On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

by Shelter Somerset

  “Yes, exactly,” Franklin said with a merry lilt to his voice. “You do hear it, then.”

  Proud of himself, Tory rested his head back against the soft pine-covered earth. A few more minutes of silence had passed when one of Walt Whitman’s poems floated through Tory’s mind as softly as the curl of the thin black cloud above him.

  “The sounds of autumn remind me of a poem by Walt Whitman,” Tory said. “You like Walt Whitman?”

  Franklin tittered. “Sure I like Walt. Even met him once.”

  Tory propped himself up on his elbow and peered at Franklin under the blue mist of the moon. He had never mentioned that in any of his letters—at least not the ones Tory had received. “You did? When?”

  “During the war. In a veteran’s hospital in Maryland. When I lost my arm, he was there helping care for the injured. I liked him. Nice old guy.”

  “He’s my favorite poet,” Tory said, gazing into the star-loaded sky.

  “I don’t reckon I got a favorite poet,” Franklin said, “but there’s some in the Black Hills, although probably not of Whitman’s caliber. They’re just cowboy poets.”

  “I like cowboy poets,” Tory said, his voice high with sincerity. “Whitman is a cowboy poet of sorts. Would you like to hear one of my favorite poems of his?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  With the back of his head resting on his woven fingers, he gazed at the expanse of the Milky Way and recited word for word as best he could a poem he’d carried in his memory from the first time he’d read it, ending with:

  In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,

  And his arm lay lightly around my breast.

  And that night I was happy.

  Only in the thick silence of night and heavy breath that followed his reciting of the poem did Tory fear he had crossed a line with Franklin. Where was he? So far away he seemed, with his face still turned toward the starry sky. Franklin did not stir from his supine position. The cool air from the mountains swept the hair from his forehead. The moon, the same moon described by Whitman, reflected in his green eyes. What must he be thinking? Had Tory’s reciting of the poem unsettled him?

  Finally, Franklin, with a slow and deliberate movement, turned his head toward Tory. “That’s perfect,” he said in a near-whisper. “How fitting for where we are right now.”

  “Yes, I know.” Tory swallowed, unable to meet his glowing eyes. “I thought it was too.”

  Franklin turned back to the moon and stars. “Very romantic.”

  Tory let the silence linger a moment, then he said, matching Franklin’s reverential tone, “Do you like romantic things, Franklin?”

  “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I do like romantic things. You wouldn’t believe it by looking at me, but I do have a bit of a sentimental poet in me, I reckon.”

  Of course Tory knew that Franklin had a poet inside him. He had perceived it from the first time he’d read his advertisement in Matrimonial News. Franklin was more than “softhearted.” He exhibited the kind of strength that came only from gentleness. Tender masculinity pulsed in his veins and compacted in his bones. Like a shepherd who watches over his flock with stalwart, brutish conviction, yet capable of showing the most doting affection. That was all inside Franklin Ausmus.

  A shudder rushed through Tory’s limbs. Franklin’s body, so close, so warm, so within hand’s reach, like the lover in Whitman’s poem, infused him with a quaking happiness that he had not known since Joseph had leaned in to kiss him for the first time.

  But wasn’t it all a mere quixotic fantasy? Franklin was as untouchable, as unreachable, as the stars above them. Moisture evaporated from Tory’s mouth. He raised his head off his hands to swallow. With the sudden rush of a breeze off the mountains, a pang of regret swept over him.

  Chapter 17

  FRANKLIN was milking the dairy cow when he heard Tory’s shouts. Nearly upsetting the bucket, he raced from the barn. Outside, he twisted around to locate the direction of the commotion.

  Another holler. Tory was calling for help. Franklin followed his screams into a shallow ravine alongside the Spiketrout trail. He found Tory staring down at something, his expression one of disbelief.

  “What is it?” Franklin scurried down the slope to get a closer look. Halting behind Tory, he nearly gasped. The body of the old-timer Wicasha had caught panning for gold in the creek lay face up, a bullet hole right in between his shaggy silver eyebrows.

  “It’s that old man,” Tory said. “I was searching for mushrooms and berries when I found him. What do you think happened?”

  Franklin scouted around the area. Fallen leaves and twigs crunched and snapped under his boots. He noticed a sharp glint in the duff from the sun cutting through the aspens and pines. Dropping to his haunches, he examined the object closer.

  “Anything?” Tory asked.

  “Most likely the bullet casing that felled Johnson.” Franklin blew off the duff and lifted the casing to eye level. “Looks like it could’ve come from anybody’s rifle around here.” He stood and dropped the spent shell in his front shirt pocket. “You hear any shots recently?”

  “No.” Tory was still gaping at the body of Johnson.

  “Neither did I.” Franklin stepped onto the trail and peered down as far as he could see. He walked back to Tory’s side. “We know he wasn’t shot earlier than around five o’clock yesterday. We would’ve seen him laying here on our way back from town, especially from high atop the wagon. Let me get a look at him.”

  Franklin squatted by the old man’s emaciated body. He rolled him just enough to view the back of his head. No exit wound. Centipedes scurried over his neck. Tory stood and looked away. Franklin placed his palm on Johnson’s forehead above the bullet wound. “His body’s cooled. Not too stiff. Hard to tell. Could’ve been shot last night.”

  “Maybe he was shot somewhere else and dumped here.”

  Franklin liked Tory’s quick thinking. “That could be. And whoever did it wanted us to find the body. He sure didn’t try to hide it.”

  “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  Franklin shook his head. “Not sure. You never know what motivates people in the Hills these days. Whoever did him in probably planted the spent shell too, so we’d think he was shot here.”

  “What should we do with him?”

  “We better get the marshal in on this. Not that he’s proved much help in the past, but little else we can do.”

  Those out on Spiketrout’s Main Street hooted and hollered when they recognized the body of the old-timer sprawled in the back of Franklin’s wagon. They swarmed around when Franklin came to a halt beside the jailhouse. Soon, many from the Gold Dust Inn and the other shops spilled outside to see the commotion.

  Henri Bilodeaux, one of the curious bystanders, locked his arms across his chest and looked down his nose at the animated crowd. Franklin noted that he wore a strange, subtle grin, more arrogant than usual.

  Marshal Reinhardt, a thin man of about six foot with long blond hair that flowed in thin strings from under his cowboy hat, sauntered down the street from the barbershop, his freshly shaven face glistening in the morning sun. Hands on his hips, he stood next to Bilodeaux, whose eyes came to just above the marshal’s badge.

  “Bilodeaux’s got something planned, I can smell it,” Franklin whispered to Tory. “You keep back behind me. Let me do the talking.”

  “What’s all this uproar about?” the marshal boomed in his deep baritone. The scent of menthol rose off his pink face.

  With his one arm, Franklin parted the mob. “I found him on my homestead along the trail,” he said. “Someone shot him point-blank between the eyes.”

  The onlookers hissed and howled. Marshal Reinhardt silenced them. Lifting his oval head, he inspected the corpse with a deliberate scan.

  Franklin reached into his front shirt pocket. “I found this near his body,” he said, dropping the shell into the marshal’s large hand. “I figure it’s fr
om the rifle that felled him.”

  Marshal Reinhardt studied the casing a moment, then peered again at the victim. He swatted the old man’s boot. “Why would anyone want to beef Johnson?” he said, pocketing the bullet shell. “He’s a deadbeat, but nothing worth shooting over.”

  Bilodeaux stepped forward. “If I might add my two bits worth, Marshal, I might be able to shed light on this. I was out at the Ausmus homestead not two weeks ago when I came across an altercation between Johnson and Frank Ausmus.”

  “He was on my land panning for gold,” Franklin cut in. He could feel the spittle forming on the sides of his mustache, as it usually did when a fury built inside him. “I told him to move off my property.”

  “I also heard a few threats fly by,” Bilodeaux said. “Something along the lines that he would shoot Johnson if he ever caught him on his property again.”

  “You’re twisting his words,” Tory shouted. “He was only saying what any man would.”

  Franklin stymied Tory with his one arm raised in front of him. Without even looking at him, he said, “He’s right, Bilodeaux. I have a right to protect my land from intruders and raiders like you. He and Wicasha will back me.”

  Bilodeaux laughed. “Who will believe anything your Indian friend says, Ausmus? Or that boy, for that matter? Where did you get him, anyway?” Bilodeaux eyed Tory in such a way that Franklin instinctively stepped in between them. He noted that the last time they had met, Bilodeaux had locked threatening eyes on Tory. Like a fox on a rabbit.

  “I heard Ausmus caused a disturbance in front of the Gold Dust Inn a few weeks back,” a middle-aged man with several days’ beard on his greasy face said. “He was fighting some ruffians on behalf of that young fellow there.”

  “That’s right,” another said. “I saw it with my own two eyes from the barbershop. He was throwing a hard fist and kicking at a lot of people.”

  “Every man within fifty yards was in that brawl,” Franklin scoffed. “I came in long after it started. I was with the marshal. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “He’s right,” the marshal said, although Franklin detected a trace of reluctance in his voice.

  “Besides,” Franklin said, “all that’s got nothing to do with this man in my wagon here. Now I brought him into town for you, Marshal, to do your marshaling. If I had murdered him, wouldn’t I just as well have buried him and never mention it? It’s not like anyone would’ve missed the old goat.”

  “He’s right,” some in the crowd agreed, heads bobbing like ducks.

  “He’s got a point, Marshal,” one said. “If he done beefed Johnson in cold blood, then why did he cart his body to town for all to see?”

  “It is part of his scheme,” Bilodeaux said. For the first time, Franklin noticed his haughty grin fade. Worry lines appeared on the bridge of his nose.

  “The only man with a scheme here, Bilodeaux, is you,” Franklin fired back. “Why don’t you stop your lying to the marshal and everyone else? We all know you been trying to get your hands on the gold in my creek.”

  “It’s true,” the lone woman in the crowd said. The sound of the familiar feminine voice eased Franklin’s mind for a moment. It belonged to Madame Lafourchette. Other than Tory, she was the sole reliable bystander in a mob of drunken and capricious gamblers and deadbeats.

  “Bilodeaux’s been hankering for Frank’s placer gold since it started to dry up everywhere else,” she went on. The air was thick with her jasmine perfume, a pleasant change from the heavy body odor of the men. “I can see a rat engaging in dirty tricks when I see one.”

  “You best mind your business.” Bilodeaux flashed her a shaky smirk. “A woman who makes her living in your fashion can hardly speak of dirty tricks.”

  The crowd erupted into laughter. Marshal Reinhardt quieted them with a shout of “hush up” as loud as a shotgun blast. Instantly, everyone quieted, save for a few rolling snickers.

  “I think the best thing for me to do is take you into jail, Ausmus. Let’s see what a good jury has to say about this. I can’t be the sole one who makes that choice in a town of laws.”

  “You can’t do that,” Tory cried, stepping forward.

  Franklin nudged him aside. “Marshal, if anyone should be locked up and put before a jury, it should be Bilodeaux. You have no right to hold me.”

  “I have all the rights in the world,” the marshal said, yanking on his badge from his starched shirt. “I was given that right by the people of Spiketrout who voted me into office.”

  Many in the crowd shouted in agreement.

  “What about the casing Frank gave you?” Madame Lafourchette said. She edged her way closer to the marshal with the sharp point of her parasol parting the men. “Why would he give you the casing if he shot Johnson himself? That don’t make no sense to me, Marshal.”

  “Yeah,” someone in the crowd shouted. “Why would he do that if he beefed Johnson?”

  “It is just all part of his ploy to deceive,” Bilodeaux said, maintaining his composure, although Franklin noticed him twitching with increasing irritation.

  Deputy Ray Ostrem, the marshal’s right-hand man, raced down the street with a cloud of dirt on his heels. “What’s going on? What’s going on?”

  “We got ourselves a murder investigation, Ray,” the marshal said. He grabbed for Frank’s sidearm from his holster and tossed the revolver to Ostrem, who always obeyed Reinhardt like any well-trained hound. “You’ll get your gun back once all this settles, Ausmus—if a jury decides such.” He handed the deputy the spent shell casing and whispered something into his ear. The deputy nodded and headed back down the street.

  When the marshal reached for Franklin with his clawlike hands and began dragging him inside the jailhouse, the crowd whirled in a fury. The marshal raised his lanky arm to hold everyone back. In the midst of the uproar, he commanded that Johnson’s body be taken off the wagon and delivered to the town’s mortician. “It’s starting to cause a stink,” he said with a grimace. Five eager men dragged Johnson’s withered, limp frame from the wagon with a dull thud once it hit the dusty street.

  Franklin resisted the marshal’s spindly fingers, but with only one arm, he had little chance against the towering Reinhardt. Tory pushed and even kicked at some of the men who followed them inside. Franklin, for a moment, almost worried more for Tory, who had been left in the hands of the ravenous town folk.

  Marshal Reinhardt shoved at the crowd. He ordered Tory to stay put. Franklin was about to shout for him to find Wicasha, but the crowd pushed in on him, and all he could utter was a muffled grunt. The rank bodies of gamblers and drunks overwhelmed him. Never once did the marshal ease his clutches until he tossed Franklin into the jail cell. He slammed the iron bar door shut behind him with a resonant clank and twist of the key.

  Chapter 18

  I HAVE to get Wicasha, Tory thought. He jumped onto Franklin’s wagon and drove Lulu as fast as he could down the trail to Moonlight Gulch. He hoped Wicasha would be there. He had no idea where on the other side of the hillocks the Lakota lived.

  He set the wagon’s brake as the sun began to turn away from the homestead. He stabled Lulu in the barn and looked around for Wicasha. Down by the creek, out in the field, in the storage barn, he shouted for Wicasha using the full force of his voice. Wicasha was nowhere. Tory had no choice but to search for him at his campsite. Where else could he be? He knew of no other person who might help Franklin. It seemed the entire town was against him. Gold had turned them all into savages.

  On the other side of the first hillock, he shouted for Wicasha. He heard no reply other than his own echo. Yelping osprey and screaming ravens mocked him. He figured there must be a trail from the many times Wicasha had traipsed back and forth between his camp and Franklin’s cabin. He followed what he thought was a narrow groove of earth covered in matted grass. Droppings along the trail indicated animals used this path. Certainly Wicasha would too.

  Travel was cumbersome. He fell, tripped, scrambled on his hands and knees
to hurry himself along. Sweat burned his eyes. He came to a strange series of granite rock spires and columns anchored by gnarly alders. He squeezed through the mazelike impasse and on the other side discovered a muddy meadow. The mudflat stretched to each side of the dense forest. The negligible trail faded completely. Footprints were scattered about the muddy bank, but he had no way of knowing which set to follow or who they belonged to.

  He followed along the edge of the mudflat until he came to a large rock outcropping. He scaled to the top and, with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun, scanned the horizon. Down into the rift, he saw no sign of a camp. He wished he’d remembered to grab Franklin’s field glasses from the cabin before heading out.

  “Wicasha!” Tory’s lonely cry repeated off the mountain peaks.

  He tried to use common sense to judge which way he should go. The ravens’ screaming annoyed him. He was about to curse them in a birch tree when he remembered a war story Wicasha had told him while they had sat outside the cabin one night darning undergarments and whittling spoons from fallen branches. He had mentioned something about following ravens during his days scouting for the U.S. Army. The ravens, he had explained, always congregated wherever they found “action.” Indians and early pioneers, he had said, including Lewis and Clark, sometimes used them as guides.

  Tory instantly looked to the rowdy ravens with a new sense of respect. He watched them flutter from branch to branch in the birches and aspens. He called to them, encouraging them to fly. He grabbed a handful of pebbles and chucked them at the trees. The ravens screamed and fluttered into the washed-out sky. He followed them, scrambling over hills and down ravines, traipsing over chinks and crevices in the hilly terrain, always working his way toward wherever the ravens flew. If he lost sight of them, he’d listen in for their loud clatter coming from the top reaches of the trees and call to them to move on.