“I thought he was Sioux?”
“He is. A Lakota, part of the Sioux Nation.”
Tory’s hands stiffened. “Then how did he come to fight against his own people?”
“It’s a long story,” Franklin said, “one even I don’t fully know. But I do know Wicasha supported the United States like the Crow did.”
“That must’ve been difficult for him.”
“I reckon he’s got his reasons. He’s a good man. That’s all that matters to me. What he did or why, that’s all in the past. He’s a decorated war veteran, even traveled to Washington to get a medal.”
“No kidding?”
Franklin recounted how Wicasha had led scouting missions into Sioux land with thousands of Custer’s troops at his back. He and other Crow soldiers easily blended into the natural surroundings and could track warrior bands with little detection. He was fluent in French, the language he learned from his father, who had been taught it as a boy by French fur traders, which enhanced his handiness in dealing with Sioux resisters. His understanding of the quirks of the Black Hills had earned him respect from soldiers and commanders alike.
The Lakota outcast lived deeper in the Hills than Franklin, inaccessible by wagon or even most animal stock. He had found the spot soon after he and Franklin had left the quartz mine, where they had become fast friends. He came across Franklin’s homestead while wandering the Hills in search of what he had said was “Wakan Tanka”—God. Soon after, he settled nearby, beyond the hillocks. Wicasha was known by his fellow Lakota as “Chachola”—without friends.
Franklin called him by the basic Lakota word Wicasha, which simply meant “brave man.”
“I guess it makes sense why you two would be friends,” Tory said. “You’re both decorated veterans and you both live apart from others.”
Franklin smiled into the dancing torchlight. Chatter from the wrens and finches filled the short silence. “I guess you’re right about that,” he said.
“Weren’t you afraid of any of the other Indians when you first moved out here?” Tory said. “They all can’t be friendly like Wicasha.”
“I never had much trouble with them.” Franklin shook his head. “The federal government allotted the Black Hills to the local Sioux by treaty, but by the time I moved in, the settlers and gold prospectors had forced most of them out.”
Gold. Seemed one couldn’t talk about the Black Hills without mentioning gold. Tory knew Franklin sat on a fortune of it, yet he refrained from prospecting. Ever since reading his letter when Franklin had mentioned his troubles with Bilodeaux, Tory had wondered why.
“Did you ever consider prospecting?” he asked.
“I have no need for gold.” Franklin’s shoulders tightened as he worked the needle and thread with his one hand while balancing the jacket on his knees. “The boom didn’t come until a few years after I got here. Custer and his men found the easy-gotten gold in the streams in Deadwood Gulch. When news broke out the gold was coming out of streams like bonytail biting on fishing hooks, the bevy marched in. Towns sprung up overnight. People like things that come simple and painless. I found out the easier things come, the greedier people get.”
“You mean like that Frenchman?” Tory said, spreading cinnamon butter over the dough with a spatula while waving away two black flies.
“He’s French Canadian. And yes, like him. He’s been scheming to get his hands on whatever streams and creeks in the Hills haven’t been tapped of gold. Dams the streams, takes in so much gold you’d think he’d be happy with what he got. But he wants more. Says it’s for the good of the community, but he always pockets for himself what he gets.”
“Won’t the marshal help you?”
“Reinhardt’s no use to me. He’s more concerned about losing his hair than holding up the law. Besides, Bilodeaux’s got him in his hip pocket.”
Tory had started to take a liking to Franklin’s southern twang. It sang to him like the rustle of the leaves in the lush forest. “Did you ever think about prospecting the gold anyway?” Tory asked.
“Nope, never,” Franklin said, a frown stretching his mustache. “Nature’s given me all I need right here without assaulting her for gold. I seen it turn decent men into scoundrels overnight. I’m comfortable with the way things are. I plan on dying here in my old age.” He lowered his head. “Was planning on marrying, but I guess that won’t be happening.”
Tory grimaced. He still could not get past having caused Franklin emotional pain. If only he could atone for misleading Franklin. What would Franklin do if Tory ever revealed his true identity? He gazed toward the murky mountain peaks where the granite rock face edged closest to the creek. Dark clouds eased over the Hills from the west and obscured many of the higher peaks. A sign to keep his mouth shut, Tory figured. Franklin Ausmus would probably kill him if he ever learned the truth.
“What domestic bliss.”
Tory and Franklin looked over to see Wicasha strolling toward the cabin. He was wearing that same odd grin on his face that Tory had noticed the past week. Apparently Franklin had taken note of it too.
“What’s with you, Wicasha? You been smiling like a damn fool lately.”
Wicasha snorted through his broad nose. “I’m not the one who’s been smiling like a fool.”
The silence that followed forced Tory to think. Franklin had been smiling a lot lately. He had no idea if Franklin smiled regularly, but he speculated it did not come easy to him. Unlike most of the weathered men of the Black Hills (many with brown-and-white road maps for faces), Franklin’s face was devoid of laugh lines.
Tory wondered if Franklin enjoyed his new company more than he let on. Wicasha had a way of forcing issues to the surface. Tory was growing to like him more and more.
“I haven’t been smiling any,” Franklin said, turning his attention back to his sewing. “You come here just to make stupid comments?”
“No, I’m here like always to keep you company, but I see you don’t need me for that much anymore.”
Tory had never considered that he might have taken Wicasha’s place. The two frontiersmen lived as loners and had become each other’s only steady companion. He realized the Indian had visited less and less. He wanted to make it up to Wicasha. When Wicasha turned to leave, Tory called for him. Wicasha gazed at him, the torchlight throwing dark shadows around his eyes and mouth.
“Why don’t you stay for supper?” Tory said. “There’s a venison roast in the oven with potatoes and carrots and some wild mushrooms I found in the woods. And I’m making kanelbulle for dessert.”
“You’re making what?”
“Kanelbulle. Swedish cinnamon rolls.”
Wicasha’s taut mouth formed into a soft grin. He sat down next to Tory and watched him cut the rolled dough into two-inch portions.
“Swedish, huh?” he said, eyes wide.
“Ja,” Tory said, chuckling. “Just like my pappa makes.”
Chapter 16
“WOO-HOO!”
Wicasha dove into the creek pool with a splash, followed by Franklin. Small waves broke against the bank, where Tory stood looking on, unsure whether he should undress and join them. He desperately needed a bath. When he’d mentioned he was going to the creek to “freshen up” before starting supper, he hadn’t expected Franklin to declare, “A peach of an idea,” and dash to the natural pool along with Wicasha before Tory even had a chance to lift his feet.
Hidden behind a cluster of alder bushes, he gaped at Franklin and Wicasha’s clothes strewn in a trail. Modesty most often circumvented Tory, but he felt bashful in front of Franklin. Realizing he had no way of avoiding it, he kicked off his boots, slipped off his work clothes and undergarments, and carefully draped them over a bush, all while keeping a close eye on Franklin and Wicasha. When their backs were turned, he ran for the pool and jumped in. Surfacing, he gulped a mouthful of air.
Several yards away, Franklin and Wicasha splashed and frolicked. The sun sparkled off the spraying water like it was q
uartz. Franklin ran naked to the cabin and returned a moment later, brandishing what looked like a cake of lye soap. Knee-deep in the creek, Franklin rubbed his body clean with the soap, stretching his legs, limber as a housecat with one arm. Within minutes, the water around his knees bubbled with soapy froth.
Tory could hardly peel his eyes off Franklin’s glistening, sinewy body. Veins twined around the muscles on his forearm and calves. Water dripped from his horseshoe mustache and down his hardened chest and stomach. It was the first time Tory had seen his stump in the flesh, outside of a sleeve. He moved it as naturally as his left arm.
Sitting on a smoothed granite rock, Wicasha shouted for the soap. Franklin tossed it to him. Wicasha’s thighs bulged as thick as pine trunks. But it was Franklin who captivated him. The missing arm failed to detract from his handsome looks. In a way, it accentuated his ruggedness. He had been wounded in battle, a brave warrior, with the stump more a testament to his courage than any government-issued ribbon or medal.
Tory tried to avert his eyes. Franklin dove into the pool to rinse off the lather. He surfaced, chuckling and guffawing, and blew the remaining bubbles toward the cornflower-blue sky. The smell of the lye, thick, like Tory’s mother’s chicken gravy, tickled Tory’s nose.
Wicasha tossed the cake to Tory. He snatched it as it pierced the surface. A sting of lye splashed into his eye. With cupped hands, he rinsed water over his face until he could squint toward the sun. As he acclimated to the men’s nudity, he felt less conspicuous about his own. He waded to the bank, where the water sloshed against his ankles, and lathered the cake over his body. He passed the cake from one slippery hand to the next. He took care to scrub between his toes and legs, under his arms, and to lather his hair.
He left the cake on the bank and dove deep to let the soap run off his body. Many feet below the creek pool’s surface, the water turned cold. He opened his eyes and explored the deep pool formed by massive granite boulders that trapped the flow of the creek. He deduced the vortex created by the gentle run of the creek had, over time, trapped the gold deposits in the natural pool that everyone was after.
He let his fingers run along the sandy bottom. Tory had no idea what gold looked like in natural form. He sifted more of the silky sediment, uncertain. The sun penetrated the shallow areas and highlighted yellow flecks and rocks he speculated might be gold. Tory had never cared for gold or riches, anyway. He let the sand drift between his fingers and then he rushed to the surface.
He hoisted himself onto one of the smaller granite rocks and dangled his feet in the water, his back to the men. From the corner of his eye, he thought he caught Franklin and Wicasha staring at him. But he no longer cared. The longer he stayed in the creek, the more natural his nudity seemed. Sunrays warmed his shoulders and back. Minnows nibbled on his toes.
Franklin swam over to the far bank as effortlessly as if he had two arms. He reached for a low-hanging branch of a mulberry tree and pulled off ripened berries. “Good,” he said, eating a handful. Tory and Wicasha swam over. The mulberries left a sour taste on Tory’s tongue, but were still good enough to eat mouthfuls.
Tory floated on his back, the sun bright and warm on his face and belly. The sour taste of the mulberries lingered on his lips. He licked his fingertips with loud sucking sounds.
Suddenly, he felt himself heaved into the air and flying across the pool. He hit the water’s surface and struggled to regain orientation. Grasping for air, he coughed water and gazed around, dumbstruck. Wicasha and Franklin were laughing good-naturedly. Franklin fingered Wicasha as the culprit. The Lakota shouted in some Indian language and slapped the water as he laughed.
Frank patted the man’s back and laughed from deep in his gut. “I don’t find honest bucks like him too often. Watch out you don’t chuck him onto a rock and split his head open.”
“He’s sturdy for a city boy,” Wicasha said. “Take more than me to hurt him.”
His face heating, Tory joined their laughter. But he kept his distance for a good few minutes until his excitement eased.
“Hey, look.” Tory, eager to distract their attention, pointed down the creek about fifty yards, where a yearling lapped water.
The men, hunkered down to their necks, followed his gaze.
“Hope he grows big and strong to make me a nice stew and good sturdy outfit someday,” Franklin said, chortling.
The yearling, noticing the men, froze a moment, then, with lightning-fast speed, darted into the grove of ponderosa pine. The yearling’s exit seemed to signify for Franklin that he too needed to get back to business. With one final dunk of his head, he strolled out of the pool like Poseidon from the sea, his long sleek hair clinging to his strong back. Rivulets flowing down to the small of his back and over his rump sent trembles through Tory. Franklin’s lanky body bent gracefully as he scooped up his clothes and headed for the cabin.
“I think I’ll stay in the water a while longer,” Tory told Wicasha, who by that time had followed Franklin out of the water and was standing on the bank, clutching his clothes. Tory was unsure what to make of the glance the naked Lakota shot him from over his broad shoulder when he turned to leave. Why did he always have that odd grin on his face? Wicasha’s shoulders shook as he made his way to the cabin.
FLAMES from the bonfire reached near to the stars. Tory watched, amused, as Wicasha played “Old Black Joe” on harmonica with startling skill and Franklin danced around the fire. Tory kept his distance. The huge bonfire with lashing flames and loud snaps frightened him. He cowered in a chair by the front door. Away from the strong blaze, he studied the flames play off Franklin’s shirtless and perspiring torso. He seemed surreal in the conflagration. The music took Tory, and before he had even a chance to ponder, he was clapping his hands and stomping his feet in front of his chair. Franklin approached him. Embarrassed, Tory stopped, breathless.
“Why aren’t you stomping with us by the fire?” Franklin asked.
“It’s a bit hot,” Tory said.
“Nothing like working up a good sweat,” Franklin said.
“Yes, but I think I’ll just stay here where it’s cooler.”
“You have a fear of fire?”
Was he that easy to read? He worried he might have mentioned his fear of fire in one of his letters to Franklin, but he failed to recall. He did not want any more coincidences between him and “Torsten.” Grateful for the darkness that concealed the flush that burned his cheeks, he said, “I suppose I’d rather live without a fire so big.”
Franklin chuckled. “All right, then.” And he went back to join Wicasha.
Wicasha continued blowing on the harmonica while he and Franklin cavorted around the fire. “Little Brown Jug” flowed from Wicasha’s broad lips as easily as the breeze that kissed the red-hot flames. Tory again stomped his foot and clapped his hands to the quick rounded rhythm. Even the hogs seemed to enjoy themselves. He heard them snorting and rustling about their pen with extra volume.
Music and laughter flowed for another hour until the waxing moon rolled above the eastern peaks and the stars dimmed. Franklin, exhausted, slumped near Tory against a tree stump.
“I’m plum tuckered out,” he said. “You played those reeds extra nice tonight, Wicasha.”
“You look rode hard.” Wicasha stuffed the harmonica in his pocket and chuckled.
“I’ll be sleeping as sound as a bear in January tonight. Almost feel like going for another dip.”
“I think I’ll head back,” Wicasha said. “You boys have a good night.”
Wicasha’s departure left a piercing quiet over the gulch. Franklin suggested they go for one more quick swim to wash off the sweat. Half an hour later, dried and dressed in clean undergarments, Tory and Franklin rested by the creek with the moon hanging directly above.
“Nice this time of year, isn’t it?” Franklin said, his voice low and deferential. “The creek’s a perfect temperature; the air is soft.”
“Sure is nice,” Tory said.
“
Always liked laying here at night, with the moon reflecting off the creek, the fish jumping,” Franklin said. “I remember first time I laid here and heard the trout snapping. I went down to check, and one jumped so high it bit me on the nose.” He chuckled. “Then I thought, maybe he was giving me a kiss, welcoming me home.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You remember?” Franklin shot him an inquisitive look. “How do you remember?”
Tory’s breathing stopped. He had to watch himself. Relaxing moments like this often knocked him off his guard. He’d remembered reading one of Franklin’s letters in which he’d written about the trout kissing him “like a long-lost cousin.”
“You been talking with Wicasha again,” Franklin said, yet his tone was casual, unconcerned. He fixed his gaze on the moon’s gray light slicing through the canopy of the trees.
“Oh, yes.” Tory exhaled, relieved. “He tells me many things about your life here, like how once that fish kissed your nose.”
The ensuing silence soothed Tory’s nerves. The gentle ping of the running creek made him smile. Both stared toward the moon. No awkwardness lingered in the stillness. They were now at that junction in their relationship when quiet between friends failed to bother them, Tory was certain.
“Autumn will be here soon.” Franklin’s husky voice reached Tory’s ears as exquisitely as the slow brush of the breeze. “I can hear it coming.”
“You can hear the arrival of autumn?”
“Listen closely.”
Tory cocked his head upward, trying to pick up on Franklin’s meaning. Night birds sang as usual; the leaves rattled in the breezes coming off the mountains; the creek gurgled slowly; some hidden rodents foraged under the duff. He thought he heard even the “kissing trout” jumping for insects. All typical sounds for Moonlight Gulch. Then, yes, he was certain. He could hear it.
“I think I know what you mean,” he said, lifting his head higher. “The sounds, they seem… crisper. The leaves rattle more pronounced in the breeze, as if they’re harder, drying up. And the rodents are foraging more earnestly, as if stockpiling for winter.”
On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch Page 16