On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

by Shelter Somerset

  He looked exactly how Tory had pictured him. Dark-brown, wavy hair that matched the color of his horseshoe mustache fell from under a cowboy hat to his broad shoulders. Tight buckskin revealed a man accustomed to heavy labor. Qualms Tory had had earlier seemed to vanish. Franklin hadn’t existed as a dream or a dime novel character. He was real. Flesh and blood.

  “What do you want with Frank?” the proprietress asked.

  “I know him in passing,” Tory said, still gazing across the street. “I doubt he’d remember me.”

  “So you want a room, honey?” she asked after a pause.

  “I’ll check in later. Thank you for all your hospitality.” Tory needed to get a closer look at Franklin before he left for his homestead. Clutching his satchel, he crossed the street without a backward glance at the painted woman and retreated behind a parked wagon, where he could watch Franklin undetected.

  Franklin shook hands with one of the men and stepped inside a nearby mercantile. The weight of the surrounding gulch pressed on Tory’s shoulders while he waited for Franklin to reemerge. A handful of minutes later, he came out carrying a crate marked “explosives.” Tory marveled how he balanced the box with his one arm and stump. He carefully slid the crate into the back of a wagon, then crossed the street to the postal office. In short time, Franklin stepped back onto the boardwalk. Tory stooped lower and peered around the wagon to study his face. He looked dejected, sad. Next, Franklin walked back to the same wagon, tossed what looked like a Montgomery Ward catalog onto the bench, and headed straight for the Gold Dust Inn across the street. Tory followed him.

  When Tory got to the inn, he stood by the door and gazed around. The inn, half-full of gamblers and carousers, reeked of tobacco smoke and alcohol. One of his favorite tunes rolled out of the player piano, “Oh, Dem Old Golden Slippers.” A yellow cat brushed against his legs, stretched, then darted for the stairs. Looking up, Tory saw Franklin’s reflection in the mirror above the bar. Tory had never seen anyone look so gloomy and angry at the same time. The bartender slid Franklin a mug of frothy beer.

  What had made Franklin so angry in such quick fashion? He’d gone into the postal office a happy man and emerged desolate-looking. Suddenly, the answer grabbed Tory around his throat. Franklin had gone into the postal office to see if “Torsten P.” from Chicago had sent him any letters. The poor man must still be hoping she’d written. What else could it be? He must be heartbroken thinking that she’d rejected him. What a mess Tory had made of things. Maybe he should have sent him a written explanation from the train.

  He had never considered the impact his letters might have on Franklin when he’d first decided to write him. He had allowed his own selfish motives to blur reason. His self-interest had buoyed a lonely man’s hopes for companionship and ground them into dust.

  The painted proprietress stepped up beside him. “Well, why don’t you go and talk with your long-lost friend, honey? He sure does look like he could use one.”

  “I can’t, not yet.” Cheeks burning, he dashed out the door and across the street, where he cursed himself for having misled Franklin all those months. Yet Tory’s shame propelled him to long for Franklin all the more. He couldn’t leave him. Not after such a long journey. Not now, when the veteran shouldered so much sorrow. He had to console him, without fretting about why.

  With no eyes upon him, he climbed into the back of Franklin’s wagon, careful to avoid the crate of dynamite, and hid under several burlap sacks. He rested his head on his satchel and waited for Franklin to come. It was the first time in a full day that he’d been able to lay supine, and the heat under the sacks tired him. As rhythms from the street faded into a monotonous hum, his dreams carried him adrift above the surrounding gulch.

  Chapter 12

  HE AWOKE to jostling and rocking. Rubbing his eyes, he realized the wagon was moving. Stealthily, he peeked out from under the burlap. Franklin was conveying him along a narrow trail surrounded by towering blue-green pines and spruce. A deep gulch veiled the trail in a dark shadow. He checked his pocket watch. He had slept a good hour.

  From his concealment, he watched the gulch deepen. A sharp bend in the trail revealed a waterfall as tall as he was, gurgling with cooling froth. He resisted the urge to sit up to take in more of the scenery. He spied ravens clustered in the pines and aspens. The trail followed along the creek for another half hour all the way into a clearing. Soon after, the wagon turned sharply and stopped.

  Tory ducked back under the sacks. He heard Franklin descend from the wagon and walk to the back. The horse nickered. Next, he heard Franklin pull the crate of explosives from the wagon. A low grunt followed by fading footsteps assured Tory Franklin had left. He waited a few minutes for the silence to seep in before folding back the burlap. Cool air refreshed him. The temperature was a good ten degrees cooler at Franklin’s homestead than in Spiketrout.

  Watchful, he raised his head to eye level above the side. The small homestead stole his breath. This was the paradise Franklin had described with so much passion in his letters. Difficult to believe he was seeing it with his own eyes—Moonlight Gulch.

  Green mountains topped with granite fists soared on all sides. A sheer granite rock face towered from the creek to the horizon. Another smaller one extended along a small field of crops. What looked like string beans, potatoes, and leafy greens grew from the rich soil. Yellow alfalfa swayed in the breeze around the edge of the field. Tory noted that Franklin had worked the land with plow trails and irrigation ditches. Franklin’s small barn rose near a henhouse and pigpen. Built into a hillside, a storage barn was barely noticeable. A windmill, the one Franklin had purchased from Chicago, worked steadily by a well. And anchored in the middle of it all was Franklin’s small cabin, a column of smoke rising from the chimney.

  Franklin stepped out of the barn. Tory hunkered down, his heart racing. He heard the clinking of leather and iron. Franklin was unhitching the horse. The sound of the horse’s hooves abated as Franklin led it to the barn. Carefully, Tory raised his eyes above the side just enough to watch Franklin exit the barn, his shoulders still slumped, and slog inside the cabin.

  With Franklin out of sight, Tory clutched his bag and climbed out of the wagon. He stole away behind the barn should Franklin unexpectedly emerge from the cabin and detect him. The smell of roasted venison set his stomach growling. He wondered if he could reach the storage barn. Potatoes, greens, or cured meats might be stored there. But the dash across the stump-covered grassy field would be too risky. He dodged inside the barn instead.

  A dairy cow, a mule, and two horses greeted him. He gestured for them to keep quiet. They stirred a bit but eventually settled into their own world. For a moment, Tory inhaled the rich smell of livestock, enjoying his first genuine moment of privacy since he’d left his home on Chicago Avenue three days ago.

  He edged about the barn, searching for food. An odd pile of barbwire lay in a corner. The crate of dynamite sat beside it. Then he remembered the one remaining chocolate bar he’d purchased in Deadwood from the druggist with the gruesome Indian head. He nearly ate it in one bite, the melting chocolate gooey and scrumptious.

  In the barn’s loft, strips of meat cured on wooden poles. Tory’s mouth instantly watered. Still hungry, he dropped his bag, climbed the ladder, and pulled down one strip. Within seconds, he devoured it. Another strip went equally as quickly.

  A sting of drowsiness weakened his legs. Too tired to worry about anything but lying down, he sprawled over a bed of hay and again floated off to sleep.

  HE STIRRED, grumpy, swatting at his father’s nudging. He wished he would leave him be. Just ten more minutes, he wanted to yell. But he wondered: How could his father be pestering him? He was not home in Chicago. His father was a thousand miles away. His eyes flashed open. A large Indian crouched over him, staring straight into his eyes. Tory shot upright. He shook his head, trying to rouse his senses. Like those in Deadwood, he wore Western clothes, but his burgundy skin, broad nose, and coal-black
hair could only belong to an Indian.

  Tory scurried backward against the wall. “Don’t… don’t you touch me,” he said, wanting to inflict warning into his wavering voice.

  The Indian held the wrapper from Tory’s chocolate bar. He glanced at it with a wrinkled forehead then gazed back at Tory. “What’re you doing in here?”

  Tory imagined the most horrific scenario, like those he’d read in Wild West dime novels. Was the Indian going to scalp him? “Stay away from me,” Tory said, kicking straw at him. “Stay away.”

  The Indian chucked the candy wrapper over his shoulder. “You’re a chikala wasichu.”

  “W-what?”

  “Tiny white man.”

  “I’m… I’m not tiny. I’m five feet five.”

  “You look like a chikala wasichu to me.”

  His near-perfect English bewildered Tory. “Leave me be, please.”

  The Indian narrowed his dark eyes, as black as onyx, and seemed to study him. He scanned Tory from his derby to the tips of his gaiters. “You have stylish clothes and wear fancy boots. You’re not from here. You live in the big city.”

  “You don’t know anything about me. Now, please, leave me alone.”

  “Why does a wealthy-looking city boy want to steal from a small homesteader?”

  “I’m not wealthy, and I’m not stealing from anyone.”

  The Indian leaned in closer. His raw breath made Tory wince. “You have the whitest skin on a man I’ve seen in a long time. All the white people here are darkened by the sun, except the whores. You must come from a big city—unless you’re a whore.”

  Tory grimaced. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

  Then a gruesome thought forced Tory to his haunches. Had the Indian done something horrible to Franklin? Why else would he be on his land? Unsure what else to do, he kicked and flailed his arms, terrified of what bloodcurdling fate had befallen the man he’d grown to love. But the Indian, with one hand, held him supine against the hay.

  “You’re a feisty one,” he said evenly. “That’s a lot of fight for one so small.”

  “I told you,” Tory said between swings and kicks, “I’m not small. I’ll fight you. I’ll fight your entire tribe.”

  The Indian eased his pressure on Tory’s midsection and laughed. “My tribe is long gone from these parts, chikala wasichu. But you’re welcome to take them on.”

  Noticing a change in the Indian’s demeanor, Tory stopped squirming and followed the Indian’s dark eyes as he turned to gaze over his broad shoulder. Franklin Ausmus had climbed the ladder and was peeking into the loft at them.

  “What in tarnation is going on here?”

  “I found him sleeping,” the Indian said. “Won’t say much, Frank. Not sure what to make of him.”

  Hearing the Indian address Franklin by name, Tory sat up on his elbows. He’d forgotten about Franklin’s good friend Wicasha, the Lakota Indian he often wrote about in his many correspondences. Relaxing at the realization, he no longer resisted Wicasha’s grip.

  “He’s just a boy,” Wicasha said, “but he’s got a lot of fight in him.”

  “I’m… I’m not a boy,” Tory said, softer. “I’m nineteen.”

  “Is he trying to steal from me?” Franklin asked Wicasha.

  The Lakota glanced around. “Looks like he got into your jerky. He was probably hungry. Ate some chocolate too. He’s got his luggage down there.” He nodded toward the ground.

  Franklin grimaced at Tory’s satchel, then shifted his scrutinizing gaze at Tory. He screwed up his tanned face into sharp rivulets and stepped fully onto the loft. His hand went to his sidearm. “You a hired man of Bilodeaux?”

  “Bilo—? No, no, never.” Tory couldn’t reveal what he knew from Franklin’s letters. Although hearing Bilodeaux’s name twisted his stomach, he had to play clueless. “I don’t even know who that is,” he said.

  “You come here to spy?” Franklin’s fingers twitched.

  Sweat broke out over Tory’s forehead. Despite the tense moment, Tory became mesmerized by Franklin’s jade-colored eyes. Franklin had never mentioned his eye color in any of his letters, and Tory hadn’t expected a pair so bright. “No, sir.” He swallowed. “I have no intentions of doing anything of the sort.”

  “Then what business have you in my barn?”

  “I… I… well, I was needing for a place to rest.”

  “On your way through the woods in your fancy boots and hat?” Franklin scrutinized him with contempt. “You just happen to be taking a stroll in the middle of the Black Hills, with your satchel in hand, and assumed my barn was an inn? You think we’re fools?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  Franklin lifted an eyebrow. “You one of those bankers from Spearfish or Deadwood come here on behalf of Bilodeaux?”

  “I told you, I… I have no idea who this Bilodeaux is. I’ve never met a man with that name.” He tried to maintain some truthfulness.

  The Indian stood, towering over Tory, still sprawled on his back. Seeing how Franklin interacted so comfortably with the Indian, Tory suppressed the instinct to scurry from him. Surely if Franklin liked him, he must be a good man. But then, did Tory really even know Franklin? What kind of a man was he? Tory eyed the revolver inches from Franklin’s hand.

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” Tory said.

  Franklin shook his head. “I’m gonna have to barbwire the whole damn property, like I worried.”

  “You won’t need barbwire because of me,” Tory said. “I hadn’t meant any harm. I was just tired… and hungry.”

  “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing here,” Franklin said. “How did you come to be in my loft?”

  Tory wracked his brain for a good story. He supposed he could reveal some of the truth. “I’m new in town,” he said. “I only arrived this afternoon. I came all the way from… from the east. I was tired and wanted a place to lie down, so I climbed into your wagon and used the burlap sacks for blankets. When I awoke, I found myself on your homestead. I was hungry but didn’t want to bother you, so I wandered into your barn to search for something to eat. It’s the truth, honest. I planned on hiking back. I swear.”

  Franklin and Wicasha peered at each other. Then they studied Tory. Suspicious ripples curled along Franklin’s forehead.

  “He looks harmless to me, Frank. What do you say?”

  Franklin waited a moment before responding to Wicasha. “I reckon he’s telling the truth. Don’t look like he can do much harm.” Franklin reached out his hand to Tory. “Come on. Get yourself up from there. Might as well get something decent to eat other than jerky and candy.”

  TORY ate the hot venison stew as if he hadn’t partaken food in days. The Indian had left for his home somewhere deep in the hills, leaving the two of them alone. Franklin, seated opposite him, stared at him with the same curious wrinkles on his forehead, his eyebrows knitted.

  “I didn’t get your name?” Franklin asked after a prolonged silence.

  “Tor—” Tory’s words skidded on his tongue and slammed into the back of his teeth. He couldn’t give Franklin his real name. He had almost forgotten. He needed to practice more caution.

  “Your name’s Tor?” Franklin eyed him sideways through the steam rising from his plate.

  “Yes, actually, it’s Tory.”

  “Interesting name. I guess no stranger than mine. I’m named after Benjamin Franklin.”

  “I know.” Tory nearly dropped his spoon. Franklin had mentioned his namesake in one of his letters. He must be vigilant not to divulge anything that he might know from them.

  “How do you know who I’m named after?” Franklin again eyed him harshly. “I hadn’t even told you my name yet.”

  Tory thought fast. “I heard the Indian call you Frank. I figured it must be short for Franklin. And who else would you be named after but Benjamin Franklin?”

  Franklin seemed to soften as this possibility registered with him, and he went back to his eating.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble,” Tory said after several more silent spoonfuls of stew.

  “You didn’t cause much trouble. Just not common to get visitors around here unless they’re after something.”

  “I’m not after anything. I don’t want your possessions or anything like that.”

  “Best not.”

  Tory let his gaze rove around the cabin. It was smaller than he’d imagined. Only the barest necessities furnished the place, but they were all comfy-looking. The few possessions Franklin had seemed for functional purposes: cooking, hunting, fishing, trapping. Tory set his eyes back on Franklin. “I can leave after supper and be out of your way, if you like,” he said.

  “Leave how?” Franklin grunted. “You stowed away in my wagon.”

  “I can hike back to Spiketrout.”

  “It’s over a two-hour hike even in the best cowhide boots. You wouldn’t last a half hour in those fancy paper-thin city boots of yours.” Franklin nodded out the window. “You’d be lucky to make it out of that gulch without blisters eating your feet like a swarm of mosquitoes.”

  Tory stared out the window to where the ponderosa abutted the creek. Somewhere beyond lay even wilder country than Moonlight Gulch. He cringed at the image Franklin had described. The thought of getting lost in the Black Hills terrified him. He thought about the two missing prospectors the horsemen along the Cheyenne-Deadwood trail had searched for and the severed Indian head in Deadwood. He had never considered how he’d make it back to Spiketrout when he’d stowed away in Franklin’s wagon.

  “I’ll pay you for a ride back,” he said.

  “It’ll be dark by the time we reach Spiketrout.” Franklin stood and dumped his plate into a bin next to the stove. “You’ll have to spend the night here. I can take you back in the morning.”