On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch Read online

  Tory glanced around more openly. There looked to be no place to bed down. He was both excited and troubled. He had fooled the Civil War veteran long enough. Tory would spend one night. After that, bright and early next morning, he’d depart from his life once and for all, before his deception caused either of them any more heartache.

  Chapter 13

  FRANKLIN lay awake in his feather bed. The previous day had been rough. He had gone into town for a haircut, supplies (he’d ordered the dynamite on instinct thinking he might need it someday), and to see if his penmate from Chicago had sent him any new letters. How long had he waited for one of her replies? More than a month? No use hoping any longer. The dream of one day meeting the woman he had talked himself into believing he would marry had been dashed to the ground and grinded into the dirt.

  He had received dozens of other responses to his advertisement in Matrimonial News, but none had touched him like hers. He had fallen in love with her way with words. Even her handwriting. He thought she had written something profound in her letters. The other letters he had thrown away. How had he allowed her to deceive him?

  He’d kept writing her time and time again, hoping she’d reply. By the fourth letter, dejected and confused, he’d stopped. Why he still kept Torsten’s letters in his old leather Army trunk, bound with twine, he didn’t know. He could not force himself to toss them into the fire, although he had no real use for them. Perhaps he could read them later in life, remind himself what a fool she’d taken him for.

  Sighing, he stared at the dark ceiling. She had been nothing but an illusion. She had teased him for her own feminine pleasure. She was no different than the women in the Black Hills. A mere flirt. Perhaps worse.

  And then to come back to his homestead to find that young man stowed in his barn. At least his presence had taken his mind off his sorrows. Right now, the young man was nestled in the corner of the cabin on an old cot Franklin had used at the quartz mine. He sensed he was sound asleep. It was comforting knowing someone was close. Wicasha sometimes bunked at the homestead if he stayed late, especially in the winter months, when the sun descended early over the mountains and it was too dark for him to reach his camp in deep snow. Both appreciated each other’s company, but they also valued their privacy.

  Last night after supper, the young man had said he was from Chicago. It seemed like everyone was from there. Torsten was from Chicago. Franklin had read somewhere that more than one million people called Chicago home, and thousands more were pouring in each month. Not that many people existed in Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming Territories combined.

  Outside he heard the nighttime winds rush off the mountains and rustle the branches of the aspens and pines. A comforting sound. A sound he had dreamed of sharing with Torsten someday. Night birds cackled in the distance. He understood, suddenly, why they were called mockingbirds.

  He turned to his side. How could he have allowed himself to fall for someone whom he had never set eyes on? What a stupid idea to take out an advertisement in a matchmaker periodical. Love was nothing but an echo fading farther and farther from his ears. Self-loathing kneaded its way into Franklin’s soul. He squeezed his eyes shut. Would the pain ever go away?

  FRANKLIN awoke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee. Groggy, he rubbed his belly and wobbled from behind the wooden partition that concealed his bed. Tory, dressed and refreshed-looking, was at the stove cooking breakfast. The sizzle of frying food set his stomach grumbling.

  “Good morning,” Tory said to him with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty to make breakfast. It’s the least I could do after you’ve put up with me.”

  Franklin scratched his head with a grunt. “Well, that’s okay, I guess.” Half asleep after a fitful night, he pulled on his boots and scuffled to the outhouse. After a short detour to the well to wash, he found breakfast waiting for him at the table. Tory grinned at him while he poured them each a cup of steaming coffee. The potatoes, scrambled eggs, and bacon looked and smelled tasty, he had to admit. He took a seat and sipped the black coffee, relishing the bitter hot liquid oozing down his throat.

  “Good coffee,” he said. “How’d you get it so smooth?”

  “I put an egg in it. Learned it from my parents. It’s Swedish.”

  Franklin shrugged. “Whatever works.” He took a few bites of the hot breakfast. “So, you sleep all right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Tory said. “The cot was very comfortable.”

  Franklin chuckled. “You’re a flannel-mouthed liar. But thanks for not complaining.”

  “How can I complain after everything you’ve done for me?” Tory said. “I’m an intruder into your home, and you took me in like a gentleman. I’m in debt to you.”

  “I don’t like anyone in debt to me.”

  “That’s really just a figure of speech. But I am grateful.”

  “You never mentioned what brought you to Dakota,” Franklin said. “You said last night you’re not looking for any gold claims.” The young man had remained oddly quiet last night, refusing to share much about himself. Franklin, uncomfortable eating meals with a stranger, wanted more information.

  Tory shrugged. “I ached to see the West, I guess. I’ve read a lot about it.”

  “Is it what you expected?”

  The young man seemed to avert his eyes. “Better, actually.”

  Several more silent bites later, Franklin said, “You sure don’t ask a lot of questions. Not the curious type, huh? I guess I respect that. But I bet you’re aching to learn what happened to my arm.” Franklin lifted his right stump, covered loosely with the sleeve of his union suit. “Everyone does. Don’t feel bad about wanting to know.”

  Tory flushed. “It’s really none of my business.”

  “But you thought it was your business to hop in my wagon for a ride out to my homestead?” Franklin regretted his sarcasm when he took note of Tory’s falling face. He chuckled to lighten the mood. “I lost it in the Civil War. Got it shot off. Actually, got my arm shot to pieces, had to have it cut off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tory said, his face puckering. “I hope it didn’t hurt much.”

  Franklin wanted to tell Tory all the chloroform in the world wouldn’t have salved his misery while doctors sawed into his arm. The amputation, and the phantom limb pains that had haunted him for months after, had hurt worse than the gunshot blast. Yet he held back, figuring to spare Tory the gory details. He thought it funny. He had never considered sparing another man’s feelings before.

  “I lived,” he said.

  “You must be glad the war is over,” Tory said as he spooned eggs into his mouth. “I was born two years after everything ended. I learned a lot about it from history books.”

  “Those books can’t tell you what it was actually like.”

  Tory lowered his eyes. “I’m sure they can’t.”

  “I fought alongside many a brave boy from your home state,” Franklin said, pursing his lips as he recalled the camaraderie between his infantry unit and the many Illinois regiments. Their units had teased each other for their strange manner of speaking, but they had fought shoulder to shoulder valiantly. He’d never forgotten the unity they’d forged—or those who’d never returned home.

  “Our postman is a Civil War veteran,” Tory said. “But I’m unsure which regiment he fought with.”

  They ate in silence. Franklin savored the hearty breakfast. But the young man’s reserve still bothered him. “You’d think you knew me better than myself,” he said under his breath, keeping his attention on his eggs and bacon.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t you want to at least know where I’m from?”

  “Oh, yes. Umm… I was about to ask you.”

  “Grew up in eastern Tennessee. Knox County. On a hog farm. Taught me a lot about keeping livestock that enables me to sustain myself out here alone.”

  Tory glanced across the table. “Do you like living alone, Franklin?”
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  Franklin peered at the young man askance, unsure what to expect from him. He’d been so reserved that it seemed odd he would ask such an intimate question out of the blue. A curious fellow, he thought. Something about him was a bit different than most. An extra sparkle flickered in his eyes. Franklin turned away, afraid he might flush after realizing he had never seen such crystal-blue eyes.

  He cleared his throat, lubricated with the grease from the tasty breakfast. “I like it fine,” he said. “I get lonesome, of course. But who wouldn’t?”

  “You have a wonderful homestead. Anyone would be lucky to live here.”

  “Yeah, well….”

  Strident shouting from somewhere outside forced Franklin to his feet. A wave of coffee splashed from his cup onto the table. Wicasha was shouting at someone near the creek. Franklin dashed outside.

  By the time Franklin reached the creek, Wicasha was dragging a man away from the bank and onto the grass.

  “Let me be!” The old-timer was struggling like a buck trapped in barbwire. “Let me be, you goddamn redskin. I’ll have a posse out hunting for you if you don’t let me be. We’ll scalp you good.”

  “What’s the fuss about now?” Franklin gazed at the squirming old man, scrawny with a silver beard snaking around his midsection.

  “I caught him trying to pan your creek pool,” Wicasha said. “It’s that old penniless drunk we sometimes see in Spiketrout.”

  Franklin approached the old man and peered down at him. “What right do you have coming around here panning for gold on my property, Johnson?”

  The old man, breathing heavy, peered at Franklin. “What difference is it to you, Ausmus? Everybody knows you don’t pan for gold. I was taking what Mother Nature put on this here earth for man to get at. You’re wasting it here. You’re an abomination, Ausmus.”

  “I ought to kick you in your shriveled bones, old geezer.” From the corner of his eye, Franklin noticed Tory standing off to the side. For some reason, Franklin tempered his tone. “Let him stand, Wicasha,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I scouted him from clear over by the field as I was coming around the hillock,” Wicasha explained. “He was already panning by the time I reached the creek.” Wicasha held the man upright under his bony arms. He tried to stir loose, but Wicasha remained as solid as a granite spire.

  “You’re wasting good gold,” the old man cried. Falling limp, he abandoned his struggle. He tumbled from Wicasha’s weakened hold like a rotting scarecrow. “People are hungry and needing money.” He sobbed. “You’re sitting on tons of gold we could all use. It ain’t fair. It ain’t.”

  “It’s my business what I got on my land and what I do with it.” Franklin wiped spittle from his mustache and added, “I’m sick of telling you people. Now you got about thirty seconds to get off my property and stay off for good.”

  “He looks hungry,” Tory said, stepping in closer. “Maybe he would want some breakfast before he leaves.”

  Franklin jerked around at Tory, surprised to hear his calm voice among the ruckus. “Don’t feel sorry for him.” He turned back to sneer at the old man. “He takes what money he gets and gambles and drinks it away. We’re not responsible for that. I ain’t the welfare board.”

  “I could use something for my growling stomach, now that you mention it,” the old man said, his eyes wide like a deer’s.

  “Little leftovers won’t harm anyone, would it?” Tory said.

  Franklin rolled his eyes. “All right. Go grab him some of that breakfast you cooked. Give it to him in a sack to take with him.” With Tory gone, Franklin hardened his voice. “Don’t think us feeding you gives you the right to keep coming around here like a begging dog, old-timer.”

  “You’re a cruel man, Ausmus,” Johnson said.

  “From my point of view, Johnson, a cruel man is one who trespasses and takes what don’t belong to him.”

  A minute later, Tory returned with a small flour sack, a greasy stain forming at the bottom. “Here,” he said, handing the old man the sack. “I put a spoon in it for you.”

  “I’m obliged to you, son.” The wizened man snatched the sack from Tory and scurried to his feet. He seemed confused, uncertain what his next step should be.

  Franklin leaned toward him. “Listen here, old man,” he said. “If I had my way, I’d shoot you for trespassing. Best be grateful you got something to take back to Spiketrout. Now get along, before I change my mind.”

  Before the old-timer could run off, a rifle blast turned everyone on their heels. Dust kicked up near Johnson’s feet, and soon they heard the steady gait of a horse. Bilodeaux, mounted high on his gray charger, trotted over to them, his rifle smoking.

  “You better do what Ausmus tells you,” Bilodeaux said to Johnson. “Next time, I will not deliberately miss. I will shoot you between the eyes.”

  Johnson gaped from one man to the other, the breakfast sack trembling in his hand. Finally, he rushed off down the trail faster than Franklin would have guessed the weathered old man could run.

  “I got the feeling you weren’t looking out for my best interest, Bilodeaux,” Franklin said with a grimace.

  “The old-timer might be a deadbeat and a sponge,” Bilodeaux said, “but he is right about you looking down at Mother Nature. That gold in your creek is to be had by man. One of these days, Ausmus, one way or the other, I intend to get that gold.”

  “Head out of here, Bilodeaux, or I’ll shoot you between the eyes.”

  “You got the whole town against you more and more, Ausmus. Spiketrout is dying, and you are sitting on about one hundred thousand greenbacks’ worth.”

  “I mean what I say, Bilodeaux. Off my land.”

  Henri Bilodeaux grinned down at the trio. He circled the men, the stallion’s slender legs high and showy. “Best look after your boy, Ausmus,” he said, ogling Tory. “You do not want anything bad to come of him. Au revoir, mes copains.”

  Sweeping from his face the dust stirred by Bilodeaux’s stallion, Franklin growled. His anger and frustration welled up inside him, and he had ample reason to unleash it: Bilodeaux, the old geezer, Tory, not to mention that coquette Torsten back in Chicago. He’d had enough of them all. People were nothing but pests. There was a good reason he’d sought the secluded backcountry for a homestead.

  “Got too many damn trespassers on my property,” he fumed. “Don’t like it. Don’t like it one bit.” Snarling, he stomped off toward the cabin.

  Chapter 14

  THAT Bilodeaux character was something else, Tory mulled. What had he meant by saying he hoped nothing bad came of him? Had that been some kind of roundabout threat?

  Tory had taken a disliking to him even before setting eyes upon his detestable grin. Franklin’s letters had described enough of his nefarious nature to make Tory loathe him. He detested men like Bilodeaux. Always wanting something that others had but rarely working to achieve it on their own. Tory wished he knew a way to help Franklin rid himself of Bilodeaux for good. But how?

  Tory felt bad that he had added to Franklin’s woes. Not only had he intruded on his property like so many others, he had misled him with love letters. Realizing the best means to ease Franklin’s troubles was to leave Moonlight Gulch as promised, he followed after him inside the cabin.

  He heard Franklin moving behind the wooden partition where he kept his bed.

  “Mr. Ausmus?” He peered around the partition. Franklin was sitting on his bed, his shoulder-length hair concealing his face. He held several papers limply in his hand.

  Franklin jerked up. Without turning to look at Tory, he stuffed the papers inside his trunk and shut the lid with a thump. “What do you want?” he said under his breath, keeping his eyes averted.

  Tory guessed what Franklin had been reading by the somber tone to his voice. The letters “Torsten P.” had written—letters he had written. If only Tory could let him know the “fine lady” still cared. But if Franklin ever learned the truth about him, it would only compound his misery.
Tory realized he had no means to undo the damage he’d caused.

  “I’ve got my bag all packed,” Tory said in a hushed voice. “I’m ready to go whenever you are. Or if you prefer, I can hike out as I suggested last night at supper. I don’t want to burden you any further.”

  “You can’t hike out of here, not in your getup. Where’s Wicasha?”

  “He said he was going to the barn to brush the horses.”

  “He can ride you out. Use the wagon. I got things to do here. Don’t want to leave the place after what happened with Johnson, anyway.”

  Hanging his head low, Tory said, “I understand. I’ll go ask Wicasha.”

  Tory glanced back at the cabin as he trudged to the barn. The column of smoke from the chimney made the cabin seem forlorn rather than inviting, as it had when he’d first popped his eyes above the side of the wagon yesterday.

  “He’s got a meaner bark than a bite,” Wicasha said when Tory stepped inside the barn. “Don’t feel badly about it.”

  “Would it be possible for you to give me a ride into Spiketrout?” Tory asked, unconcerned if he sounded blue. “Franklin said you can use the wagon.”

  Wicasha poised the curry brush over the gelding’s mane and studied Tory a moment. With a chuckle, he continued brushing. “Sure, I’ll give you a lift,” he said.

  “I’ll give him a ride.” Tory and Wicasha turned to Franklin standing in the doorway. “As long as you stick around here, Wicasha, and keep an eye on things. I decided I got some business in Spiketrout.”

  Tory’s heart leaped. He relished the idea of spending added time with Franklin.

  TORY had little to talk about with Franklin during the drive into Spiketrout. He already knew a great deal about Franklin, from his boyhood in eastern Tennessee to his stint in the Civil War. He had reread the letters detailing Franklin’s world so many times he was certain he could recite them word for word, much like his favorite Walt Whitman poems. Some aspects of his life he wouldn’t mind hearing firsthand, like how he’d first chanced upon his homestead and came to name it Moonlight Gulch.