In the Face of Danger (8 page)

“Yes, I’m an artist. That’s my business.” The dimple in his cheek came back as he said, “I’m on my way home from a California-to-Oregon branch survey with many of my drawings and sketches.”

“All the way to California!” Emma said. “What is it like out there?”

“I can best show you through my sketches,” Mr. Cartwright
said. “Would you like to see them after we’ve finished supper?”

“
I
would!” Megan said. Ben and Emma eagerly agreed.

“I’ve heard of the artists of the western surveys,” Ben said. “I’d like to know more about the kind of work you do.”

The men began talking about the expeditions: some sent to map and explore, some to define boundaries, and some to survey land for proposed rail lines.

“I’ve worked with some notable artists,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Solomon Carvalho and Richard Kern. Unfortunately Kern was killed during a Paiute Indian attack in Utah.”

Megan’s question came out in a whisper. “Were you there when Mr. Kern was killed?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was with the expedition.”

She knew the expression on her face must show the horror she felt, because he added, “The Indians don’t understand our taking over their land, and they certainly don’t like it. They’re afraid, and sometimes they’re angry when we slaughter their food supply.”

“Buffalo,” Ben said.

“That’s right.” Mr. Cartwright turned back to Megan. “I’ve been able to make many friends among the Indians, and along with my watercolors and sketches of the countryside, I’ve done some portraits of the Indians.”

“Do you have those with you, too? Could we see them?” Megan asked.

“I have a few. Whatever I’ve brought with me, I’ll be glad to show you.”

Emma had brought the custard to the table and spooned it into bowls. Megan gulped her portion without tasting it and could hardly wait until the adults had finished eating. A real artist! And he was going to show them the
sketches and paintings he’d made! Wouldn’t she have something grand to tell Mike!

After the dishes had been done, Ben brought in the oil lamps from the bedrooms so that in addition to the glow from the fire there would be as much light as possible in the room. One at a time Mr. Cartwright unrolled the paintings he had pulled from his saddlebags. At the sight of the towering mountains, crashing surf, and churning, foaming rivers, Megan could only gasp in amazement.

“These places are real?”

“I drew what I saw with my own eyes.”

Megan smoothed down the curled edges of the pencil sketch in front of her, admiring the way Mr. Cartwright had drawn long shadows beside the rocks and pines. “I would love to see these places someday.”

“Someday you will,” he said seriously. “It won’t be long before the railroads will cross the West, and people won’t think anything at all of traveling all the way from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.” He nodded importantly. “Why, I even predict that someday, probably when you are grown, Megan, travelers will be able to accomplish this feat within two weeks.”

Emma laughed aloud, and Ben slowly shook his head, a grin appearing on his face. “I think you’re asking us to believe in the impossible, Mr. Cartwright,” he said.

Megan tried to picture in her mind the faraway places in Mr. Cartwright’s drawings. What did it matter how long it would take to get to them? The important part was to see them, and someday she would.

Mr. Cartwright pulled another roll of drawings from his saddlebags and carefully untied the cord. “Here are some of my sketches of Indians,” he said as he laid the drawings on the table.

Megan was even more interested in these than in the
beautiful scenes of mountain country. She smiled at a sketch of an Indian baby peering with bright eyes from the pack on his mother’s back. There was an old man—“a tribal chieftain,” Mr. Cartwright explained—whose face was a mass of deep, squiggly wrinkles. And there was a girl with black eyes who made Megan think of the Indian girl she had seen on the road.

Megan was surprised when Mr. Cartwright suddenly lifted her chin with one finger and studied her face. “I would like to sketch you,” he said. “Would you sit very still by the fireplace where the light can shine on your hair? It will be just a sketch, so it won’t take long.”

Megan nodded, and Emma beamed with pleasure. “See, Megan,” she said. “Mr. Cartwright thinks you are beautiful, too.”

“Yes,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Megan’s a lovely young lady, but I see something more than just beauty. It’s the special look in her eyes I want to capture.”

“What look?” Megan asked, blushing because everyone was studying her.

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “I think I see a little sorrow, a little happiness, and some memories you’ve kept secret from all but yourself.”

Emma’s eyes widened and she nervously smoothed down her apron. “Would you like Megan to change to another dress?” Emma asked. “She has a lovely dark red one. Should I braid her hair?”

“I want to sketch Megan exactly the way she is now.” Mr. Cartwright pulled some pencils from his pack and attached a small sheet of paper to a flat, smooth board. He stationed Megan on a footstool near the hearth and tilted her head a little to the left so that a long strand of her dark hair fell over one shoulder. “Don’t move,” he said and went back to his chair.

With Emma standing behind him murmuring, “Oh, yes! Oh, that’s very like her!” and Ben leaning sideways now and then to sneak glances at the sketch, Mr. Cartwright worked with quick, sure strokes. In about fifteen minutes he said, “If you don’t mind holding the pose a while longer, Megan, we’ll have a sketch for you and one for me.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, trying not to move her head. Mr. Cartwright took the sketch off the board and handed it to an admiring Emma, who cooed and clucked over it. He attached another sheet and set to work again.

When he had finished, he put both sketches on the table and beckoned to Megan. “I’ll give you your choice,” he said.

Megan stared at the sketches, her heart beating faster. She had seen herself in mirrors or reflected in window glass, but now she was looking at a different Megan. The same pointed chin, the same dark, straight hair, but eyes that held their own story. In those eyes she could see some of Da’s mischief, some of Ma’s smile, and her own unshed tears. “That girl is really me,” she whispered in awe.

“Megan seems a little solemn in your drawings, but they’re beautiful!” Emma exclaimed. Megan could feel Emma’s excitement tingle through her own body as Emma wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “What a wonderful honor to have an artist draw your picture!”

Megan was amazed at the sketches. They showed more about her than she wanted people to see, even more than she wanted to see herself. How had Mr. Cartwright known what she was like inside?

“What will you do with the sketch I give you?” Mr. Cartwright asked.

Megan thought for a moment. “I’ll put it away carefully where it can’t be harmed. It will be my treasure.”

“If it’s put away, you can’t see it and enjoy it,” Emma said. “Ben can make a frame for it.”

“Which one do you choose?” Mr. Cartwright asked.

Megan couldn’t decide. She closed her eyes and pointed to one of the sketches. “This one.”

“It’s yours,” Mr. Cartwright said. He signed the bottom of the sheet of paper with a flourish and began to pack his materials and roll up his sketches and paintings.

“What will you do with the other sketch of me?” Megan asked him.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe someday I’ll use it as the basis of a painting. Maybe I’ll frame it as it is and include it in a showing of my sketches on the trail. Maybe I’ll just enjoy looking at it.” He grinned and added, “If I manage to become a famous artist, you might become famous yourself. The sketch may hang in a museum, and the people who look at it will ask, ‘Who is this mystery girl?’ And no one will know until you come forward to tell them.”

“There’s an easier solution to the problem,” Megan said. “Just write my name on the back of the paper.”

Mr. Cartwright looked so startled that Ben laughed. “Megan takes a practical approach to life,” Ben said. He turned to Megan. “Mr. Cartwright has a long way to travel tomorrow, so I think we should let him get his rest tonight,” he said.

Emma made a pallet on the floor near the fireplace for their visitor. Megan went to her own room, carrying her oil lamp in one hand and the sketch Mr. Cartwright had made of her in the other. With her door closed, she laid the sketch on the bed and examined it. She liked the way he had drawn her to be a little like Ma, a little like Da. As for the secrets, only Mr. Cartwright and she had seen them, so they were still her own.

She tightly rolled the sketch again and placed it in the bottom of the chest, where it would be safe until Ben made a frame for it.

In the morning, after a hearty breakfast of boiled eggs and wheat bread with wild plum jam, Mr. Cartwright said his farewells and rode away toward the east. Megan washed the dishes, fed the pups again, and went out to the barn to lend a hand to Ben.

She had just finished forking great loads of clean hay into the stalls when she heard a loud “Halloo” and the rattle and creak of a wagon. She raced to the front of the house, pulling wisps of hay from her tousled hair and trying to brush the dust from her skirt. This time it had to be Mr. Haskill.

It was, but someone was with him. Megan stopped short, suddenly shy as a woman in a dark blue coat stared at her from the seat of the wagon. The woman was tall and thin, with deep-set eyes shaded by the ostrich plumes on her wide-brimmed hat. She was not a young woman and not very pretty; her nose was pinched and narrow, and her heavy eyebrows were darker than her hair. Megan, remembering her manners, tried to smile, but the woman looked away from her, studying the Browders’ house.

Ben came up behind Megan and took the horse’s bridle. “Farley!” he said. “Come in! Come in!” He turned to the woman, unable to conceal his surprise.

Farley jumped from the wagon and hurried to help the woman climb down. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Ada Blackwell—uh, that is, Ada Haskill. Ada, this is Ben Browder and his daughter, Megan.”

“Well, well. I’m pleased as punch for you, Farley,” Ben stammered. “It’s good to meet you, ma’am. Emma will be so happy to have a woman as a close neighbor.”

The woman answered with a nod, then turned toward the front door, which Emma had just flung open.

“Farley!” Emma shouted, then saw the woman. Her mouth opened and she blinked a couple of times before she was able to smile a welcome.

“Farley’s brought home a wife!” Ben called to Emma. “This is Ada. Ada, I’d like you to meet my wife, Emma.”

Emma ran awkwardly toward Ada, her arms spread wide in welcome. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m so happy for Farley!”

Ada accepted Emma’s hug stiffly and with surprise. “How do you do?” she said formally. Her speech sounded a little strange, almost foreign, to Megan.

“You must stay for dinner,” Emma said. “Please—come inside. I know you’re tired from your long ride. Did you come from St. Joseph? Have you seen Farley’s—your—home yet? Have you had a chance to unpack?”

Ben smiled. “Emma, let Ada sit down before you start in asking questions.” As the women walked toward the house, Ben began to unhitch Farley’s horse. “We’ll stable this fellow in the barn with some feed,” he said to Farley, “and you can tell me how you met your wife.”

Megan looked from the women to the men, not sure which way to go. She decided to follow Emma. This was a very interesting turn of events, and she was sure that Emma would be able to find out more of the details than Ben ever would.

By the time Megan arrived inside the house, Mrs. Haskill had taken off her coat and was removing her hat, placing it on a small table near the window. Jet beads on the long hatpins winked and gleamed in the sunlight. Megan touched a finger to the silver-blue plumes. “Your hat is beautiful!” she murmured.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Haskill said. Under her heavy brows she gave Megan a curious look.

“You’re dressed like the ladies in New York City,” Megan said. “Do you come from there?”

“No, I do not,” Mrs. Haskill said. “I am from England. I came to the United States and resided for a short while in Boston with distant cousins.”

Emma came forward with a cup of tea. “Here,” she said. “I’m sure you need this.” As Mrs. Haskill accepted the cup, Emma sat in a chair facing her. “Tell me how you came to meet Farley,” she said. “He’s never been to Boston.”

Mrs. Haskill took a long sip of the tea and gave a little shudder. “This is not
English
tea,” she said.

“Why, no,” Emma answered. “It’s made from dried herbs and leaves. My good friend Nelda made the mixture for me. It has a pleasing flavor, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Haskill didn’t answer. She took another sip of tea and stared into the cup as though she were thinking very hard. Finally she raised her head and looked directly at Emma. “My marriage with Mr. Haskill was arranged,” she said. “We corresponded with each other, and I agreed to travel to St. Joseph to meet him. Our meeting seemed pleasurable to both of us, so we were married two days ago.”

“Oh.” Emma looked embarrassed. “How nice for both of you.”

Mrs. Haskill drained the cup of tea and shrugged. “An impoverished woman, without close kin to care for her, has little choice but to marry. The situation in my cousins’ home had become disagreeable, so I decided to take this opportunity to live in the West.” Her nostrils seemed to become even more pinched as she added, “However, I must say that I expected the western part of this country to be quite different from the way I found it. This Kansas territory is hardly an attractive place in which to live.”

“You don’t see beauty in the prairie?” Megan was so astonished that she interrupted without thinking. “Of course, right now the grass is turning brown, but Emma says that in the spring the hills will be green and there will be wildflowers.”

Mrs. Haskill looked at her sharply, then turned to Emma. “Your daughter doesn’t favor you,” she said. “Your eyes are brown, as are your husband’s, and the girl’s eyes are blue. And her speech. If I didn’t know better, I’d think—”