of the tent assignments obviously considered him an underling. A nobody, even though he
had
been mentioned twice in the excursionist’s daily newsletter. The name tag on the tent could just as easily have said,
Man 1 and Man 2
.
Mr. Rosewood had already arrived and was stretched out on a cot with his hands behind his head. He did not rise when Lewis entered. “Mr. Rosewood, I presume?”
“Sam. Yup, that’s me. You’re Simmons?”
Lewis knew he should have offered his first name, but he didn’t. “Yes.”
Rosewood sat up, setting his feet on the ground. “You’re that fellow making the drawings, aren’t you?”
The artist creating the art
. “That’s right.”
“So you’re my competition.”
Lewis stared him. “Competition?”
Rosewood pointed to a stack of boxes. “I’m a photographer, you’re a sketcher.”
Suddenly Lewis placed Rosewood. He’d seen him taking a photograph of the steamboat before they left St. Joseph.
“You make any money sketching?” Rosewood asked.
Not when I’ve given them all away for free
. “Enough. And you?”
“More than enough. I have a studio in DC. I sell the photos to the subject, on the spot, or I send them back to the studio where I’m setting up a gallery. Plus, I expect an influx of income once the Union Pacific understands how important it is to get all this chronicled. I plan on making a killing on that.”
Lewis set his portfolio behind his cot. “You make that much?”
“I will.”
“But you can’t reproduce your photographs. It’s one and done. I can have my drawings made into engravings that can be printed over and over.”
“What’s worth more, a rare diamond or a river rock?”
It took Lewis a moment. “I beg your pardon?”
“That was rude. Sorry. There’s enough work for both of us. At least for now.”
But was there?
Just when Lewis finally seemed to be finding a market for his art, there was something newer? Better? He glanced at the man’s photography equipment. “Is it . . . difficult?”
“Not if you follow the science of it. Getting people to be still is the hardest part.”
Lewis sat on his cot and heard straw in the mattress. He ran a hand over a brown fur cover. Buffalo? He faced Rosewood, their knees almost touching. “Perhaps if we have time, you might show me how it’s done.” What would it hurt? His father had always stressed the need for a backup plan.
“I don’t need that kind of competitor.”
Maybe Rosewood wouldn’t have a choice. Lewis chose his words carefully. “How about an assistant?”
“Mmm. That’s possible.” Rosewood lay back on his cot, then rose up to his elbows. “I saw that pretty thing you’re traveling with. Is she your girl?”
“That’s the plan. She’s the daughter of General Cain, the man in charge of the crews.”
“Now there’s a match that should make your life easier.”
That was the goal.
He would marry Josephine, gain access to her money, then abandon her and break her heart. Hurting General Cain’s daughter would hurt the general. It would never equal Lewis’s pain, of course, but it would help.
But then there was his art, the thrill of creating something from nothing.
Could he achieve both goals? Or would he have to choose?
“But you cannot run off by yourself, Liebchen,” Frieda said. “There may be people around, but we are still in the wilderness, and it is nearly dark.”
“I am not
running
anywhere. I am simply going to take a stroll. I will be fine. Besides, this is the West. The rules of Washington etiquette do not apply here.”
“Of course they do. Rules follow the people, not the land.”
Josephine hoped this wasn’t true. As they traveled west, she had felt a loosening of the bonds of home, as if with each passing mile thestifling tether that held her captive was being strung taut. Was it close to breaking?
Did she want it to break?
Frieda looked into a hand mirror and tucked away some stray hairs. Since they’d been on this
had
been mentioned twice in the excursionist’s daily newsletter. The name tag on the tent could just as easily have said,
Man 1 and Man 2
.
Mr. Rosewood had already arrived and was stretched out on a cot with his hands behind his head. He did not rise when Lewis entered. “Mr. Rosewood, I presume?”
“Sam. Yup, that’s me. You’re Simmons?”
Lewis knew he should have offered his first name, but he didn’t. “Yes.”
Rosewood sat up, setting his feet on the ground. “You’re that fellow making the drawings, aren’t you?”
The artist creating the art
. “That’s right.”
“So you’re my competition.”
Lewis stared him. “Competition?”
Rosewood pointed to a stack of boxes. “I’m a photographer, you’re a sketcher.”
Suddenly Lewis placed Rosewood. He’d seen him taking a photograph of the steamboat before they left St. Joseph.
“You make any money sketching?” Rosewood asked.
Not when I’ve given them all away for free
. “Enough. And you?”
“More than enough. I have a studio in DC. I sell the photos to the subject, on the spot, or I send them back to the studio where I’m setting up a gallery. Plus, I expect an influx of income once the Union Pacific understands how important it is to get all this chronicled. I plan on making a killing on that.”
Lewis set his portfolio behind his cot. “You make that much?”
“I will.”
“But you can’t reproduce your photographs. It’s one and done. I can have my drawings made into engravings that can be printed over and over.”
“What’s worth more, a rare diamond or a river rock?”
It took Lewis a moment. “I beg your pardon?”
“That was rude. Sorry. There’s enough work for both of us. At least for now.”
But was there?
Just when Lewis finally seemed to be finding a market for his art, there was something newer? Better? He glanced at the man’s photography equipment. “Is it . . . difficult?”
“Not if you follow the science of it. Getting people to be still is the hardest part.”
Lewis sat on his cot and heard straw in the mattress. He ran a hand over a brown fur cover. Buffalo? He faced Rosewood, their knees almost touching. “Perhaps if we have time, you might show me how it’s done.” What would it hurt? His father had always stressed the need for a backup plan.
“I don’t need that kind of competitor.”
Maybe Rosewood wouldn’t have a choice. Lewis chose his words carefully. “How about an assistant?”
“Mmm. That’s possible.” Rosewood lay back on his cot, then rose up to his elbows. “I saw that pretty thing you’re traveling with. Is she your girl?”
“That’s the plan. She’s the daughter of General Cain, the man in charge of the crews.”
“Now there’s a match that should make your life easier.”
That was the goal.
He would marry Josephine, gain access to her money, then abandon her and break her heart. Hurting General Cain’s daughter would hurt the general. It would never equal Lewis’s pain, of course, but it would help.
But then there was his art, the thrill of creating something from nothing.
Could he achieve both goals? Or would he have to choose?
“But you cannot run off by yourself, Liebchen,” Frieda said. “There may be people around, but we are still in the wilderness, and it is nearly dark.”
“I am not
running
anywhere. I am simply going to take a stroll. I will be fine. Besides, this is the West. The rules of Washington etiquette do not apply here.”
“Of course they do. Rules follow the people, not the land.”
Josephine hoped this wasn’t true. As they traveled west, she had felt a loosening of the bonds of home, as if with each passing mile thestifling tether that held her captive was being strung taut. Was it close to breaking?
Did she want it to break?
Frieda looked into a hand mirror and tucked away some stray hairs. Since they’d been on this
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