On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

by Shelter Somerset

  “I don’t know anything.” The marshal narrowed deep brown eyes at Franklin. “That’s why we’ll be holding a trial, all nice and legal and constitutional. Now just sit tight and don’t give me no headaches. We’ll let you know when it’s time to head over to Madame Lafourchette’s.” He tipped his hat and walked back to the front.

  “This is a big waste of everyone’s time, Reinhardt,” Franklin shouted after him, his hand clenched on a bar to his cage. “Any reasonable man knows I done nothing wrong.” He wanted to taunt him for never taking off his hat, even indoors, knowing good and well how sensitive the marshal was about his thinning hair, but he held back from rubbing him any rawer. He was about to reaffirm his innocence when the Reverend Dahlbeck and his wife, Matilda, walked into the jailhouse. Matilda, carrying a tray covered with a tea towel, bypassed the men and headed straight for Franklin’s cell.

  The men’s heavy voices traveled back to them as Matilda uncovered the tray and slid it into the slot on Franklin’s cell door. “I made a nice breakfast for you, Franklin. Fried eggs, ham, toast, and some hot coffee.”

  “You’re an angel, Matilda.” The sight and aroma of the food sent Franklin’s stomach grinding. The first thing he grabbed was the mug of coffee. He took one large swig. “That’s the best coffee I’ve had in a long time.”

  “I didn’t expect these boys to know any better to treat you to something to eat.”

  “Thanks for thinking about me, Matilda.” He carried the tray to his cot and finished off the black coffee. He had halfway finished his breakfast when Matilda winked at him and excused herself as her husband and the marshal came to his cell.

  “The reverend wants to talk with you, Ausmus,” the marshal said, as if annoyed.

  Franklin waited for Reinhardt to leave before setting his tray aside and meeting Reverend Dahlbeck at the iron bars.

  “Did you give Johnson a send-off, Reverend?” Franklin whispered.

  “Johnson was a Catholic,” Reverend Dahlbeck said, matching Franklin’s low voice. “Father Fisk attended to his soul’s needs.” The reverend leaned in closer to the bars. “Be thankful they’re giving you a speedy trial, Frank.”

  Franklin did not feel like being thankful, but he supposed the reverend had a point. He shouted toward the marshal, who was speaking with his deputy. “I want some representation. I’ve got a constitutional right.”

  “He’s right, Marshal,” Reverend Dahlbeck said in his defense. “There’ll be a mistrial unless he’s got a proper advocate.”

  Reinhardt, poker-faced, stood at the end of the hallway. “And who do you think that might be? We haven’t had an advocate in town since the gold started drying up.”

  “Send a telegram to Deadwood,” Franklin said. “Or use that talking contraption. Have one come over on the stage with the judge.”

  “The territorial courts will accuse you of fraud, Marshal,” Reverend Dahlbeck said. “You’re just wasting your time unless you oblige him.”

  “I’ll represent him.”

  Franklin pushed his forehead against the bars until it hurt so he could see who had just spoken. Doc Albrecht was standing just inside the jailhouse, his black derby clenched in his fingertips. He was smirking in his usual nonchalant way.

  “You?” the marshal said, turning to the doctor. “What makes you think you know anything about the law?”

  “I know a great deal,” the doctor said, focusing his smiling eyes on Franklin. “I used to practice law before going to medical school. I vowed I never would step foot inside a courtroom again after I witnessed a fiasco of a trial a score and five years ago, during which time an innocent man who I represented was found guilty in absentia, then hunted down like an animal and subsequently hanged. But I’m willing to push that all aside now. On behalf of my friend, Franklin Ausmus.”

  Franklin’s mouth remained straight, but he could feel his heart lighten with a warm gladness. His friends were coming to his aid.

  “You got a license to practice?” Reinhardt asked.

  “I have passed the bar in four states.”

  “Is that all right with you, Ausmus?” the marshal asked, looking at him from under the brim of his hat. “You want the doc to be your advocate at the trial?”

  “Suits me fine.” Franklin allowed his grin to show fully. “Suits me fine, indeed.”

  “All right, then,” Marshal Reinhardt grunted. “We’re all square with the law and the constitution. Everyone happy?”

  “Not quite,” Franklin said.

  “What now?” The marshal sighed.

  Franklin set tapered eyes on Reinhardt from between the iron bars. “I still shouldn’t even have to face trial,” he said. “Bilodeaux has orchestrated this whole subterfuge.”

  “I’m certain Bilodeaux’s behind it too.” Reverend Dahlbeck spoke with his chin held firm.

  “Well, if that’s so,” the marshal said, “then it’ll all come out at trial. I’m sure the doc will be able to help you with your laments. In the meantime, let’s clear out. This ain’t no meeting house.”

  Chapter 20

  THE town bell rang for Franklin’s trial. By the time the ringing had stopped, the makeshift courthouse was packed with as many people the town of eight hundred could squeeze in. Curiosity seekers streamed into the streets and blocked both sides of the boardwalk. Anyone wishing to get past by foot or horse had no choice but to wait out the trial if they did not wish to climb the surrounding mountains to circumvent the herd.

  Tory, alongside Wicasha, ached to stand with Franklin. Only when they had come to town to see Franklin had they learned the trial was to take place that morning. Packed in by the growing throng, Wicasha took Tory by the arm and pushed and shoved to the back of the Gold Dust Inn. Wicasha led Tory to the little-known kitchen entrance. Madame Lafourchette, her “crowning glory” exploding with sugar curls and her face decked out in more paint than Tory had ever seen on any woman, spied them. With her wide bustled burgundy skirt and overpowering jasmine perfume, she squeezed them through the spectators as her “special guests.” Two heavyset men who barricaded the bar stepped aside when the madam scooted Tory and Wicasha in for a grand view of the entire proceedings.

  Franklin was seated at a poker table near the other end of the bar. So helpless he looked. Tory yearned to rush to him. Flashes of Joseph van Werckhoven lying dead on the sidewalk streaked across his mind. He had had no way to save Joseph. Was there a way to rescue Franklin from the humiliation and injustice? And a possible hanging?

  “Who’s that man with Franklin?” Tory asked Wicasha, his heart quickening.

  “That’s Doc Albrecht,” he said. “Reckon he’s acting as Frank’s advocate.”

  The thought eased Tory’s mind, but only slightly.

  Marshal Reinhardt and his deputy sat adjacent to Franklin at another poker table. Tory had never seen the marshal without his hat on. His receding hairline reached near to the back of his head. In a court of law, even one that was temporarily established inside a hurdy-gurdy house, no man dared show disrespect by wearing a hat during the proceedings. The marshal’s stringy hair fell past his shoulders and seemed to accentuate his baldness.

  Looking about the throbbing crowd, Tory was surprised that many of the men held foaming beer mugs and other alcoholic drinks. Madame Lafourchette must have wanted to cash in on the huge gathering. The booze flowed as if it were a typical Wednesday.

  A group of five men descended from upstairs. The herd quieted, but only momentarily. In the ebb of the clamor, Wicasha whispered to Tory that the five men were likely the jury. They sat in ladder-back chairs arranged in a tidy row by the staircase. Through the haze of cigar and pipe smoke, Tory inspected each juror’s face.

  “I know all but one,” Wicasha said. “They’re pretty fair men. The guy on the far right is Walter Grishin. He’s the town’s butcher. You can count on him to vote in Franklin’s favor. At least we can expect a hung jury if the others don’t follow.”

  “What about the marshal?” Tory s
crutinized him sitting at the table. He reflected on how yesterday Marshal Reinhardt had yanked Franklin into the jailhouse with little concern for his rights.

  “He’s a glorified gunman, that’s all,” Wicasha said. “Most likely not as much on Bilodeaux’s side as the Canadian might like to think. He just don’t like Frank much. They always butted heads. I suspect in the end, he’ll do what the judge and jury tells him.”

  Wicasha pointed out a man wearing a dark pinstripe suit and rose cravat. Wicasha explained he was Spiketrout’s Mayor Winters, the first man elected to hold that post. To Tory, he seemed delighted, even overjoyed, as if he were about to watch a play staged for his benefit.

  The atmosphere was charged like an Edison bulb. Pulsing heat and energy traveled from one gawker to the next. Everyone—including the madame’s girls—wanted to see a grand spectacle. Franklin was their lead performer, or sacrificial offering, depending on how one might look at it. Implacable lust for excitement seized the crowd and kindled their souls.

  Tory’s worries escalated when Henri Bilodeaux strolled onto the floor from upstairs, a lancero cigar clenched between his teeth. He elbowed his way among the pressing crowd. The men, most far taller than him, allowed him passage. He stood undetected just askew behind Franklin in his typical cavalier fashion, arms crossed, head held high, and an obnoxious leer cut into his dark face.

  Looking at Bilodeaux and the giddy crowd behind him, Tory fretted that few people, if any, would be able to aid Franklin, despite Wicasha’s assurances.

  A short, plump middle-aged man parted the crowd from the street, demanding in a strained falsetto for the crowd to allow him entrance. The marshal hurried over to the man’s aid. They spoke into each other’s ears, their freshly shaved faces screwed up with gravity. Wicasha told Tory he recognized the man as Adam J. Gevelinger, a judge from Deadwood. He reassured Tory that he was known for his reasonableness.

  Whispers flared around them as the onlookers took notice of the official-looking man in the dark suit and black top hat. Annoyed and weary-looking, the judge approached the bar, which apparently would make due as his bench. He sat on a stool on the bartender’s side and laid aside is hat.

  “I need a gavel,” he said, spinning around on the stool as if looking for one.

  A man to his left, most likely the bartender, who had maintained his post, brandished from under the counter a quarter-empty whiskey bottle. The judge rolled his eyes, then snatched the yellowing bottle from the bartender. Thrusting out his chin, he banged on the counter with the bottle, the amber liquid sloshing inside. “Court’s in session. Court’s in session. Quiet. Let’s have quiet.”

  Voices muffled and quieted. All eyes were riveted on the judge.

  “All right,” the judge began, his voice squeaky yet powerful. “Let’s figure out who’s who. Will the defendant rise.”

  Franklin and Doc Albrecht stood.

  Judge Gevelinger asked Franklin to state his full name. Franklin obliged him, and the judge said, “Mr. Ausmus, are you fully aware of the reason why you’ve been brought before this court?”

  Franklin looked ready to spit out a string of laments, but Doc Albrecht grabbed his stump and whispered into his ear. Pursing his lips, Franklin said, “Yes, Your Honor, I am.”

  “Please sit, then. Whoever brought the charges against this man, please rise.”

  Marshal Reinhardt obeyed the judge’s request, his eyes wide and nose upturned. He kept scratching his head as if wanting to conceal his receding hairline with his hand. “That would be me, Your Honor. Marshal Peter S. Reinhardt.”

  “And why have you brought charges against the defendant, Franklin T. Ausmus?”

  “The shooting death of longtime Spiketrout resident, Clayton R. Johnson.” The mention of the deceased’s name and Franklin’s alleged deed brought a wave of chatter from the crowd. Judge Gevelinger banged the counter with the whiskey bottle.

  “Quiet,” he shouted. “No more outbursts.” He set the bottle aside and turned back to Franklin. “How do you plead?”

  This time, Doc Albrecht spoke on his behalf. “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said without hesitation.

  Again, the judge had to bang the bar with the bottle to settle the gapers. “Any more outbursts and I’ll clear this saloon… I mean, courtroom.” Turning to Franklin, he asked, “Do you stand by your attorney?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Franklin murmured.

  “All right. Now let’s get the proceedings underway.”

  Marshal Reinhardt presented his arguments first, explaining, with little exaggeration, how Franklin had hauled in Johnson’s body after “allegedly” discovering it at Moonlight Gulch. There were a few grunts of displeasure during the lawman’s speech. Franklin chewed on his lips. Doc Albrecht kept a steady gaze on the bar, his smile one of confidence.

  “It is my belief that the defendant misled us into thinking that he found the body on his property already dead,” the marshal said, anchoring his speech, “in hopes of exculpating himself as the gunman.”

  Franklin stood with a fury. “Bilodeaux shot Johnson, wanting to pin it on me. He wants me in prison or hanged so he’d get to sweep in on my land and scoop up the gold. Everybody knows it’s what he’s after.”

  Doc Albrecht pulled him down. After the doc whispered in his ear, Franklin calmed.

  “He speaks nonsense,” Bilodeaux said. Puffs of blue cigar smoke shot from his toothy grin. “I have plenty of gold. Why would I arrange such an elaborate prank for more?”

  “’Cause you, like so many others in this town, are addicted to gold,” Franklin said, peering at Bilodeaux with fiery eyes. “You’re addicted to it like opium, and now you’re craving more since it’s all drying up. You can’t get enough. And when you can’t get your grubby hands on it, you act like lunatics.”

  “Order,” the judge said in his squeaky voice to calm the uproar that accompanied Franklin’s outburst. “Let’s have order.” Judge Gevelinger let the silence seep in before proceeding. “Is there any hard evidence to support your claims against the defendant, Marshal?”

  Marshal Reinhardt leaned into the table. “My deputy went to the scene and found a rifle belonging to the defendant that matched the shell casing the defendant said he found at the scene of the murder.”

  “That doesn’t prove a thing,” Franklin shouted above the hubbub that trailed the marshal’s proclamation. “Half the men in Spiketrout have rifles with the same caliber as mine. You could find any one of them that matches that casing.”

  The judge silenced Franklin with the whiskey bottle. Doc Albrecht calmly pulled Franklin to his seat. He whispered something in his ear, and Franklin, squaring his shoulders with a grimace, slumped in his chair, his lips tighter than piano wire.

  “Do you have this rifle?” the judge asked.

  “I do, Your Honor.” Marshal Reinhardt took the rifle from his deputy and handed it to the judge, who studied it a good minute.

  While the judge examined the rifle, Tory whispered to Wicasha, “How do you think he got that gun? I’m sure you or I would’ve heard anyone sneaking around the homestead. Especially you, since you were sleeping outside. Unless they came while I was out hunting for you.”

  Wicasha said, “He probably got it from their own collection. Like Franklin said, every man in this room has a rifle that could match that shell. They’re just using it as a ruse.”

  The judge placed the rifle next to him on the bar.

  Doc Albrecht stood. “Deputy, did you obtain a search warrant before you looted through Frank Ausmus’s private property?”

  The deputy looked flabbergasted. “Well… I….”

  Marshal Reinhardt spoke for him, his eyes downcast. The gas-lit chandelier hanging above the room reflected off his shiny forehead. “No, he did not.”

  “Your Honor,” Doc Albrecht said, turning to the judge, “the deputy disregarded one of the fundamental rights found in the fourth amendment of our constitution, and that’s the right against undue searches and seizur
es. Deputy Ostrem trespassed on Frank Ausmus’s land without even his presence and withdrew private property.”

  “That’s not true,” the deputy stated. “There were people present. An Indian and that blond boy over there.” He pointed to them. All eyes followed. Tory flushed. He sensed Wicasha’s muscles tense.

  “Were they aware of your presence on the property, deputy?” the judge asked.

  “Well… I… umm. I suppose they were.”

  “We were not,” Tory shouted. The sound of his voice resonating in the saloon surprised even him. His cheeks heated, and he shrank back behind Wicasha. But then he realized the importance of his outburst, and he stepped more fully into view and thrust out his chest. “Neither one of us were ever aware of the deputy’s presence at the homestead,” he reiterated with conviction.

  “May I look at the weapon in question, Your Honor?” Doc Albrecht asked.

  “If you feel the need.” The judge handed the rifle, butt-side first, to Doc Albrecht. He walked the gun over to Franklin.

  “Is this your rifle?” he asked.

  Franklin scanned the length of the weapon. “No, I’m certain it’s not. I’d know my own Winchester. This one looks too clean. I’ve had mine since 1880, and this one doesn’t have the newer lock barrel. I’d guess this one is at least fifteen years old.”

  Doc Albrecht turned to the judge. “Your Honor, not only have the prosecution, in this case the marshal and his deputy, insinuated that they stole property without a proper search warrant, but they have committed a far worse grievance.” He turned to face the marshal directly. “They have planted evidence.”

  A thunderous uproar erupted from the crowd. Judge Gevelinger wasted no time quieting them. He stopped banging against the counter only when, from the way he peered at the bottle, he worried it might shatter. “Keep quiet, or I’ll clear out this courtroom.”

  “It’s his word against ours,” the marshal said.

  “That’s right,” Doc Albrecht rejoined. “And you, Marshal, carry the burden of proof to show this man’s guilt. His words are weightier than yours, according to law.”