On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch Read online

  Tonight, the holiday kept most of the heavy drinkers away. Tory enjoyed the dim calmness. Disorderly crowds and obnoxious noise were not what he searched for. Light from the setting sun oozed through the stained glass above the bar. A reddish blue hue, mixed with the pipe and cigar smoke, floated around the establishment. A Negro boy in women’s clothing swaggered by him. The bustle on his skirt protruded clownishly. Not even a stage actress would paint herself with so much makeup, Tory imagined. His contemptuous smirk brought a grunt from the faux woman, and he strutted off.

  Some of the patrons held hands and nuzzled while sipping their drinks. Mostly they were renters and buyers. Another couple danced cheek to cheek to the high-pitched music streaming from the player piano. Tory watched, fascinated, as a couple kissed passionately in a dark corner. Even to him, overt displays of romantic affection between men in public seemed shocking.

  A man walked into the bar. From across the dimly lit cabaret, Tory saw that he held his breath when he glanced around. He appeared as out of place as Tory felt, but his Panama skimmer and bamboo walking stick gave him a debonair quality. Clearly an out-of-towner on Chicago business. Men like him filled Chicago during the week, working all day, playing all night, looking for brief companionship. Tory watched as the two renters who had been sitting at the bar, including the Negro with the caricature-like bustle, circled him. They could spot an out-of-towner with money like an alley cat sniffing out fish carcasses. The competing boys grimaced at each other, their eyebrows arched high. The white boy nudged out his shoulder, indicating he was willing to fight. The renter in women’s clothing appeared ready to counter, but then his painted face fell. Slump-shouldered, he trudged back to the bar.

  As if relishing his victory, the white boy grinned and rubbed against the man, flirting like the coquettish females in burlesque shows. Curious, Tory took mental notes of the out-of-towner’s reaction to the renter. Were his initial perceptions of the dark-featured man with rounded spectacles accurate? The man’s gaze remained fixed on the dartboard along the far wall. Suddenly the man turned to the boy. His lips moved. A second later, the boy’s smile transformed into a scowl, and he stomped off to stand next to his companion by the bar. Inwardly, Tory smiled. He had been right. He was a gentleman. But a married gentleman, no doubt. And a nervous one, at that.

  Such men, whether locals or out-of-towners, frequented the cabaret. A few of these older men had offered Tory jobs with their companies as messengers, copy boys, anything to keep him nearby. They sought only playthings. Tory desired to be more than an older man’s trinket.

  The weighty realization that Joseph van Werckhoven would no longer grace his sight crushed him. The bachelorhood that he had solemnly accepted imposed on his destiny. He could not fathom feigning devotion to a wife, like most of the men who frequented the cabaret. Fleeting encounters hardly substituted for a loving and devoted lifemate.

  The cabaret grew darker. An image of Joseph sprawled on the sidewalk shook him, and before he even comprehended the sad metamorphosis that had gripped him, he flung himself off the bench and raced for the door.

  Outside, he breathed. He thought he had left behind the loneliness and desperation inside the cabaret until he noticed the man in the skimmer following him onto the street. He wanted to rush away. Pedestrians descending from the streetcar pushed him back.

  The man laid a gloveless hand on Tory’s arm. “Why did you run?” he said in a gentle voice.

  Tory tensed. He remained still, like a rabbit near a fox. Passersby pushed and shoved.

  The man smiled warmly. “I noticed you in the cabaret. I wanted to speak to you, but you ran out before I could.” He chuckled. “I can understand your leaving. I don’t much like those places either. But sometimes, when… when a man seeks companionship, there’s nowhere else to go.”

  Where had Tory heard his accent before? He spoke like Tory’s brother-in-law from Maryland, who practiced law in the nation’s capital.

  “Would you like to go for a walk?” the man said. “Just to talk?”

  Tory understood what the man wanted. Didn’t Tory want it too? Without answering, Tory moved with the flow of people on the sidewalk. The man walked alongside him, wordless, for many paces. The out-of-towner seemed to know his way around the streets. Perhaps he traveled to Chicago often for business. How might Tory shake him?

  With Joseph, life had evolved into a dream. But this man, like the two boarders Tory had been with, like the others he’d met at the cabaret, had never sought a lasting relationship with other men. He had a wife. Tory knew for sure now by the ring displayed on his finger. His face showed he was about thirty. He most likely had a handful of children.

  They stopped at a traffic signal.

  “My name is Calvin. Calvin McGregor.” He held out his hand. Tory ignored it. “I’m from Ellicott City, Maryland. I’m a salesman for a fabric manufacturer there. We make sails and tents and other things of that sort.”

  Tory kept quiet.

  “Are you from Chicago? You don’t need to answer. I can tell you are. Chicagoans have a unique quality about them. Nothing seems to faze you.” The man chortled. “I do believe I could have horns growing out of my head and you’d still not flinch.”

  Tory could not help but inwardly grin at his comment. He’d often heard the same appraisal of Chicagoans. Changes came so quickly to them that few cared about the many differences that surrounded them. People came from literally every corner of the world and each of the states. None were outsiders because they all were. A city with a tough temperament, he’d heard some proclaim.

  “What is it you do here…?” The man was fishing for his name.

  Warming to him despite his better judgment, Tory muttered, “Torsten,” but he held back providing his family name.

  “Torsten. That’s a good name. Do you attend school in Chicago, Torsten?”

  “No,” Tory said, his mouth firm. “I work for my family.”

  “A family business. A good thing. So much more secure. I have four daughters, so I won’t be able to hope for a son following in my footsteps, will I? I suppose perhaps I could interest one of their future husbands to go into the fabric business with me. Do you think?”

  Tory noted an East Coast habit: phrasing an opinion in the form of a question. Joseph had spoken in that fashion. Emptiness bit into his gut. He should have known better than to venture into the cabaret seeking strangers. Such men only exacerbated his heartache and lonesomeness. An evening out had not soothed the pain the way he had hoped.

  “I’m here in Chicago digging for clients,” the man went on. “Chicago is the fastest-growing city in the country—in the world. So much opportunity is here. My wife isn’t happy I scheduled my trip over Easter. She’s more into fussing over the children and the holidays than I am.”

  They stopped at another intersection. The crowd, thinner than usual due to the holiday, pushed against the crosswalk.

  “I’m staying at a nearby hotel,” the man went on. “I was lucky to get a room. Often when I’m in Chicago I have to find lodging at a boarding house. I suppose it might have something to do with the holiday. Fewer people travel away from home.”

  They waited for the policeman to blow the whistle, indicating they could cross.

  “Would you like to have a drink up in my hotel room to get away from these grimy streets?” Calvin McGregor asked. “My eyes are burning from all this dust and smoke. And the crowd can be overwhelming.”

  On the other side of the street, Tory slowed his pace and glanced at the man. Life seemed odd to him. Odd, and painfully short. Disregarding any other thoughts, he followed the man down a side street and into a hotel lobby.

  “I HOPE I didn’t hurt you.”

  Tory was dressing slowly but purposefully. He and Calvin McGregor had finished what Tory classified as sex: quick and passionless. Empty. The Marylander was obviously inexperienced with men. Tory had had to instruct him. Even after that, he’d pinched and grabbed like a clumsy, unsure oaf.
Yet he had been driven to completion.

  “No, you didn’t hurt me,” Tory said, his eyes on buttoning his shirt.

  “Can we see each other again?” the man said. “Perhaps tomorrow for supper? I leave on the Wednesday train. But I can arrange to come back to Chicago as often as I like. I head the factory’s sales department.”

  “I may not be here,” Tory said. He slipped on his pants, tucked in his shirt, and fastened the button fly.

  Calvin McGregor sat up, alert. He reached for his spectacles from the side table and placed them over his nose. “But where will you be going? You live here, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m thinking I might travel.”

  “Travel? Travel to where? Out east, perhaps? To Maryland?”

  “I suppose I could. I have a sister who lives in Washington, DC.” Tory cared little what he said to the man; he had no connection to him. Ten minutes of heartless physical interlude had not united them in any way. Once he had disengaged himself from the man’s clammy grip, they were no more linked than two strangers waiting for a streetcar.

  “Your sister lives in Washington? What do you know? See, the moment I saw you, I knew we had much in common. Will you be staying with her for a lengthy period? It’ll be perfect if you do. Ellicott City is only a short train ride from the nation’s capital.”

  Tory was sitting on a ladder-back chair, lacing his boots. “Well, I… I was only thinking of visiting for a few weeks.”

  “When will you know for certain?” Calvin McGregor lowered his head, his brow furrowed. Gazing back at Tory, he said, “Do you think you’ll come out for the summer?”

  Tory stood, snapped on his suspenders, slipped on his jacket. “I’m not certain. I still have to think on it.”

  The man gathered the sheet around him and approached Tory. “Can we write? Can we somehow stay in touch? I can give you the address where I work.”

  A welling emptiness choked Tory. If only Joseph van Werckhoven were with him in a South Side hotel room, instead of Calvin McGregor. His experience with Joseph, no matter how short-lived, had spurred him into demanding more than cheap lovemaking with strangers. He dreamed of a husband. Yes, he dared to say it to himself. A husband. No matter how absurd it sounded to his and everyone else’s ears.

  “No,” he snapped. He softened his tone. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We mustn’t write to each other.”

  He fumbled with his cravat, unconcerned if he tied it straight. Turning sharply from Calvin as he came closer, he put on his derby and said, “Good-bye. I wish you the best of luck in your fabric business,” and he trotted out the door. He heard the man shouting for him down the cavernous concrete stairwell, but Tory ignored his call.

  On the street, he ran, glancing back to make sure the man had not dressed and followed after him. The evening crowd had grown, pushing and nudging. Wishing to hide from the world and catch his breath a moment, he found refuge behind a stand selling dime novels, newspapers, and periodicals.

  Wedged between the kiosk and a parked police wagon, he read the headlines from the Chicago Tribune and the Daily News. The country marveled at the overdue near-completion of a massive statue in New York’s harbor; more labor disputes around the country had unions hankering for power; riots in central London had spread into the central part of England; another conference to establish disputed lands with the Plains Indians remained uncertain. None of that interested him. But a periodical grabbed his attention. He had seen one of his aunts reading it a few years before. She had stowed it under her skirt when he’d surprised her. Curious ever since, he took it off the rack and thumbed through it.

  As he read the inside of the front cover, he learned that Matrimonial News, published in San Francisco, arranged matches between “refined ladies” and gentlemen living in the American West. Men and women submitted advertisements, and the magazine’s editors forwarded the responses to the interested parties. Recipients decided whether to meet face-to-face. Tory considered the entire concept absurd. Flipping through the pages, he couldn’t imagine meeting someone he had found in a periodical. What was the world coming to?

  But hadn’t he done something far worse? Hadn’t he met a man in a cabaret and, without even courting him, lain with him naked in his hotel room? A married man with four daughters, no less? Well, at least he had seen him face to face. An advertisement was so… so impersonal.

  Skimming down the advertisements, he snickered despite his scorn.

  Aged 26, height 5 feet 7 inches, blond hair and blue eyes; considered the most attractive of all my brothers; relatives say I am ideally suited to be a husband. The maiden must have substantial money.

  Lively bachelor of 33, 5 feet 5 inches high, weighing 140 pounds, wanting to correspond with a marriageable young lady between ages 17 and 26; am strong in build and character; mostly American with some French and Norwegian. Lady should be temperate, calm, and like to cook.

  A fine lady seeks man to love, be true to, cherish, honor, and obey. Will never grimace. Pretty and small in waist. No man under 5 feet 5 inches, and must be kind and giving.

  Gentlemen, are you searching for an older woman? I am a widow, age 59, but don’t feel or look a day over 40; 120 pounds, 4 feet 10 inches, brown hair and eyes, Irish/German; cute, kindly, good-hearted, many years of love yet to give; would like to meet someone likewise kindly with a generous disposition. Let’s make a good home.

  “Hey, laddy, you that naff statue they’re building out in New York?”

  Tory jerked up and stared into the narrowed eyes of the rotund vendor with the English accent. “Pardon me?” Tory said.

  “That periodical ain’t no Declaration of Independence for you to hold in your yobby hands. Buy it or bugger off.”

  “I’ll buy it.” Tory slapped five cents into the man’s palm and stuffed the magazine under his jacket. Weaving through the crowd, he made his way to the streetcar for home.

  BACK in his bedroom, Tory hungrily perused the periodical. Images of rugged, brawny bachelors living on the wild frontier filled his head. They must be so lonely, he imagined. So lonely and desperate for human affection. Much like him. And the women? Desperate for a husband or an excuse to leave their unhappy families, like Clair Schuster. Some were probably foreign women looking for an easy route to American citizenship. Or bored maidens seeking adventure.

  Muffling his giggles so that his parents would not grow curious, he read more of the advertisements. Hundreds of them. Some short, others lengthy and long-winded enough to make him shake his head at the arrogance and lack of shame.

  He tried to find those advertisements that might contain secret codes. Maybe some of the men sought male companionship. Maybe they had cryptic meanings for those discerning enough. But he’d never heard of such a gimmick. Did people do such things?

  Lonely fellow, long on love and short on stature, seeks someone to keep close to his heart….

  “Someone”? Might that be a hint? Most of the other advertisements were specific. The women sought men; the men sought women. Was this man being purposefully vague? Did “someone” mean a man? It was a long shot the advertisement concealed a coded message.

  He read more of the advertisements, monitoring them for secret meanings. Nothing really jumped out at him. But one in particular touched his heart. Despite the bachelor clearly mentioning he sought a woman, Tory kept coming back to it, rereading the short passage over and over.

  Softhearted, tall, good-looking bachelor, aged 38, looking to correspond with ladies between the ages of 19 and 35. I’m partial to blondes, but you can be of any nationality. Sturdiness and honesty are most important. City life not for me; I like quiet rustic living. Let’s become friends.

  Transfixed by the words, Tory could hardly take his eyes off the fine black print. He had no idea where in the western part of the United States the “softhearted” bachelor lived, but his musings carried him over the vast prairies west of Chicago, past Peoria, over Iowa, to Nebraska, and onward to the frontier,
where wild animals and Indians still roamed, lurking behind mountains and in canyons.

  A gentle implied honesty emanated from the man’s reaching out for human companionship, accentuated with masculine determination. Tory, both aroused and intrigued, yearned to learn more about him. Where did he live? Where had he come from? He reread the earnest advertisement again and again, as if the more he read, the more he might unlock some special meaning concealed behind the words.

  Animated in a way he hadn’t experienced since meeting Joseph van Werckhoven, he sat at his desk by Edison lamp (the latest gadget given to him by his parents for his nineteenth birthday) and withdrew a sheet of paper from the top drawer. Did he dare do what traipsed in his mind? It would be cruel and improper, wouldn’t it?

  Yet unlike most those who frequented the cabaret on 35th Street, the men who had placed advertisements in Matrimonial News were bachelors, uninterested in renters, male or female. Writing to one of those men couldn’t be horribly wrong. Living alone on the wild frontier, the man would appreciate someone taking the time to reach out to him. What if no one else bothered to write? As long as Tory kept his identity hidden, a mutual correspondence between two lonely souls would harm no one.

  He twisted the lead from the fluted end of his pencil and placed the tip on the paper. He figured the best way to compose the letter was to write with little reflection. Let his heart flow and the words would follow.

  With the pencil poised in his hand, he pictured the “tall, good-looking bachelor” with honed muscles living ruggedly on his homestead. Chopping wood, retrieving water from an old-fashioned well, trapping rabbits and possums or whatever frontiersmen trapped.