Franklin could not help but think of himself and Tory. The same scenario had transpired between them. Almost exactly. It had been at night, the darkness lessening his inhibitions, when Franklin had found himself staring down at Tory on his cot, so close that all he needed to do was reach out and lift him to his beating chest.
“We became lovers after that night,” Wicasha said, as if he were recounting the story of Franklin and Tory. “He was my soul mate, I was certain. We both agreed the spirits had brought us together and sanctioned our love. For many months, we would rendezvous between our two villages that sat many miles apart. The Lakota chief grew suspicious and one day had me followed. His scouts reported back to him that they had seen me with another man and that we had laid down together as man and wife by the boulders. When the Lakota chief learned of it, he banished me from his group of wives and said I was never to step foot inside his lodge. He permitted me to remain in the village, but no one could speak to me. The entire village shunned me, including my parents and siblings, of which I had at least ten.
“Unable to stand being around those who ignored me, I eventually found myself living in the backcountry, where me and my lover could spend more time together. When he learned of my predicament, he took me home with him to his village near Wyoming. I was delighted to see him night and day. But soon after I moved in with him, a Sioux raid on their village resulted in his capture, along with dozens of Crow women and children. I never forgave my people for taking him from me.”
For the first time, the need to respond to Wicasha’s narrative loosened Franklin’s throat, if only to lessen the pain that appeared in Wicasha’s dark face while he described his lover’s capture. “What was the name of your Crow, Wicasha?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
Wicasha stiffened. He seemed unsure about Franklin’s sudden bluntness but then composed himself. He lifted a post that had fallen and put it back into place. “Bua Ishte.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means Fish Eyes in his native Crow. He had wide, gazing black eyes like a fish. It was the first feature you would notice about him.” Wicasha seemed to reflect. He stopped momentarily from bringing the sledgehammer down onto the post. Resting the handle over his broad shoulder, he looked northwest toward the mountains, where beyond the granite peaks lay the Crow tribal lands of his former lover.
“I miss him,” Wicasha said as if he were answering the question of an unseen spirit. “But he’s living another life, most likely still a concubine of a Sioux chief after he was kidnapped by them, living in another world. If we met again today, we would not know each other. Life changes people. We take different paths, and those paths are what make a man who he is. We are not the same as when we had first met by the boulders.”
“So that’s why you took to scouting for the U.S. Army?” Franklin said. “Revenge for Bua Ishte?”
With his broad chest heaving and wide shoulders shaking, Wicasha laughed. “I reckon I answered your original question after all. Yes, that’s the reason. At least in part. After Bua Ishte was kidnapped, I still remained with his band. I became fluent in the Crow language, and eventually, I began scouting for the white man like most of my new brothers. We made très bon scouts, as the French would say. I had hoped by scouting that I might find Bua Ishte and take him back home with me, but I never did locate him.”
Wicasha and he had more in common than Franklin had ever considered, he realized, while tender images of Tory constricted his throat. Yet the notion of confessing to Wicasha about his and Tory’s own “rendezvous” still came with difficulty. What exactly would he be revealing?
He and Tory had shared a bed since that first time they’d made love; did that mean they had become lovers, like Wicasha and Bua Ishte?
Weighing Wicasha’s forthright words, Franklin retrieved the remaining barbwire from the cart. Each time he thought about confiding in Wicasha, the words failed to rise past his parched lips. As they continued to labor, Franklin remained silent.
Their three hands worked diligently, and before the sun had the chance to dip closer to the western peaks and turn the granite rock face pink, they had completed the fence around the perimeter of Franklin’s deeded land. Yet as he walked about his property with Wicasha by his side and inspected the newly constructed fence, he realized the makeshift barricade would do little in keeping out a determined and, as Wicasha had called him, ruthless man like Bilodeaux.
In deep thought, he made his way to the cabin, with Wicasha following. A column of smoke carrying the aroma of Tory’s fish stew, from the brown trout he’d caught in the creek that morning, only slightly lifted Franklin’s drooping spirits. Just before reaching the cabin, Wicasha placed his large hand on Franklin’s shoulder and held him from going farther.
Franklin turned and eyed him. The sun washed over Wicasha’s dark face, his forehead tight with wrinkles.
“There’s something else you should know about my past as a winkte,” Wicasha said gravely.
Franklin gaped. What could be so dire that he would need to tell him right then and there? How many more secrets must he unleash? Franklin could hardly take any more. “Yes, what is it, Wicasha?”
“Bilodeaux and I were once lovers.” He said it flatly, without emotion. A simple truth, spouted for Franklin’s ears and the animals eavesdropping in the surrounding forest.
“You and him?” Difficult for Franklin to imagine. “You and Bilodeaux were together the way you and Bua Ishte had?”
“No.” Wicasha’s face grew gray and menacing. He dropped his arm to his side and formed a fist. His black eyebrows knitted. “We were nothing like that. Although at first I thought we might be. For a short time, I was in love with him, and I assumed he was in love with me. It was after you and I left the quartz mine and we went our separate ways. Bilodeaux and I met in Spiketrout after I returned from Washington to receive my medal of honor for scouting on the Army’s behalf. He had remained in the Hills far longer than most, before Custer spurred the gold strike. He was one of the few white men of French descent still lingering after the U.S. Army came in.”
“What happened between you?”
“He promised to take me to France,” Wicasha continued, his eyes filling with red hatred, “where we would live on land he said his family still owned near Calais. We were together only a few weeks. I soon realized his promises, like his amorous attentions, were only meant to get what he wanted from me. He wanted me for the same reason he would go to the Gold Dust Inn for the whores. To men like Bilodeaux, everything is for his taking to satisfy his needs. He has no feeling.
“After I learned of his deceitful ways, I left him. He tried to double-cross me by turning me over as a wayward Indian to the U.S. government for a measly fifty-dollar reward. But when the Army realized I was a decorated war veteran, they let me go in peace. I suppose his large ego made it impossible for him to accept that I was the one to leave him before he could leave me. It was the same with the Lakota chief. Men like them like to be loved but are incapable of returning love. Since then, hating Bilodeaux comes as easily to me as it does to you.”
Franklin’s mind raced back to when Bilodeaux had stood by the side of his feather bed, staring down at him and Tory, naked and defenseless. He had feared Bilodeaux might use the discovery against him somehow to acquire his land by telling the locals of what he had seen, turning them all against him. Wicasha’s confession had not eased those qualms. They had compounded them.
New fears rose inside him like the smoke from the chimney. On the other end of that chimney, Tory cooked at the stove, preparing supper like he had for the past three weeks. He had never informed Tory about Bilodeaux’s discovering them in bed. Unwitting, he had gone about his life as Franklin’s lover, thinking their relationship was a secret between only him and Franklin.
Franklin understood the gravity of their situation now more than ever. He recalled how Bilodeaux had always looked at Tory: eyes narrow, sharp, penetrating. He lusted after him. No doubt. Bilodeau
x’s awareness of his and Tory’s fledgling romance would not pacify Bilodeaux. Jealousy and lust, two emotions perhaps more powerful than greed, now simmered inside Bilodeaux, waiting to erupt into fiery action.
Franklin was about to rush to Tory when Wicasha spoke. “I sometimes feel responsible for having brought Bilodeaux into your life,” he said, his eyes narrowed with regret.
Wicasha’s words straightened Franklin’s spine. For an instant, he worried only for his friend. “But why, Wicasha? How could you have anything to do with it?”
“I would talk about you with Bilodeaux, about our friendship, about how we knew each other at the quartz mine. I boasted proudly about learning how you sat on mounds of gold without wanting it and how honored I was to be your friend. This was before I knew Bilodeaux’s true nature. I must have sparked something evil inside him, unleashing him upon you like a thunderbird. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Franklin shook his head. Now it was his turn to place a hand on Wicasha’s shoulder. “Wicasha, you have nothing to do with Bilodeaux’s gold lust. That evil lurked inside him long before you came across his path. From this moment on, I want you to never blame yourself.”
Wicasha smiled and nodded, but his shoulders slumped. They continued walking toward the cabin and the fish stew Tory was preparing. Worries accumulated, making Franklin’s steps heavy and cumbersome. If not for his hand still resting on Wicasha’s shoulder, he feared he might topple.
Despite all that Wicasha had revealed to him, he would wait to share his truth about Tory. Too many secrets had been disclosed for one day already. Neither one would be able to shoulder more.
And as he glanced back at the barbed wire fence that now surrounded his land, he understood again that the three days of hard labor that he and Wicasha had exhausted installing it had mostly likely been for naught.
Chapter 24
FRANKLIN thought back to Torsten P. whom he had corresponded with in Chicago. He had long since concluded she had rejected him. His concerns that she might have become ill and could no longer write had blown away in the wind weeks ago. He supposed Torsten used men like many Spiketrout residents used liquor or opium.
The women of the Black Hills were like Torsten: amusement-seekers gambling with their wily affections the way the men gambled with their gold. Women like Torsten used men to carry out their ego-driven games. He recollected his mother and two younger sisters. They were not like Torsten P. And most of the women back home in Knox County were not like her—except for maybe his old girl, who had left him because of his disfigurement. Or so he assumed.
He often wondered—if his old girl hadn’t run off with the Confederate veteran, if the Black Hills weren’t swimming with whores (nine out of ten worked as prostitutes, according to Marshal Reinhardt), if Torsten hadn’t cast him off, would he find himself giving all his affections to a man, a boy in many respects, a nineteen-year-old nearly twenty years younger than him?
He peered at Tory over by the windmill. Tory had lowered the galvanized tower on the rotary axis and was removing branches wedged between the fan blades that had torn from trees in a heavy overnight gust. He was useful, that was for sure, Franklin thought as he went back to fixing two of Lulu’s shoes in the livestock pen. He balanced her left fetlock on his knee and used his stump to steady her leg. Tory did his fair share, worked diligently, never complained. And he was loyal. The most loyal companion he’d ever known. Even more dependable than Wicasha.
As Franklin began to notice Tory in a strange, unique way, he contemplated…. Was Tory a winkte? The renter in Richmond had only sought to make money to survive the grind of war. Sure, he had clearly enjoyed himself, but how much of his means of making an income had accompanied superficial pleasure? Did Tory see Franklin in a similar fashion—a landlord with benefits?
Tory had shown desire for him each night they’d lain down in his feather bed. The things he would say to Franklin when they’d make love—things a woman had never whispered in his ears—no man would say those things unless he was born as a winkte, like Wicasha. Nature’s balance, Wicasha had said of his aberration so casually the day they’d erected the barbwire fence. Tory’s feelings must derive from more than desperation for survival or physical longing.
Since that first night five days ago, they had never spoken about their feelings or shown any overt affection—that is, until after they had doused all the lanterns, spread the wood in the stove, and bolted the door for the night (to keep out Bilodeaux). When they’d climbed into the feather bed they now shared, only in the dark would they reach for each other and become fused.
In the mornings, after they’d made love, Franklin would kiss Tory as the ascending sun cast a soft pink across his luminescent skin, then he’d rise, ready for the hectic schedule of subsistence living. At breakfast, they’d discuss matters pertinent to the homestead, like any two homesteaders might. During the day, the two men focused on whatever tasks needed completing. Whenever side by side, they never uttered a word about their passions from the previous nights. No one would suspect they shared a bed if they happened upon them during the day.
Even when Tory had treated Franklin’s nicks from erecting the barbwire fence, they had exchanged minimal words. Yes, Franklin had gazed down on Tory’s blond hair while he’d lubricated the small cuts with pine sap, resisting a swelling surge of sentiment. Tory had worked his hands firmly, yet, like during their lovemaking, so gently. But Tory had dressed the wounds swiftly, and afterward they’d gone back to their chores with few words.
At night, they were a different animal. In the morning, either he or Tory would have to fetch the sheets that they had kicked and tossed about during a night of lovemaking. Franklin remembered stories of the ancient Greeks, how they had often lived with each other in partnerships, like a husband and wife. And so had Wicasha, a winkte, lived with his Lakota chief as a wife. Were Tory and he any different? He grinned, recalling how Tory would do that thing to him with his mouth that felt so good.
It all seemed strange to Franklin, but at the same time, so wonderful. As the days passed, he found himself eager for winter to set in. He’d eye the sun more and more, eager for it to settle over the mountains earlier each day so that he could wash, go back into the cabin, eat the supper Tory had prepared, douse the lights, and climb into bed alongside Tory, where all the emotions that had built up during the daylight could be unleashed with a blistering passion.
“Frank, did I upset you with my truth?” Wicasha had asked before leaving for his campsite the day he had revealed his secret about living as a winkte.
“No, Wicasha,” Franklin had said. “No, you didn’t upset me with your truth.”
And he had been honest. Wicasha’s plainspoken words had long settled in his mind, like the mountain dandelion seeds netted in the pines, and they no longer disconcerted him. How could they? He and Tory were living a life much like the one Wicasha had described.
He flushed, picturing him and Tory sharing his feather bed.
ONE afternoon a week after their first lovemaking, their relationship underwent yet another change. They were raking soiled hay from the barn when the dairy cow kicked Tory in the stomach. He fell limply to the ground. Franklin raced to him. Holding his head under his stump, he beseeched him to open his eyes. Finally, bright blue began to shimmer through fluttering eyelids. Fully conscious, Tory gazed into Franklin’s face.
“Are you okay?” Franklin swept the damp blond strands of hair from his ashen face. “Talk to me.”
“I’m… I’m okay. She just bumped me a little. I don’t even hurt.”
“You need some cool water.”
Tory remained dazed, yet he held onto Franklin’s arm with uncanny strength. “Don’t go. I don’t need any water.” His voice was shallow but full of conviction. “I only need you, Franklin Ausmus.”
As if he were handling the most precious porcelain, Franklin carried Tory to the creek pool where he undressed him and bathed him in the cool water. His skin radiated with
what looked like flecks of gold. Color returned to his cheeks. Franklin led him naked into the cabin and dried him with a fresh cotton towel and then rested him on the bed. Franklin slowly removed his own clothes and climbed into bed beside him.
“Is this really what you want from me?” Franklin asked Tory, his eyes tacked to the ceiling beams.
“Yes.” Tory’s voice came hushed but resonated in Franklin’s ears. “This is all that I’ve ever wanted from you.”
For the first time, they deserted the veil of darkness and expressed their affections in full daylight. Exposed to each other, a new intensity seeped into their relationship. With the autumn sunrays pouring from the windows, Franklin used his thighs to position Tory as he often did, and he entered him.
FRANKLIN’S shadow preceded him out of the cabin, where he stood and watched the western sky transform from sapphire to oil black. Dressed in his union suit, he gazed about his Moonlight Gulch. He could see the vague clumps of the trees and stumps and rocks and, through the ponderosa pines, the creek, black like a mirror, reflecting the white stars. And the barn, silhouetted against the rock face like a specter, stood as testimony to Franklin’s one-armed carpentry skills. The windmill turned slowly yet with unyielding purpose. The cooling breeze carried the ripe odor of the pigpen under his nose. In an odd way, he felt as if he were beholding his homestead for the first time—or, did it seem, like the last?
On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch Page 23