"No. I'll do it."
"Another time for me, then," Serena said.
Fifteen
THE PARTY GATHERED SUNDAY MORNING IN FRONT of the commissary. Galloway suggested they hunt an abandoned homestead at the headwaters of Cook Creek, an apple orchard that had drawn game all winter. Fresh tracks showed plenty of deer yet lingered. Enough to draw any panther that might be around, Galloway had added, and told Pemberton to carry the twenty-dollar gold piece in his front pocket, just in case. Vaughn and Galloway and the hounds rode in the wagon while the other men followed on horseback.
The hunting party crossed Noland Mountain and then Indian Ridge, moving beyond the last timbered land. Buchanan and Harris rode side by side. Pemberton followed. Woods soon surrounded them, newly fallen leaves softening the trail. A few large hardwoods caught Pemberton's eye, but much of what they passed through was white pine and fir, near a creek a stand of river birch. Pemberton noted as much to Buchanan, who only nodded in response, his gaze fixed ahead of him. They began their descent into the gorge. The trail followed a creek, and Harris' eyes scanned the bedding of the exposed rock.
"Think there might be something of value here?" Pemberton asked.
"Up top there was granite, maybe enough for a quarry, but this is more interesting."
Harris tethered his horse to a sycamore and stepped across the creek. He ran his finger across the lighter color streaking an outcrop.
"Copper," Harris said, "though impossible to say how much without some blasting and sediment samples."
"But not coal?" Pemberton asked.
"Wrong side of the Appalachians," Harris said. "The Allegheny plateau, that's where the coal is. You have to go to Pennsylvania to find any on the eastern slopes."
Harris kneeled on the creek bank and used his fingers to sift through sand and silt. He picked out a few small stones, examined each a moment before flicking it into the water.
"Looking for something special?" Pemberton asked.
"No," Harris replied, and stood up, brushing wet sand off his corduroy breeches.
"I talked to Colonial Townsend last night," Pemberton said as the older man remounted. "He's as willing to sell to us as to Albright."
"Good," Harris said. "I know a geologist who's worked for Townsend. I'll have him send me a report."
"We also found nine thousand acres in Jackson County that looks promising, a recent foreclosure."
"Promising for who," Harris said brusquely. "That Glencoe Ridge tract was 'promising' as well, but only for you and your wife."
They rode on. The trail narrowed and they traveled single file behind the wagon, Buchanan first, then Pemberton. Harris trailed, still studying the landscape's geology. Buchanan wore a black split-tailed fox hunting coat ordered from London, and as they passed through the narrowest portion of the trail Pemberton kept his eyes on Buchanan's coat, using its dark cloth to better summon forth a picture of the past.
Buchanan's wedding had been at Saint Marks in downtown Boston. Unlike the Pembertons' civil ceremony, it had been a large and elegant affair, Buchanan and the groomsmen and the bride's father in tuxedos, the reception afterward at the Hotel Touraine. Buchanan and his bride had stood at the head of the receiving line as guests entered the ballroom. Pemberton had shaken his partner's hand and hugged Elizabeth. Pemberton recalled how small her waist had been as they embraced, an hourglass figure a recent photograph in Buchanan's office showed she'd retained.
Pemberton closed his eyes a moment, trying to raise an image of who'd been next in the receiving line. Buchanan's parents were dead, so it had to have been Elizabeth's parents. A dim face surfaced and then receded, nothing more than white hair and spectacles. Of the mother he could remember nothing, nor of Buchanan's siblings. Their lack of any lasting impression boded well, Pemberton realized. He'd always believed himself good at recognizing formidability in others.
"Your siblings, Buchanan," Pemberton said. "A brother and sister?"
Buchanan switched the reins to his right hand and turned.
"Two brothers," he said.
"And their occupations?"
"One teaches history at Dartmouth. The other is studying architecture in Scotland."
"And Mrs. Buchanan's father?" Pemberton asked. "What's his occupation?"
Buchanan did not answer. Instead he looked at Pemberton with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Harris listened as well and entered the conversation.
"Such reticence must mean he's a bootlegger or bawdy house owner, Pemberton. Whichever it is, I'll make every effort to sample his product the next time I'm in Boston."
"I'm sure it's nothing unseemly," Pemberton suggested. "I thought perhaps a banker or lawyer."
"He's a physician," Buchanan said tersely, not bothering to turn around as he spoke.
Pemberton nodded. The coming negotiations would be easier than expected, good news he'd soon enough share with Serena. He'd call Lawyer Covington tonight and have him prepare the necessary documents to make an offer for Buchanan's third interest. His right hand felt the rifle holstered to the saddle. One well-aimed shot. Then it would be just Serena and him.
Soon the trees fell away and the men entered an old pasture. Locust fence posts still stood, draping brown tendrils of barbed wire. Milking traces were faint but visible, indenting the slantland like the wide steps of some Aztec ruin. Though wisps of fog held fast to the coves and valleys, sunlight leaned into the pasture. The air was bracing, more reminiscent of fall than spring.
"A good day for a hunt," Harris said, glancing skyward. "I was afraid it might start raining again, but from the looks of it we'll be able to stay out until evening."
Pemberton agreed, though he knew they wouldn't be gone that long. He would be back with Serena by early afternoon. Do this one thing, he told himself, reciting the words like a mantra, as he'd done since he'd awakened at first light.
They splashed through Cook Creek and soon came to the homestead. No deer grazed the orchards, so Galloway and Vaughn unleashed the dogs and they moved in a swaying wave across the orchard, quickly into the deeper gorge. Vaughn unloaded the wagon and gathered wood for a cooking fire.
"We'll give Harris the upper orchard," Pemberton told Buchanan. "You and I can take the lower."
Pemberton and Buchanan walked to where the orchard ended at a sagging farmhouse, beside it a barn and well. The well bucket dangled from a rotting rope, a rusty dipper beside the well mouth. Pemberton dropped the dipper into the darkness, unsurprised when he heard no splash.