On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

by Shelter Somerset

  “They know it’s that time of year.”

  “What time of year?”

  “Slaughter season. Time for last year’s pigs to become this year’s bacon and ham.”

  Tory winced. He’d seen more animals shot, gutted, butchered, hung, and cured in his eight months at Moonlight Gulch than in his entire life. He’d read about (and often smelled) the stock yards back in Chicago; never had he seen so many large animals killed. The pigs, especially, exhibited a humanlike awareness. But he understood the realities of subsistence living.

  “Don’t shoot that one.” Tory pointed to a three-hundred-pounder he’d named Grover after the portly president.

  “He’s not big enough yet.” Frank grunted over the squeals. “He’s got another year.”

  “I’ll make sure to put him on a diet.” Tory had grown fond of the pigs, despite the stench.

  Franklin eyed Tory in his gray pinstripe suit, blue cravat, and felt derby. “What you so dressed up for?”

  “I wanted to go into town to mail a letter. It’s about time I inform my parents about my whereabouts.”

  “Is that what you been scribbling in the cabin the past few days?”

  “It’s unfair to keep them wondering about my whereabouts. I should’ve told them months ago. Besides, I’m itching to get into town and buy a few things we ran out of over the winter. I haven’t been back there since October. That’s half a year ago.”

  “Can’t you wait for me? We can ride in together tomorrow. I sort of planned it.”

  “I’d rather leave the hog butchering to you, if that’s okay.”

  “Just make sure you don’t dillydally. You might as well trade some of the jerky at the mercantile for some rifle bullets while you’re there. I was going to, but since you’re going…. We used most of them last hunt.”

  Tory flushed. “Sorry, I suppose that’s my fault.” Franklin and Wicasha had been teaching him hunting skills, and his wayward shots wasted rounds.

  “No worry, you’re learning fast. Get a twenty-pack. We don’t need many. And don’t think about riding one of those farm chunks into Spiketrout.”

  “Why not?”

  “Those horses are too big for you. Either hitch the wagon or ride Carlotta.”

  “Ride a mule into Spiketrout?”

  “She’s good for it. Done it myself a few times when the horses were tuckered out or lame.”

  “Well, I’m not for hitching the wagon, unless you want to.”

  “I’m up to my knickers in pig slop.”

  Tory chuckled. “I guess I’ll ride Carlotta.”

  “Don’t forget to lock the gate behind you.” Franklin turned back to the hogs.

  “I’ll see you later this afternoon. I’ve already got supper cooking in the Dutch oven.” Tory saddled Carlotta and made sure to stuff the large pockets of his buckskin jacket, the one Franklin had made for him for Christmas, with enough jerky to barter with Mr. Kenny at the mercantile. He also stuffed in a handful of oats for the mule in case she tired during the eighteen-mile round trip.

  He relished the quiet ride into Spiketrout. Spring was fully awakening. The small waterfall had broken from winter’s icy grip and frothed with a fresh exuberance of snow runoff, not yet full force, but growing. Added color dotted the perpetually lush landscape. Along the south-facing slopes, tiny blossoms struggled to bloom. Pasqueflowers had pushed aside the duff, revealing purple bulbs about to explode. Berries hung from the alders like tiny ornaments. The breeze off the higher elevations brought the smell of snow, but the sun-dappled forest radiated with warmth.

  Tory was almost disappointed to see Spiketrout emerge under the canopy of trees two hours later. Main Street lay flat, like a dirty blanket. Mud puddles and fresh horse dung in the street sloshed under Carlotta’s hooves. The wood structures smelled dank and mildewy. Yet most things remained how he’d remembered them. Shouts, laughter, and player piano music streamed from the Gold Dust Inn, where the town folks had probably wasted most of their winter nestled in booze and Madame Lafourchette’s steam heat. A few stragglers hung out under the canopy of the barbershop. Two men leaning against a post ogled Tory on his mule.

  First stop, the postal office. He needed to deliver his letter to his parents. He’d decided against sending them a telegram until after they’d responded to his first outreach. Then, maybe, if all went well, they could maintain a regular correspondence by more modern means. He hitched Carlotta and strolled inside. Jim, working behind the counter, greeted him with a smile. The postmaster had several pieces of mail for Franklin, including a parcel he had stowed in the back, but Tory said he wouldn’t be able to carry them and that he and Franklin would fetch them in a few days. He handed Mr. Carson the letter to his parents and headed across the street.

  Tory traded the shopkeeper, Mr. Kenny, jerky for a box of rounds and some herbs. Mr. Kenny said he was glad to get the jerky, since he had run out. “None of the folks in Spiketrout seem to do much hunting anymore,” he said. “They are all too busy with their drinking and scrounging. If it wasn’t for all us business owners and decent homesteaders like Franklin, we wouldn’t have any honest customers.”

  Tory pocketed the twenty-pack of bullets and herbs in his jacket and thanked Mr. Kenny.

  On the way back to the homestead, Tory grew troubled. Mr. Kenny’s coarse words had conjured images of Henri Bilodeaux. He had not thought of the man since before Christmas. Like the other desperados in Spiketrout, he possessed one standout attribute—a keen insight into his own wants. Carlotta stirred too. She halted and fussed, wheezed and squealed. Maybe it was a bad idea to ride her for such a long journey, Tory thought. Inexperienced in horsemanship, Tory tried to use gentle words to coax her. He stopped for a short break and handfed her oats. A pleased palate seemed to motivate her. She settled down, and they got back on their way. Ribbons of sunlight brushed Tory’s shoulders as Carlotta carried him along in an easy stride. The crunch of leaves and duff under her shoes filled the narrowing gulch. Tory thought he heard other snaps. He looked around. Perhaps it was the echo of Carlotta’s steps.

  An object ahead attracted his attention. As they neared, he could hardly believe his eyes. A man lay on the side of the trail, holding his stomach and moaning in pain. He spurred Carlotta to a trot and quickly dismounted.

  “What’s wrong?” Tory asked, squatting next to the man. “Are you all right? Can you speak?”

  The last thing Tory remembered, he was reaching for the man’s shoulder to shake him when a sharp pain spread across the back of his head.

  Chapter 26

  WORRY kept Franklin from concentrating on his chores. He put too much feed in the horse trough. He’d forgotten to collect the hens’ eggs until their cackling reminded him. He left open the gate to the pigpen after the slaughter and wasted ten minutes rounding up a wayward hog. The sun was already setting beyond the western peaks. They should be sitting down to supper by now. What was keeping Tory?

  He took the roast off the fire but had no intention of eating, despite how delicious it smelled. From the window, he saw Wicasha making his way along the field. Relief buoyed Franklin. He dashed outside to meet him.

  “Wicasha, I’m glad you’re here. Stay by the homestead, will you? I need to ride out to Spiketrout.”

  “This time of day? It’ll be dark soon. What’s going on?”

  “Tory went into town to deliver a letter. He should’ve gotten back by now.”

  Franklin did not like the lines that creased the Lakota’s face. Wicasha had made a handful of trips into Moonlight Gulch since mid-March, and he had regained most of the weight he’d lost over winter, thanks to Tory’s cooking, but his face still sagged with skin. That skin now crinkled and flexed with what Franklin recognized as alarm.

  “I’ll stick by here and keep my eyes peeled, Frank,” Wicasha said, his tone grave. “You can take my gelding.”

  “No, Tory took the mule. I’ll be able to ride Lulu.”

  “Maybe the mule tired, and they’re resting
along the trail. You know how mules can be. Stubborn as mules.”

  Wicasha’s shoddy attempt at levity failed to lessen Franklin’s worries. He jogged off to the barn. Two minutes later, he came galloping out at top speed atop Lulu. He stopped long enough to shout to Wicasha to shut the gate behind him. He turned a sharp right, reached down with barely a pause to unhitch the gate, and raced off for Spiketrout.

  Tory was nowhere along the trail. No sign of him at all. Franklin shouted for him. No response. The trail, soft from the melting snow, showed clear signs Carlotta had stomped by. He dismounted a few times to inspect the surrounding woods. Nothing conclusive.

  The concern that had nudged him earlier evolved into a pawing fear.

  Postmaster Jim noted the distress on Franklin’s face when he stepped inside the postal office.

  “What’s the matter, Frank?”

  “Have you seen Tory?”

  Jim said that Tory had come into the office earlier that morning, dropped off his letter, then left. That was the last he’d seen of him. “Sorry, Frank. I don’t know what else to tell you. What do you think became of him?”

  Franklin did not want to answer.

  Out on the street, Mr. Tang, owner of the Chinese laundry, said he had seen something fishy when he’d noticed two men leaning against a post watching Tory run about town with more interest than he’d thought normal. But he’d only recognized one of them, Ralph Burgermyer. After Tory stepped into the mercantile, Mr. Tang said, Burgermyer wandered down the street, and he hadn’t seen him since.

  Franklin knew Burgermyer was a close associate of Bilodeaux. He often worked on his ranch north of town. But before he headed there, he hastened to the marshal’s office.

  “I can’t do nothing about a missing person until he’s gone a good while,” the Marshal declared. Deputy Ostrem stood by Reinhardt’s side, scowling at Franklin. “You know how many people around here show up missing? I’d never get any sleep if I always went out looking for them all. He’ll show up, don’t worry.”

  “You got to do something.”

  Reinhardt shrugged. “Like I said, nothing I can do.”

  “Something’s not right.” Franklin turned to leave. “And I aim to find out just what.”

  “Don’t cause any trouble in town,” Marshal Reinhardt hollered after him, standing up to showcase is full six-foot height. “It’s been a quiet winter for Spiketrout, and I’m in no mood for a ruckus.”

  “I’m not in the mood for no ruckus either, Reinhardt.” Franklin disregarded the marshal’s warning as he hurried down the boardwalk for the mercantile. The shopkeeper’s adolescent son said he’d seen Tory come into the store and trade jerky for a box of shells and some spices.

  “Did he seem odd, Scott, like he was doing something against his will?”

  The boy narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his forehead. “No, Mr. Ausmus, can’t say that he did. I can ask Pop once he gets back. He’s home tending to a leaky roof.”

  “If you don’t mind, thanks.”

  With new fears squeezing the pit of his stomach, Franklin rode Lulu five miles north of town to Bilodeaux’s ranch, where pasture opened like a cleaved pork chop. He was unable to admire the expanse of lush grassland surrounded by the mountains. He’d seen the Black Hills from inside most of his ten years, rarely venturing beyond Spiketrout or his homestead. Massive peaks, the tallest between the Rockies and the Alps, jetted toward the sky, darkening as dusk neared.

  “You have no business here,” one of Bilodeaux’s men proclaimed from the gate to his ranch once Franklin reined Lulu alongside it.

  “Bilodeaux trespasses on my land when he sees fit, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I look around his?”

  “You’ll look around from the pearly gates up in heaven, but that’s about the only way.”

  “Listen, Dunne, I know Bilodeaux pays you good money, but you gotta clue me in. What’s going on? Does he got Tory or not? Some in town said they spotted Burgermyer trailing him, and Burgermyer is known to do Bilodeaux’s dirty work for him from time to time.”

  “I don’t know anything about Bilodeaux’s doings, or Burgermyer’s,” Dunne said, peering at Franklin under the brim of his Stetson with cutting brown eyes. “I stand guard here, that’s it. That’s what he pays me for.”

  “How long you been standing on your post?”

  “He asked me to come over a few hours ago.”

  That sounded strange to Franklin. Something was up. His instincts never betrayed him. “Is Bilodeaux inside?”

  “I don’t know.” Dunne stood firm. “Been on this spot since I got here. It was Vargas who come get me on Bilodeaux’s orders.”

  “All right, Dunne. You just better hope nobody’s running afoul here, or you’ll be culpable.”

  “Head on back to your homestead, Ausmus.”

  Frustrated and angry, Franklin rode back into town. He stopped by the Gold Dust Inn and inquired with Madame Lafourchette and her girls, along with the other employees and the patrons. No one had seen Tory. He revisited the mercantile. Mr. Kenny had just arrived from home and reaffirmed his son’s account of Tory’s time in the store, but he hadn’t seen him since.

  On the trail back to Moonlight Gulch, Franklin roved his eyes through the thickening darkness. Still no trace of Tory. His only relief came when he imagined that, once he returned to the cabin, he’d find Tory reheating the roast and Wicasha sitting at the table eager for supper. Smoke rising from the chimney might be the most wonderful sight he’d ever laid his eyes upon.

  But as he cleared the dense grove of aspen and spruce along the northern rock face and craned his neck in anticipation by the gate, no smoke flowed from the chimney. His heart slumped in his stomach. He climbed down from Lulu and walked her inside the gate, too dispirited to ride her in. Then, suddenly, his heart fluttered with gladness. Wicasha was leading Carlotta into the barn. Tory had returned. Franklin rushed to Wicasha with Lulu in tow, yet something on Wicasha’s face stopped him.

  “What is it, Wicasha?” Franklin whispered. “Where’s Tory?”

  “I found Carlotta squealing by the gate, still saddled,” he said. “But I couldn’t see or find Tory anywhere. I followed down the trail a mile, saw nothing. How about you? Anyone in town able to help?”

  His mouth too dry to speak, Franklin shook his head. Lulu’s reins fell from his hand. He jerked into action. “I got to find him. Somewhere, he’s out there. I have to look deeper into the forest. I have to look now.”

  “I’ll come with you. It’ll be total darkness soon before the moon rises. We’ll need torches.”

  “Is it Bilodeaux, Wicasha?” Franklin appealed to his friend with wide eyes. He already suspected the bandit, but Wicasha would confirm what his gut told him.

  The taut-mouthed Lakota nodded. “Yes, I’m certain it is. This was the ruthless act I’ve feared.”

  Franklin continued to eye him. “He saw us, Wicasha. Bilodeaux saw Tory and me in bed together.”

  Wicasha licked his lips. “We best get moving.”

  Franklin wasted no time. He raced for the torches, packed his guns and ammunition and other supplies, and filled the canteens with water. “He can have Moonlight Gulch, if that’s what he wants,” Franklin said, a lit torch searing the side of his face. “Let him have it. Let them all have it.”

  “Don’t worry, Frank,” Wicasha said. “I don’t think Bilodeaux’s plan is to plunder your land while you hunt for Tory. He has something craftier in store.”

  “Like what, Wicasha?”

  “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

  Chapter 27

  TORY awoke with a pummeling headache. He rubbed his head, stretched to sit upright, fell back down onto something hard. Nothing soft like the feather bed he shared with Franklin. It was pitch dark. And cold. But not freezing cold. More like the damp daytime April temperatures.

  Instinct told him it was not daytime but not as late as the darkness indicated. What time was it? He lifted his pocket watch to his eyes, t
hen to his ear. No ticking. He tilted the watch, trying to get a better look into the face. It had been smashed. He tucked the watch back inside his pocket and sat upright slowly, biting his lower lip to push down the ache in his head.

  He reached for the back of his noggin. There was something sticky. The dark on his fingertips glistened when he brought his hand closer to his eyes. Blood. Tasted like blood too. Something had hit him. Maybe a heavy branch had fallen while he rode the trail. That sometimes happened. It had even killed a man traveling on horseback from Deadwood to Rapid City, he’d once heard.

  But where was he? Indoors somewhere, although it didn’t feel like he was indoors. Didn’t feel like he was outdoors, either. He tried to piece together all that had happened. For a moment, he used logic to deduce that he and Franklin had gone camping to get away from the heavy spring cleaning and repair work around the homestead. He must be inside a trapper’s cabin. But where was Franklin? He wanted to call out his name, but something told him to stay quiet.

  What had they done the past twenty-four hours? He and Franklin had worked around the cabin and the barn. Franklin was preparing to butcher the hogs. Tory had itched to get out. He’d been riding Carlotta. He’d mailed a letter in Spiketrout, bartered something at the mercantile.

  Then he remembered.

  He’d been heading back to Moonlight Gulch when he had noticed a man lying on the side of the trail, moaning in pain. Then what? Hadn’t he stopped to see if the man needed help? Yes, he’d raced ahead and perched near the man, inquiring if he was injured. He couldn’t remember anything else. That must’ve been when something struck him. Perhaps by a branch or….

  Perhaps by a person. The same bandit who had attacked the poor man he’d found writhing along the trail. Made sense.

  But something about that man he found curious. He’d looked familiar. He had seen him in town just a few hours before when he rode in on Carlotta. Where was Carlotta?

  He peered around, searching for a window. He heard dripping. Dripping that echoed.

  That was when he realized—he was in a cave.