On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch Read online

  Two hours and many doubts later, the dusty, decaying town of Spiketrout appeared. The town, both quiet and rowdy, always struck him as odd. Spiketrout, like Deadwood (a town four times larger and ten times as raucous), clung to its bygone gold rush days but always seemed on the verge of waking from a drowsy hangover. The population had declined from three thousand at the height of the gold rush to just under eight hundred today. Only one drinking hole remained—the Gold Dust Inn.

  Franklin parked the wagon alongside the barbershop, where he figured he’d get cleaned up before heading to the postal office to check his mail. A trim, shave, and quick kettle bath later (all for thirty-five cents), he crossed the street to see Postmaster Carson. Hot blood seared his cheeks when he thought of how silly his pursuit of a mail-order bride might look to others. He tried to will down his flush before stepping inside the postal office.

  Jim Carson flashed him his typical friendly smile when he entered. “Hi, Frank. How you been?”

  “Things are good, Jim,” Franklin said. “What about you?”

  “Can’t complain. Things back at the homestead going all right?”

  “Spring’s keeping me busy,” Franklin said. “Still got lots of mending work, and the planting’s coming along.”

  “I know what that’s like,” Jim said.

  Franklin, holding his Stetson in front of his pants flap, detected a slight tremor to his hat.

  “You here looking for your mail, I reckon,” Jim said. “I got a bunch for you.”

  Franklin’s heart quickened. He gulped, trying to maintain his composure. Jim dug behind him and slapped a bundle bound with twine onto the countertop. From his frozen position, Franklin noted three pieces of mail, two more than usual. He rarely heard from his folks back in Tennessee. When they did correspond, they usually waited until July, when the hog farm quieted long enough for his mother to compose a lengthy letter. No one else he knew would be writing him.

  “Here you go,” Jim said, sliding the bundle closer to the edge of the counter.

  Squaring his shoulders, Franklin placed his Stetson on his head and snatched the mail. Avoiding eye contact with the postmaster, he stuffed the bundle in the side pocket of his buckskin jacket and thanked Jim for his service.

  “See you in a few weeks, Frank. Good luck.”

  Good luck? What had he meant by that? Postmaster Jim had never bid farewell to Franklin with a “good luck.” Had he?

  Had Jim known all along about Franklin’s silly scheme? The notion that anyone might sent a chill up his back. His folly was embarrassing enough without the entire Dakota Territory finding out.

  Nonetheless, once outside, Franklin could hardly wait to sort the mail to see who had written. He found a secluded bench on the edge of town, across from the Chinese laundry (he made a mental note to bring his clothes for a wet wash next time) and away from pestering eyes. With a quick scan to make sure no one spied him, he withdrew the bundle of mail from his jacket and untied it, sorting it over the bench. One letter was from the Department of the Army. The second was from the company that had sold him his windmill, most likely another bill. Grimacing, he tucked those away in his jacket for later. The last unmarked envelope, heavy and thick, was postmarked from San Francisco. Respondents to his advertisement in Matrimonial News.

  His heart beat so fast he grew dizzy. Why was he anxious to read mere letters? From women he’d never had contact with before? But that was the hot spice in the stew. Inhaling the crisp mountain air, he opened the envelope and gazed at the four letters from inside, numbered so that the publisher knew whom to forward the letters to, unsure which one to open first. One letter had no actual name for the return address other than initials. He decided to save that one for last and secured it under his thigh.

  The first letter he read came from a twenty-three-year-old Cincinnati woman who lived with her parents. Her family owned a butcher shop. They had something in common, Franklin thought. His family ran a hog farm. She had recently graduated from finishing school in Lexington, Kentucky, and hoped to go off for two years in Europe, “perhaps on my honeymoon.” Sounded a little too sophisticated for Franklin’s tastes. Educated, yet her words came across as childlike, unsure, hackneyed. He took an immediate disliking to her. He set that letter aside and opened the next.

  The second letter was from a seventeen-year-old from Rotterdam, New York. She talked about how she disliked working in a ticket booth at the canal, the town in which she lived was too wet, and the house for her family of ten was far too small. Franklin shook his head. Too negative.

  The third letter—written with such a fancy script Franklin had to hold the pages in different positions to comprehend the curly words—bored him to tears before he reached the third of seven pages. From what he could decipher, the twenty-nine-year-old St. Louis native currently resided in Kansas City where she worked for a steamer company. She was elusive about her job duties. Franklin had worked for a steamer along the Mississippi long enough to know for what purpose steamer companies usually employed women. “Another prostitute,” Franklin muttered, and he tore the letter to pieces and let the wind carry them across the street to the Chinese laundry.

  Sighing, he gazed down Main Street to where the spruce-covered gulch sandwiched the town. So far, the letters came from women seeking a means to escape their lowly lives. Franklin did not wish to be a mere island of security for desperate maidens. He began to worry he’d wasted his thirty-five cents to place the advertisement.

  He studied the fourth and final letter, the one with mere initials for a name on the envelope. “Well,” he said to himself, prying open the letter with his thumbnail, “this one couldn’t be any worse than the others.”

  April 26, 1886

  Dear Sir,

  I hope my letter reaches you in good health. I read your advertisement in Matrimonial News, and your words touched me deeply. I like that you are softhearted. That is a good trait for a man. Despite what others may say, kindness in a man is not a sign of weakness but shows his true strength. I have turned nineteen as of two months ago to the day I write this letter, and I am of Swedish extraction, as both my parents are from the Old Country. I have the blond hair that you stated in your advertisement you prefer. My weight is perfectly suited to my height of five feet five. I live in Chicago, where I work at my family’s bakery. Chicago is growing fast; the words to describe Chicago’s growth do not come easily for such a short passage. Since you dislike the bustle of cities, you probably will prefer that I leave Chicago to your imagination.

  Until recently, I never envisioned life in the West, but your advertisement stoked my curiosity. Perhaps a land where grass is more common than dirt and concrete would be something to behold. I sometimes wander to the river near my home, where the prairie grass still grows in a thin yet dense strip along the bank, and I stare for long hours out west. When I was only seven years of age, I used to see the prairie, but now development expands far beyond my eyes, and where I used to play along the river are now factories, buildings, and even a hospital. The city is splendid in its way, and I do find the mushrooming growth thrilling at times. But there are other things to see in this great land of ours, would you agree?

  I have reread your advertisement many times since I first cast eyes upon it. Your words touch me deeper each time I read them, if you allow me to be bold enough to say. I would, indeed, like to become your friend. Perhaps as we get to know one another, I can tell you more about Chicago and my life here and you can tell me more about where you live. I do hope you will receive this letter with gladness in your heart and want to correspond with me. I will keep my letter short and look forward to reading your reply, should you feel I warrant one.

  Yours,

  T.P.

  Chicago, Ill.

  He rested the letter in his lap. A soft breeze tickled his freshly trimmed mustache. The edges of the letter curled and seemed to sing to him. With his thumping heart, he reread the letter. Never had he devoured words so hungrily. Each wor
d wafted off the white paper like the scent of limewater. He held the letter in his trembling hand as if it were fragile lace. After reading the letter for a fifth time, he tri-folded it the way it had come, as if to make sure he altered not a single word, and carefully replaced it in the envelope. Little doubt which of the four letters exuded the most sincerity and thoughtfulness.

  The writer, who identified herself only as T.P., expressed her thoughts without complication. Even her handwriting contained little nonsense. Straightforward and lacking flourishes. Attributes Franklin valued in a woman—in anyone. He had never read anything from a woman who demonstrated such self-assuredness. The other letter-writers had either played coy or came across as self-serving and negative. This woman had addressed each of his points in the advertisement. He liked that. But he wondered why she refrained from giving her name. Perhaps she wanted to keep things anonymous until they had a chance to become better acquainted. A sensible woman, not prone to mawkish romantic notions. Another good trait.

  He hadn’t noticed until a woman passing him along the boardwalk nodded and smiled at him, but a grin stretched his mouth full to near his ears. The more he reflected on T.P.’s letter, the more he hankered to send her a reply.

  Collecting himself, he pocketed the other two letters, which he planned to burn once he returned to the cabin. The letter from the woman calling herself “T.P.” he took extra care to keep unwrinkled and separated from the others. He placed it in his breast pocket, close to his heart.

  But rather than waste time going back and forth between his homestead and town, why not purchase lead pencils, tablets, and envelopes (items he needed anyway) at the mercantile and compose the letter right there in the seat of his wagon? That way, Jim could load the letter on the next stage to Cheyenne City, where the Union Pacific would speed it off to T.P.’s Chicago address at 12416 Chicago Avenue, saving him an extra trip.

  Franklin returned from the mercantile with his purchases and propped himself on the wagon. Lulu nickered, curious what irregularity her master was up to. Placing the tip of the sharpened lead pencil to his tongue, he took extra care to conjure the right words. Something insisted that he be forthright with this woman. Although she had refrained from giving her name (which, on some level, he found appropriate), she had expressed herself plainspoken without haughtiness.

  Watching a fluffy white cloud drifting over the surrounding granite peaks change from a footprint shape to something akin to puckered lips, Franklin sensed that he had stumbled upon someone unique. To correspond with her mandated special consideration.

  Chapter 8

  “WHAT are you doing out there, Torsten?” Tory’s mother poked her head out of the dining room window, which overlooked Chicago Avenue.

  “I’m cooling off a bit, Mamma,” he said from where he sat on the front stoop. “It’s warm inside.”

  Fanning herself with her hand, Mrs. Pilkvist moaned in agreement with her son. “Suddenly we have hot spring, ja? But I will need you soon to help with the furniture polishing. And your pappa will need you in the bakery before supper.”

  “Yes, Mamma. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  Tory rested his chin on his balled hands, his elbows pressing into his thighs. He glanced up and down the street. What was keeping that dastardly postman? He wanted to catch him before he rang the cord. Ten days had passed since he’d sent out his letter to the bachelor in Matrimonial News. He needed to intercept the return letter before his mother or father laid their hands on it and asked him a barrage of questions. He had a hunch today a letter would arrive—if the man had bothered to reply.

  His emotions oscillated between apprehension and hope. Was his loneliness so acute it had forced him to impersonate a woman? He wondered if he would have dared such eccentric action if Joseph van Werckhoven hadn’t come into his life. Joseph had planted a seed deep inside him. The sturdy roots had sprouted into an eternal need for love.

  Thomas Persson from the postal office turned the corner from Clark. Tory leaped to his feet. The postman limped down the sidewalk with his signature gait. From the neighborhood grapevine, Tory had learned the postman suffered from an old Civil War injury. Rumors circulated that enemy canister shots had blasted his left foot to bits.

  “Hello, Mr. Persson.” Tory met the postman a block from his home, too anxious to sit idle by his stoop and wait. “Do you have any mail for us I can take off your hands?”

  “You’re certainly eager to get your mail today, Torsten,” Mr. Persson said with a broad smile. “Expecting something important, are we?”

  “No, sir, I only wanted to lighten your load.”

  “That’s awful kind of you. The new Montgomery Ward catalogs are out, and they sure are a haul.” Mr. Persson dug inside his canvas sack and withdrew a bundle of letters, including the catalog, addressed to the Pilkvists. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Unable to hold back a wide grin, Tory rushed back to the front stoop, where he shuffled through the mail. Only one letter was addressed to him—postmarked from Spiketrout, Dakota Territory. That must be from his Matrimonial News bachelor. Good news that he had responded so speedily.

  Tory lifted the letter to his nose as if to discern more about the bachelor from the scent. He detected the musky fragrance of earth, exactly what he’d expect from a man who lived in the Wild West.

  He left the remaining mail on the foyer sideboard and absconded to his bedroom. He stashed the letter in his desk drawer where it would remain until he completed his chores and supper. He did not want anything to interrupt his enjoyment of the letter. Free from obligations, he’d read in peace, devouring each word without interruption.

  His mother eyed him with wonder while he diligently went about scrubbing and polishing the wood furniture with linseed and ashes from the hearth. Mr. Pilkvist also found his bouncy attitude curious. Tory kneaded dough for the kärleksmums, filled the almond tarts, and stacked wood for the fire as if his shoes were filled with helium.

  At supper, the table conversation grew cumbersome. A whole new group of boarders had arrived during the past two weeks, and Tory had little in common with any of them. After the last morsel was eaten, he skipped dessert in the parlor and rushed upstairs, where, behind his locked door, he slit open the envelope. Before reading the letter, he scanned down to the bottom to read the signature: “Franklin A.” He smiled. A sound, pleasant name. Steadying his breathing, he turned up his Edison lamp and flattened the three pages against the desk. He restarted the letter twice before he calmed enough that the words did not blur into a muddle.

  May 5, 1886

  Dear T.P.,

  I am pleased you responded to my advertisement. You sound like a practical, intelligent young lady. I would love to read more about your life in Chicago. Although I do prefer country life, I am entertained by the diverse regions of this great country God has generously graced us with. Do not hesitate to tell me more about your life in the wonderful city of Chicago.

  I live in the Black Hills region of Dakota Territory. You might know something about it from reading newspapers regarding the Indian Wars. Do not fear. The wars with the Indians have ended (save for a few skirmishes), and peace covers the land. The Indians have been corralled in a reservation north of the Hills, and the ones who mix with the White man are of the civilized kind and respectable. Perhaps my one and only true friend is a Sioux Indian, Lakota to be exact, 100 percent purebred. (Although it’s likely he must have a small amount of French in him based on the history of these parts.) I will reveal more about him later if you are inclined to wish to correspond with me further.

  The Hills have grown much since I first settled on my homestead in 1876. The Gold Rush swept the Hills a few years before I arrived; I am happy to say most of the gold has dried up. I did not come here for easy loot. I came to earn my keep, and hope to find my way living idyllically in the rustic environs nestled among the granite-peaked mountains and the dark blue-green spruce and pine endowing the Black Hills with its name.
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br />   I found my way to Dakota to work in a quartz mine several years after I fought in the Civil War. With money saved after a year of hard labor, I found a parcel of good earth for my own subsistence. I have cultivated the land and built a self-sufficient homestead here. The cabin is small, but I can always build onto it if need be. A good-sized barn and a wondrous windmill that I purchased from a company near Chicago straddle my land. It seems many things come from Chicago these days, as I’m sure you are aware. Perhaps something even more extraordinary might come from Chicago, one day? I fortify my needs on my small homestead by selling eggs from my hens, vegetables from my crops, hams and bacon from the five to seven hogs I raise, and venison jerky that I cure from deer kill. People in the nearby town of Spiketrout are always looking for foodstuffs. I must say that town cries out for a refined lady.

  Civilization is never too far these days, even in the Black Hills. The Union Pacific shall commence train service into the Hills soon, now that the Indian Wars have settled. They say direct service from Chicago should reach us by next spring. In the meantime, travelers to the Hills usually come through Cheyenne City in Wyoming Territory via railroad, where they board the stage for Deadwood.

  Before coming here, I worked at a lumberyard in Kentucky, then had the pleasure of spending a few years in your great state of Illinois. I worked for a steamer in Quincy. But the Panic of ’73 left the steamer in a tight financial state of affairs, and I lost my job after two years. I decided that it wasn’t such a bad station. I had always wanted more pasture for my ruminating soul. A friend of mine was fortunate to find me work in the quartz mines of Dakota. Yes, ten years is a long time to live as a bachelor nestled in the woods, but my time has been fruitful and pleasing to me. I respect your not wishing to reveal your name, but perhaps in one of your subsequent correspondence you can share it with me?