help with the surveying?”
Adams looked over in surprise. So did Meg. The lanky cartographer was smiling at her as if he had full confidence in her abilities. Since they wouldn’t be making this their next formal camp, she probably shouldn’t waste a photograph. And Dot wouldn’t need help with cooking.
“I’d be delighted, Mr. Newcomb,” she said.
“Mr. Newcomb, Miss Pero,” Dot complained in a singsong voice. “We’re going to be working together for another six weeks. Might as well get comfy. Hi
s name is Henry, but he prefers Hank.”
“Now, Dot,” Hank started.
“It’s all right,” Meg assured him. “I was born Margaret, but all my friends call me Meg. I hope you’ll be one of them, Hank.”
He nodded.
“Oh, stop turning pink, ya big galoot,” Dot said, slapping him on the back. “Meg will think you got sunburned.”
Adams turned abruptly away from them. “It seems I am unneeded this morning, sir. Might I assist on the survey?”
“Always glad for another pair of hands,” Ben said. “You can help take barometric readings. Dot, pack up and be ready to move when Pike returns.”
They all split up then. Meg followed Hank to the edge of camp.
“Give me a moment,” he said.
She perched on a rock, letting the early morning sun bathe her. Tipping back her chin, she breathed in the dry air.
He knelt and snapped open the brass catches on the sides of the wooden case, then swiveled back the leather straps that secured the instrument inside. Lifting the metal cylinder with all its screws and apertures, he settled it into place on the tripod, pivoting the center scope out and pointing it into the canyon.
“Does it balance easily?” Meg asked, thinking of her camera.
Hank was eyeing the spirit level on one side. “Mostly. Usually just takes a few turns of the screw.” He suited word to action, then rotated the instrument and leveled the other side as well. After several rotations, he nodded and looked up. “Done. Take a look.”
Meg rose and pressed her face to the eyepiece. The lone pine came into view. She fiddled with the focus. A black beetle with an iridescent shell was scurrying up the cracked bark.
“You borrowed this while we were at the other camp,” Hank said. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Only as a telescope,” Meg admitted. “I know it can be rotated horizontally and vertically.”
“To measure angles and estimate distances in a straight line,” Hank said. “Mainly, we want to calculate the depth of the canyon. To do that, I need a set of numbers.”
She pulled back from the instrument. “What numbers?”