“The Inter-Ocean Hotel.”
“We can’t go there,” she said. “They’re very strict about the rooms.”
“I’ll walk you home,” Johnson said.
She gave him a funny look, and then smiled. “All right. That would be nice.”
As they walked, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Tired?”
“Some.”
The night was warm, the air pleasant. Johnson felt a wonderful peace descend over him.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said.
“Oh, me, too.”
“I’ll be back, though.”
“When?”
“Late August or so.”
“August,” she repeated softly. “August.”
“I know it’s a long time away—”
“Not so long—”
“But I’ll have more time to spend then. I’ll leave the party and stay with you, how does that sound?”
She relaxed against his shoulder. “That would be nice.” They walked in silence. “You’re nice, William. You’re a nice boy.”
And then she turned, and with complete naturalness kissed him on the mouth, right there in the warm Western darkness of Cheyenne, in a deep way he had never yet experienced. Johnson thought he would die with the pleasure of it all.
“I love you, Lucienne,” he blurted. The words just came out, unbidden, unexpected. But it was the truth; he felt it through his whole body.
She stroked his cheek. “You are a nice boy.”
He did not know how long they stayed like that, facing each other in the dark. They kissed again, and a third time. He was breathless.
“Shall we walk on?” he said finally.
She shook her head. “You go on home now. Back to the hotel.”
“I’d better see you to your door.”
“No,” she said. “You have a train in the morning. You get your sleep.”
He looked around at the street. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Promise?”
She smiled. “Promise.”
He walked a few steps toward his hotel, turned, and looked back.
“Don’t worry about me,” she called, and blew him a kiss.
He blew a kiss back to her and walked on. At the end of the block he looked back once again, but she was gone.
At the hotel, the sleepy night clerk gave him his key. “Good evening, sir?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” Johnson said. “Absolutely wonderful.”
Morning in Cheyenne
Johnson awoke at eight, refreshed and excited. He looked out his window at the flat expanse of Cheyenne, boxy buildings stretching across the plains. By all accounts it was a dreary sight, but Johnson found it beautiful. And the day was lovely, clear and warm, with the fluffy high clouds peculiar to the West.
It was true that he would not see the beautiful Lucienne for many weeks until his return trip, but this fact added a delicious poignancy to his mood, and he was in excellent humor when he went downstairs to the dining room, where the Marsh party had been instructed to meet for breakfast, at nine.
No one was there.
A table had been set for a large group, but the dirty plates were being collected by a waiter.
“Where is everybody?” Johnson asked.
“Who do you mean?”
“Professor Marsh and his students.”
“They’re not here,” the waiter said.
“Where are they?”
“Gone an hour or more.”
The words sank in slowly. “The professor and the students are gone?”
“They went to catch the nine o’clock train.”
“What nine o’clock train?”
The waiter looked at Johnson irritably. “I have a lot to do,” he said, turning away, rattling the plates.
Their bags and expedition equipment had been stored in a large room on the ground floor of the hotel, behind the reception desk. The bellboy unlocked the door: the room was empty except for the crates containing Johnson’s photographic equipment.
“They’re gone!”
“Something of yours missing?” the bellboy said.
“No, not mine. But everyone else is gone.”
“I just came on duty,” the bell captain said apologetically. He was a boy of sixteen. “Perhaps you should ask at the desk.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Johnson,” said the man at the front desk. “Professor Marsh said not to wake you when they departed. He said you were leaving the expedition here in Cheyenne.”
“He said what?”
“That you were leaving the expedition.”
Johnson felt panic. “Why would he say that?”
“I really don’t know, sir.”
“What am I going to do now?” Johnson asked aloud.
The distress must have been apparent in his face and voice. The man at the front desk looked at him sympathetically.
“They’re serving breakfast in the dining room for another half hour,” he suggested.
He had no appetite, but he returned to the dining room and took a small table to one side. The waiter was still clearing dishes from the bare table; Johnson watched, imagining the group of Marsh and the students, imagining their excited voices, talking at once, ready to leave . . . Why had they left him behind? What possible reason could there be?
The bellboy approached him. “Are you with the Marsh expedition?”
“I am.”
“The professor asked if he might join you for breakfast.”
In an instant, Johnson realized that it was all a mistake after all, that the professor had not gone, the hotel staff had merely misunderstood, everything was going to be all right.
With immense relief he said, “Of course he may join me.”
A moment later, a clear, rather high voice said, “Mr. Johnson?”
Johnson faced a man he had never seen before—a wiry, fair-haired man with a mustache and goatee stood next to his table. He was tall, in his middle thirties, and rather formally dressed in stiff collar and frock coat. Although his clothes were expensive and well cut, he nevertheless gave the impression of an energetic indifference, even sloppiness. His eyes were bright and lively. He appeared amused. “May I join you?”
“Who are you?”
“Don’t you know?” the man said, more amused than ever. He extended his hand. “I’m Professor Cope.” Johnson noticed that his grip was firm and confident, and his fingers stained with ink.
Johnson stared, and leapt to his feet. Cope! Cope himself! Right here, in Cheyenne! Cope eased him back into his seat and beckoned to the waiter for coffee. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I’m not the monster you have heard described. That particular monster exists only in the diseased imagination of Mr. Marsh. Yet another of his descriptions of nature is in error. You must have observed that the man is as paranoid and secretive as he is fat, and always imagines the worst in everybody. More coffee?”
Numbly, Johnson nodded; Cope poured more coffee.
“If you haven’t ordered, I recommend the pork hash. I myself eat it daily. It is simple fare, but the cook has a feel for it.”
Johnson mumbled he would have the hash. The waiter departed. Cope smiled at him.
He certainly didn’t look like a monster, Johnson thought. Quick, energetic, even nervous—but no monster. On the contrary, there was a youthful, almost childish enthusiasm about him, yet also an air of determination and competence. He seemed like a man who got things done.