A Distance Too Grand

by Regina Scott

  “Survey equipment is in fine shape,” Mr. Newcomb put in.

  “Camera equipment too,” Meg said.

  “All animals present and accounted for,” Private Larson added.

  “Wood’s wet,” Dot said with a glance toward the pile they’d shoved under the wagon. “Going to be a smoky fire tonight.”

  Ben was looking over his men. “Privates, did you stay out with the animals?”

  Meg could see why he asked. Both men were soaked, the wool of their uniforms darkened and sagging. As if he noticed her looking, Private Larson inched his chin higher.

  “Yes, sir,” he told Ben. “We tried staying in the tent, but I could tell the mules were fractious. Best way to calm them is to show them a united front. We didn’t have time to pull out the ponchos.”

  Private Meadows nodded.

  “Well done,” Ben said. “Go change out of those wet clothes.”

  The two looked at each other, then directed their gazes over each of his shoulders. “No, thank you, sir.”

  Ben frowned. “Are you disobeying an order?”

  Private Meadows visibly swallowed.

  “No, sir,” his companion said. “Leastways, not on purpose.”

  Corporal Adams took a step forward. “May I have your permission to speak privately, sir?”

  Ben moved closer. The three cavalrymen spoke quietly to him.

  “What’s that all about?” Meg murmured to Dot.

  Dot chuckled. “They probably don’t own a spare uniform. Army can be stingy that way with the enlisted men. Any other time, we’d just bundle them in blankets while their clothes dried by the fire. But with you along . . .”

  “They’re embarrassed,” Meg realized. She raised her voice. “Captain Coleridge.”

  Ben glanced over his shoulder at her. “Miss Pero?”

  “Perhaps you and I could take a walk, determine what else you want to photograph here before we move on.”

  “You bet,” Private Meadows said. Then, as if he realized he was supposed to be standing at attention still, he snapped his mouth shut and turned his gaze forward.

  “I’d be delighted,” Ben said. He nodded to his men, who scrambled for their tent.

  Dot rose from where she’d been trying to resurrect the fire. “Reckon I’ll come along.”

  Ben held up his hand. “No need. We’ll walk the perimeter. You should be able to see us at all times. Just don’t mention that to my men.”

  Dot nodded as she tucked up her skirts and sank back on her haunches. “Best get to it, then. With this wet wood, it will be a while until dinner anyway.”

  Ben joined Meg, and they set out.

  “That was kind of you,” he said, leading her through the trees on the east side of camp. The canyon on their right looked darker in places, where rain had dampened rock and drenched soil. Even now the sun was drying what was left of the water, steam rising like mist and obscuring the bottom. Everything smelled moist and clean.

  “I never intended that my presence should impact the others,” Meg told him, touring around a damp bush where raindrops sparkled like silver. “And you need each of us in fit condition.”

  “True.” His hand brushed the pistol at his waist as if making sure of it. “There are too many dangers out here.”

  As if to prove it, the ground beside her shifted, pieces tumbling down. She scrambled back and bumped into Ben. He steadied her, hands on her upper arms, body close, and once more she found it hard to breathe.

  “Hey!” Dot shouted from the camp. “Look for dry wood while you’re out there.”

  Ben’s smile said he knew what Dot was doing. He shifted Meg back from the cliff and calmly put himself on the outside edge of their walk.

  “I’m not sure anything’s dry out here,” he said.

  Doubtful. Her boots were turning red in the mud. Still, she lifted an overhanging bush with one foot to peer into the slightly drier reaches beneath. A chipmunk dived away from her view.

  Ben was quiet as they turned to the north, away from the canyon.

  “Thinking of your father?” she asked.

  He nodded. “It would take something like that storm to fell the Colonel.”

  She was a little ashamed of her own reaction to the noise, the relentless wind and rain. But surely the Colonel had survived worse. “Did you see any other indication of human occupation during your survey today?”

  “Nothing significant,” he said, lifting an aspen limb to allow her to walk under. “Larson found a patch of grass much shorter than the others in the area, and the ground appeared more disturbed even though we hadn’t pastured the mules there. The grass might have been cropped by a horse, or a pronghorn.”

  She stopped. Ahead, the ground cracked into another side canyon, smaller than the one where Ben had found the rowel from a spur. The pine was sparser here, with grass springing up everywhere between. She could see the Colonel and his guide camping here overnight. But what had stopped them from continuing? Or returning?

  “Dot mentioned cougar when we were in the tent earlier,” she said.

  “This is the sort of habitat they favor,” he allowed, pausing to pick up a fallen branch that had been sheltered against a pine. “But they’re usually wary of people. Besides, if the Colonel and his guide were attacked by a cougar, why would I have found his spur on the slope?”

  Because it had broken off as he’d fallen to his death? She couldn’t say the words aloud and extinguish the hope that burned in him.

  She turned to him with a smile. “Perhaps we should discover where you want me to photograph. Tomorrow is our last day at this site if I remember your timetable correctly.”

  “It is.” He turned to her as if glad to have something else to discuss. “We should have the survey completed by tomorrow evening even with this setback. Let’s find your shots.”

  They continued around the perimeter, and Ben identified a view to the west he wanted captured and an exposure along the draw to the east of them. The latter would take some maneuvering. What had been a trickle of a stream when they had crossed two days ago was now a rushing freshet, and the ground closest to the canyon was loose and crumbling. Not the best place to set up her tripod. Perhaps things would be drier come morning.

  They managed to find a few more downed branches that had escaped wetting and carried them back toward camp. They returned to find Dot alone by a roaring fire, smoke billowing off over the canyon.

  “Hank’s looking for dinner,” she explained. “Corporal Adams is tidying the wagon. Seems things shifted some. Doesn’t bother me, but he likes things organized.” She shrugged as if the behavior perplexed her.

  “And our two modest cavalrymen?” Ben asked, glancing around.

  “Changing back into their uniforms,” Dot told him. “They’ll still be a bit damp, but better than they were.” She wrinkled her nose. “They don’t smell so good, though. There’s something about wet wool.”

  Meg tried not to notice when the two privates joined them by the fire a short time later, once more dressed in their navy coats and light blue trousers. They’d attempted to comb their hair. Private Larson’s was slicked to his head, but Private Meadows had a cowlick on the crown that stood up like a feather. Meg resisted the urge to pat it down as she would have done a little brother. The young cavalryman was embarrassed enough as it was.

  “That was some storm,” Meg said, holding her hands to the fire as Larson slowly rotated in front of the blaze as if trying to finish drying on all sides.

  Private Meadows wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Never liked lightning storms. They can start fires.”

  Two sentences? That was the most she’d heard from him in days.

  “That they can,” Ben agreed, as if just as eager to encourage Meadows.

  “Have you seen a wildfire?” Meg asked the private.

  “Not wild, ma’am.” As quickly as his urge to talk had come, it apparently left. “Excuse me.” He headed for the picket line.

  Ben
shook his head. “I’ll check on Corporal Adams.”

  As he left, Meg turned to Dot, who was giving the beans she’d started cooking a stir.

  “That Meadows is a quiet fellow,” Dot remarked. “Never can get more than a few words from him.”

  “I wish I knew his story,” Meg said with a sigh.

  Private Larson kept turning like a weather vane on a barn. “I know a little. He hails from Tennessee. I heard he lost his pa and older brother in the Great Rebellion. They fought for the Union.”

  “He couldn’t have been more than a boy,” Meg murmured.

  Dot snorted. “He’s still a boy.”

  Larson paused in his turning. “He’s nineteen, Mrs. Newcomb. He was thirteen when he ran off to help fight like his pa and brother. He was sent home, but there was nothing left. While he was gone, the family farm was burned, the rest of his family with it. He had to work for five years as a farmhand before he was old enough to sign up. To tell the truth, I think he came West because he wanted a new start.”

  She wanted to follow the private and hug him close, vow that the future would be brighter, but she feared she’d only embarrass him anew. Besides, who was she to predict what the future held?

  “Thank you for telling us, Private Larson,” she said. “Small wonder he doesn’t like lightning.”

  “Flames neither,” Larson said, beginning to rotate once more. “We had a small brush fire at the fort before you came. Couldn’t get him to come out from under the bed even though Colonel Yearling mustered the whole fort to fight it. The colonel gave him kitchen duty for a week.”

  He stopped to eye Meg. “Don’t let on I told you that.”

  “I won’t,” Meg promised.

  Dot dumped more beans in the pot as if intent on giving Meadows an extra helping.

  But her look hardened when Hank returned a little later, empty-handed.

  “Sorry,” he told her. “Most of the animals went to ground with the storm. We’ll have to make do.”

  “Salt pork and beans it is, then,” Dot proclaimed.

  Larson groaned while Meadows, who had returned from dealing with the mules, looked crestfallen. Even Corporal Adams, who had joined them with Ben, seemed disappointed, his thin lips dipping.

  Meg shifted closer to Dot. “Any bacon left?”

  “A little,” Dot admitted, and all three of the cavalrymen brightened.

  “You probably know this trick,” Meg said. “My father taught me. Cook one or two pieces and soak the salt pork in the grease. It improves the taste.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Dot said. “Maybe fry up the dried apples to go with them.” She nodded to Meg. “You’re a handy one to have around, Miss Meg.”

  “Yes,” Ben said, “she is.”

  Once more her cheeks were warming, but it had nothing to do with the blaze and everything to do with the man who was watching her across the fire with eyes as deep and fascinating as the Grand Canyon.

  They broke camp two days later. Ben helped Larson and Meadows load the equipment and remaining supplies into the wagon and onto the pack animals, returning Meg’s plates to the van. They’d accomplished what they’d set out to do—to document this location—noting flora and fauna, collecting mineral specimens, and mapping the terrain. He and Hank had taken barometric readings to confirm altitude, showing them to be at more than eight thousand feet above sea level. Meg had shot several fine photographs—they’d viewed the negatives together, her head close to his. It was time to move on.

  But he’d learned nothing more about his father.

  He had trained the theodolite down the slope one last time before snapping it into its wooden case and securing the straps to hold it stationary while they were traveling. He’d sighted no movement, heard no calls for help. Though he knew the members of several tribes had been noted in the area previously, it was as if he and his team were the only people within miles.

  Pike had rejoined them after the rain. His clothing soaked, his hat battered, the guide reported the area to the west clear and the east open.

  “How’d you make it through the storm?” Larson asked.

  Pike eyed him. “You call that sprinkle a storm?”

  Larson looked away. Adams looked impressed. Ben shook his head.

  Now Pike ranged ahead to locate their next campsite. Ben and the rest followed more slowly. At least that gave him time to study their surroundings. The pines were thinning, and low bushes crowded the way, brushing the horse’s legs. He didn’t trust the soil he could no longer see. Far too easy to ride into a skunk hole, fail to notice a dip. It was never wise to risk the horses. He reined in and held up his hand before climbing down. “Dismount!”

  Hank followed suit. Glancing back, Ben saw that Meg had stopped as well to slide from her saddle. Adams got off the bench to hold the leaders on the photography van, and Dot reined in her team on the wagon and jumped down as well. Larson and Meadows halted the mules and waited for guidance.

  “We’ll need to walk and lead the animals,” Ben called. “The ground’s too rough.”

  With nods, they all started forward again.

  He felt his way along, blazing a trail for the others to follow. At times, he had to veer a bit to avoid a pitted area. More than the slow pace, the silence of the canyon weighed on him. Had his father died alone, hearing nothing but the faint rush of the river far below? Or was he out there somewhere, injured, waiting for rescue?

  “Hold up!”

  Meg’s call had him turning once more to find Hank at his heels. She had left her horse with Dot and was approaching quickly on foot, wading through the brush that clung to her skirts. The shadow from her broad-brimmed hat reached only below her nose, making her lips look pinker than usual.

  And it appeared he knew just how pink they usually were.

  “Spot a picture worth taking?” Hank asked as she joined them.

  “Too many,” she said. “But that’s not why I called. The wind’s blowing behind us for once, and the mules are a little close.”

  Ben glanced back again. Dot was waving her hand before her face as if to bat away the ripe odors. A rare north wind was pushing dust toward them along the plateau. The passing of the mules was only raising more. Already he couldn’t see the last of the pack animals.

  “I don’t want us separated,” he told her and Hank. “Have Dot and Corporal Adams drop back behind the train. I’ll speak to the privates.”

  Meg nodded and turned to go. Hank went with her, leading his horse. Ben remounted and retraced his steps to where Larson was standing beside the team on the west.

  “Sorry about the dust, Captain,” he said. “This wind came up out of nowhere.”

  “Like any wind around this canyon,” Ben allowed. “Keep pushing south, setting the trail for the rest of us through the brush. Pike should be back shortly with an idea of where we’ll camp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll tell Private Meadows.” Ben maneuvered his horse through the mules to the east. He found the youth stationary, gaze out over the side canyon.

  “Something wrong, Private?” he asked as he rode up.

  Meadows flinched, ears turning red below his Army cap. “No, sir. Sorry.” His gaze drifted out over the canyon again, eyes wide in wonder.

  Ben smiled. “It is a grand sight.”

  Meadows nodded.

  It struck Ben that his youngest private might have thoughts as deep as that canyon.

  “What do you think of it, Private?” he asked.

  Meadows swallowed, and for a moment Ben thought he’d give no more than his usual one-word answer. Then he turned to Ben.

  “Never saw anything like it. I’m from Tennessee, near the Mississippi. Pa used to say the land was flat enough a ball wouldn’t roll unless pushed. He sure would have marveled at this.”

  “We’re all marveling,” Ben assured him. “And the work we’re doing will help others come and marvel as well. Now, return to your post. We’re moving the mule train to the front of t
he column while this wind blows.”

  “Sir.” With one last longing look, he turned for the pack animals.

  Ben glanced out over the canyon. Knobs of whiter stone stuck up here and there. The red stone below was dotted with the green of brush and tree. So vast, each vista more beautiful than the last. More rugged too. Some places a mule might have made it down and back again, but no wagon could have navigated the steep slopes. He could only hope Powell was having better luck below.

  Because, despite his encouragement to Meadows, he was having no luck above, reaching either of his objectives.

  12

  The rough edge of the canyon forced them inland for the next while. The brush gave way once more to pine forest with plenty of grass between the trees and an occasional shrub. Larson and Meadows slowed the mules, allowing them to stop and graze here and there until the others caught up to them. The sunlight slanted down to highlight the nutty brown of a fallen tree, the vivid red of wild raspberries. Meg caught Larson eating a handful. He stopped, red staining his fingers.

  “They aren’t poisonous, are they?” he asked. “I mean, they kind of look like the berries we picked back home.”

  “They’re raspberries and quite edible,” Meg assured him. “Where is home, Private Larson?”

  “Pennsylvania, ma’am. Chambersburg.”

  She caught her breath. “The town the Confederates burned? I remember how the Union rallied to send aid. My father sold portraits to contribute money for rebuilding. Please tell me you didn’t lose your family like Private Meadows did.”

  “No, ma’am.” His gaze went out over the grazing mules as if he saw something far less peaceful. “Most everyone survived that night, thanks to some Rebels who refused to obey orders. We still didn’t have anything to return home to. Pretty much the whole town was gone.” He raised his scruffy chin. “But we showed them. The town’s coming back. And many of us enlisted to make sure nothing like that ever happens again. My pay goes home to help my ma and little sisters.”

  If he could focus on the good, so could she, though her mind conjured images of conflagration. “You have sisters?”