The pasties were gone within fifteen minutes. Mrs. Woolley’s cook had made lobster sandwiches for the swells up front and the people who ricocheted between worlds like Grover, who had a blob of mayonnaise on his resolute chin. He grabbed at Samuel’s slice of pasty, trying to have it both ways while he told them he intended to film everything that moved in the park-wildlife, water features, soldiers, all of them frolicking in Rex’s new fine springs. Two pretty spinster teachers named Audrey and Beryl bounced from seat to seat; Grover threatened to film them, too. “You won’t film me,” said Margaret.
Grover gave her a half smile, as if to say: I hadn’t planned to bother.
Down the valley, ranches and the first mining towns; people talked about whether the mines were played out, the likelihood of dredging bringing in any meaningful profit. Near the front of the car, Rex said a new medium in town was popular with many miners’ families, who begged for séances: one could imagine the miners’ ghosts tap - tapping , looking for a way out.
Dulcy thought of the sound of real hammers, the weird roar of a mine, the idea of dying in the dark. Beryl and Audrey started telling knock-knock jokes. After Emigrant, they passed a quarry and a sawmill. The valley tapered into another canyon, then a steaming hillside with an ungainly lodge that was Rex’s third-best option as a spa investment. This landscape had ridges of red rocks instead of yellow, pure desert: Dulcy looked down on tiny cactus when they slowed for Electric, then lifted her eyes to see a dozen miners waiting for the northbound train with a coffin. They were wide-cheekboned men with thick hair—half of Rusalka’s relatives mined coal down here—all permanently grubby, permanently heartbroken. The coffin was expensive, black and brass.
“There’s your tap - tap ,” said Lewis.
???
In Gardiner, they met their guide: Hubert Fenoways waited on the siding. He held a hand out to Rex, who took it sheepishly, and shook it weakly. “I don’t understand,” said Margaret.
“He had no choice,” said Samuel. “I can’t explain beyond that.”
Dulcy watched Lewis and Durr wake up to the situation. Hubie’s right jaw, pierced by Durr’s cane, was still bandaged, and he didn’t meet many eyes, but he looked sober. He explained the current problem: he’d arrived to learn that Chadfield, their original guide, had left town an hour after Rex had wired money. The horses and harness had been sold, and the only wagons left were broken. The tents remained, but none of the other mechanics of adventure: no cots or lamps, stoves or chamber pots or hatchets. They’d all been sold to Wylie, the main competitor, whose massive storehouse dominated what passed for a skyline in Gardiner.
Rex stood blinking on the siding, and the women broke for the toilet in the log depot. “We’ll go back,” said Samuel. “It’s been a pretty ride down, a lovely day trip.”
“No,” said Rex. “We’ll carry on. I cannot bear the failure.”
“Well,” said Samuel. He was angry with Rex, but didn’t want to see him humiliated. “We need a big Portland coach and a hotel, then. I’ll wire ahead. Mammoth? Canyon?”
“Canyon,” said Rex, trying to recover.
Hubie Fenoways headed off and returned with two smaller coaches and ragtag drivers. They seemed amused: where on earth did Rex think they could go, so early in the year? Canyon wasn’t open yet. The road wasn’t even open yet, and the staff wouldn’t show up for another fortnight. How could Rex have been so misinformed? Had he just moved to their fair state?
W. A. Chadfield had claimed that the roads were in fine shape, said Rex. “Well, he lied,” said one of the drivers. “Though they might be, under all the snow.”
“I’ll hunt him down,” said Hubie.
Maybe he’d be the right employee, after all. They climbed in for the ride to Mammoth, where some rooms were kept open to serve the army base and explorer types. The road climbed steadily, and Dulcy, who helped Durr balance his camera and had a rear view, imagined the runty horses sliding and allowing the overloaded coaches to roll backward over the edge.
When the driver stopped with a bellow—“ Boiling River!”—it took a moment to take in the moonscape, the funnels of hot wind, the dun-colored rock. To the west, a long gravel-covered rise; to the east, a gray ridge and the river. No trees, no grass, no graceful building site: a tiny thread of steaming water emptied into what looked like a mud puddle in the Gardner River proper. A bighorn sheep watched from the ridge, and a buzzard loomed above the facing cliff.
They climbed out. “Darling, what did Cousin Percy tell you about this place?” asked Rex’s mother.
“A golden opportunity. He would talk to people.” Rex burst into tears.
“Should we just go back to town?” asked Samuel.
“No!” Rex yelled.
People retreated to the coaches. Dulcy stayed on her feet, less out of compassion than misogyny. “Well, then, would you like to explore now, or come back tomorrow?” Samuel’s voice was gentle. Rex’s whole face quivered, and she heard his mother, Frances, weeping in the coach.
Grover put on blue-lensed eyeglasses, oblivious. “I’d love to find something to film in Mammoth before the light dies. Something a little more dramatic.”
“All right,” said Rex. He rubbed his eyes. “We’ll wait until tomorrow to study this situation.”
“I’m sure you could perch some sort of log structure down there,” said Grover. “Run a pipe. Perhaps a small, round pool...”
“No!” Rex hissed. “No logs, nothing small. I don’t want to be small.”
At Mammoth, they looked at the pin—neat army buildings with longing. The hotel manager, amused, said he had a few other ignorant, optimistic tourists on his hands, and he’d open up a few rooms and scrounge together some food. The Dewberrys walked away, presumably to suss out just what Cousin Percy had in mind with the spa location beyond a better share of family funds. The rest of them wandered around the steaming terraces in small groups. The hissing sulfur made the air seem even hotter, and Dulcy and Margaret scrabbled down a still-icy path to the river, where they splashed their necks and wrists and flinched at every cracking branch. The pine smelled sweet, and the whole world seemed to buzz. When Margaret left to find out when their rooms would be ready, Dulcy found a covered gazebo near one of the showier terraces. Fumaroles: it looked like Italy, without the ruins and good food. It was mesmerizing, watching fizzing white froth in the heat, but it was not a varied experience, and she began to doze.
The bench shifted as someone settled next to her. She opened a stony eye and edged away while the leg next to her bobbed. Twenty feet away, three men in tweed suits circled a formation with a measuring tape, a long glass rod, and a sketchbook. One was older and tiny, one was round and middle-aged, and the youngest was slight and pale.
The rude knee on the bench next to her made contact with her own, and she jerked around. “Sanborns,” said Lewis. He held a flask. “Insurance men, mapmakers. They’ll be working in Livingston this summer.”
“And this?” She nodded toward the flask.
“I took it from Hubie,” said Lewis. “He promised to stay dry, when Rex allowed himself to be blackmailed.”
“Really blackmailed?” The oldest surveyor slid the rod into the formation. “Do you know what they have on him?”