On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

by Shelter Somerset

  “That it would,” Franklin agreed.

  “Well….” The doctor stood and stretched. He extended a hand to each of the men around the table. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll have a busy day tomorrow. More scoundrels to defend.” He wished everyone luck at the upcoming trial and apologized again for defending Bilodeaux, Burgermyer, and Parker. Wicasha readied to take his leave too, promising to look after Franklin’s homestead until Franklin and Tory returned the next day.

  “There’re still some greedy bandits wanting the gold in your creek pool,” he warned. “They might be riled now that Bilodeaux’s out of the picture.”

  “I’m not fretting over it,” Franklin said. “Tonight, no worries. But thanks for all your vigilance, Wicasha.”

  Once they were alone in their room upstairs, the exhaustion set in. The murmur from downstairs seeped through the floorboards, but it hummed a gentle tune. A current of tranquility flowed around Franklin. In the bathing room down the hall, he and Tory bathed together. The warm water, like a wash of respite, soothed his mind and body. They refrained from kissing and kept their three hands busy with washing before the water turned cold. Yet once they had again undressed and climbed into bed, they reached for each other with unbridled craving.

  Under the canopy of haze drifting from the bar, Tory did things Franklin had never imagined. He started by doing that wonderful, warm move with his mouth. Then he roved his tongue down farther between his legs, and a new sensation lit Franklin’s body like a torch. He moaned. Bit the pillow. Wanted to push him off, but the tantalizing tingle forced him to give in to Tory’s nibbles.

  Learning from this novel move, he tossed Tory onto his stomach and reciprocated. Tory writhed, whimpered, groaned. Franklin lifted him by his waist, pulled him closer to his mouth. Blood rushed from his head. For fear of fainting, Franklin stopped, panting. Yet Tory couldn’t get enough of him. He quivered like an aspen branch under Franklin’s touch. Tory, his blue eyes shimmering in the electric lanterns, rolled to his back and gave himself completely to Franklin.

  Raw breath mixed with earthy, riotous sweat, propelled Franklin deeper and faster, until their tongues and bodies combined into one flesh. As he worked Tory, he kissed his cuts and bruises and whispered how he’d agonized he might have lost him forever. He grunted between pecks on Tory’s chin and neck that he could no longer imagine life at Moonlight Gulch without him. Tory responded by grabbing onto him tighter, forcing him into him deeper, demanding Franklin brand him with his imprint.

  “Always belong to you,” Tory breathed in his ear. “Always belong to you.”

  But Franklin’s last release did not mean they had finished. Offering himself in a way he’d never conceived of, Franklin flipped onto his back and, his eyes locked on Tory’s, brought his knees to his chest. Tory stared at him, questioning. Without words, Franklin guided Tory toward him, wanting to complete their perfect union. Tory, eyes dazed, followed Franklin’s silent command. He moved gently at first, slowly. Franklin winced and moaned. Tory’s gaze rained into his eyes until Tory arched his back and tossed back his head.

  Next morning, they awoke, three arms entwined. The orange sun penetrated the flimsy lace curtains. Franklin estimated the time to be close to eight thirty by the position of the sun. He hadn’t slept so late since his stint at the Army hospital in Maryland. Tory, rubbing his eyes, wrapped his legs around Franklin’s waist. Both men were aroused and ready. They made love for another half hour. Franklin had had no idea he could take anyone in so many different positions.

  Stretching with a wide satisfied grin, Tory said he was hungry. Franklin marveled at his appetite. It must’ve been trying spending two nights in a dank cave against his will with so little to eat.

  After a hearty breakfast of hotcakes with globs of maple syrup and butter, mounds of bacon, and plenty of steaming coffee, they retrieved Lulu from Doc Albrecht’s, where the kind doctor had allowed Franklin to stable her free of charge. While Franklin hitched her to the wagon, Tory dropped in at the mercantile to replace the shells and herbs lost during his abduction. Franklin decided to check for mail with Postmaster Jim.

  “Hi, Jim,” he said, stepping inside the small office.

  “Hi, Franklin. Heard about the ruckus last night. Bilodeaux’s behind bars, huh? It’s about time, if you ask me.”

  “Let’s hope he stays there. I get any mail?”

  “Quite a bit. Haven’t seen you since last year.” He handed Franklin about fifteen pieces of mail.

  “Thanks, Jim.” He glanced through the stack, mostly advertisements for farming implements, political flyers, and one letter from his mother in Tennessee. Tucking the mail in his coat pocket, he said, “I guess I’ll be seeing you back in town sooner rather than later, what with Bilodeaux’s trial coming up.”

  “I’ll be there to cheer you on this time, Frank. Take care of yourself until then.”

  Outside, Franklin dropped the letters onto the bench of the wagon and climbed in after them. Tory had yet to return. Instinct insisted he worry, but relief welled in him when he pictured Bilodeaux behind iron bars. The scoundrel’s night surely hadn’t passed as pleasurably as Franklin’s, he reflected, snickering to himself. He grew heated, remembering his and Tory’s lovemaking. Especially the spontaneous moment when Franklin had—

  “Oh, Frank!”

  Franklin looked up. Postmaster Jim ran toward him, carrying a parcel. He reached the wagon and caught his breath. “I darn plum forgot. You got a delivery back in March, but I stowed it in the back since I didn’t know when you’d get into town. I meant to give it to Tory before all of Bilodeaux’s antics, but he had no room on him. Guess it was a good thing. Might’ve gotten lost or stolen. It’s postmarked from Chicago.”

  He handed Franklin the parcel. Franklin gazed at it wonderingly. He hadn’t ordered anything from the big Chicago mail ordering houses since last summer. The package sounded solid when he shook it. He did not recognize the name or address of the sender.

  Franklin thanked Jim, and the postman returned to his office. His mind racing with curiosity, Franklin opened the package with his pocketknife. He found several envelopes bound together with twine. Cutting the string, he counted four letters, each one postmarked last summer and still sealed. His confusion intensified when he recognized his own name and address as the sender. And the name and address of the recipient—Torsten P.

  The unanswered letters he had written to the girl he had corresponded with from Matrimonial News.

  Had Torsten sent them back to him unread after all this time?

  An open-faced note on top explained.

  March 15, 1887

  Dear Franklin Ausmus,

  My name is Thomas Persson. I am a postman for the city of Chicago. You may not remember me, but I will get to that in a moment. A while back, I was delivering letters to the addressee on the four enclosed letters, which I am certain were sent by you. I was instructed by the recipient’s father to burn the letters as they arrived. I am not sure why, but, feeling compelled to abide by my customer’s wishes, I consented that I would. However, federal law prevents me from destroying or tampering with U.S. Mail, so I stowed the enclosed letters in my apartment. I worried over them for many weeks, wondering what should be done with them. I had considered returning to sender, but for some reason I held onto them. By the arrival of autumn, I had concluded to return them to Torsten, your intended recipient, despite the wishes of Mr. Pilkvist, since that was the legal and moral decision; but fate had sent Torsten away from Chicago before I could turn over the letters. The Pilkvists had no idea where Torsten had gone and held no address where I might forward the letters.

  Guilt prevented me from discarding them or forwarding them, since I had held onto them for so many months. Giving them to Torsten’s parents seemed unwise. I again tucked them away in my apartment only to forget that I had ever come upon them. It wasn’t until the arrival of March this year, when my wife embarked on much-needed spring cleaning, encountered the letters an
d reminded me of them. I had forgotten they were there. A new and ponderous culpability possessed me. For many days, I would take them out of the cupboard where I had stowed them and stare at them, wondering just what to do. I had determined to finally burn them, like Mr. Pilkvist had originally wanted, when suddenly my wife pointed out your name as the sender. How odd, to have read the envelopes so often only to recognize the name upon my wife’s mentioning it.

  I believe that you and I fought alongside each other in the Civil War, a stage of my life which I have chronicled for my dear wife in detail, including my acquaintance with you, which is why she had recognized your name even before I had. I was in the 6th Infantry Illinois Volunteers. Under the great leadership of Gens. Logan and Grant, we charged through the western front of Tennessee. If you are the Franklin Ausmus of Knox County, who had fought in the 11th Regiment Tennessee Volunteer Infantry, which I am near certain you are, then you and I fought bravely, shoulder to shoulder, like brothers, during the Battles of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson.

  Shortly after those powerfully fought battles, which God saw fit, as you know, for the land to fall into Yankee hands, shrapnel from a well-pitched exchange of cannon fire in Kentucky devoured part of my left foot. The injury, as you might assume, ended my military endeavors. I recall how bravely you and your regiment fought, and the pleasure we had to spend time with you in camp, where song and jokes lifted our spirits. We Illinois boys were rather stunned at the steadfast devotion to the Union shown by you boys from eastern Tennessee. Even while I convalesced in the hospital, my remembrance of our time together spurred me to a quicker recovery, for which I will always be grateful.

  A mutual comrade, Skaggs Yardley, who I had the great pleasure to run across here in Chicago several years ago, had mentioned your name, and in so doing stated that he had heard from another good friend who bravely fought on the western front that you had settled in the Black Hills of Dakota Territory. Because of that, I am certain you are the Frank Ausmus from our fighting days. History united us as brothers in arms; therefore, I am obligated and committed to ensuring that I do nothing that would cause you grief. I am prompted to forward you the letters, since I believe you might regard them with the utmost importance, with the hope that you accept my sincere apology for failing to deliver them to your intended recipient. Torsten had expressed concern you had, apparently, stopped corresponding. I do hope the letters find you in peace and prosperity. Again, forgive me if my failing to deliver them has somehow caused you undue distress.

  Your brother,

  Thomas R. Persson

  Postman, United States Postal Service

  Chicago, Illinois

  The note fell from Franklin’s shaking fingertips into his lap. His mind whirled. He remembered young Thomas Persson. They had joined the fighting at about the same age, mere teenagers. Persson had affirmed himself a solid soldier and comrade, like most of the boys from the Illinois regiments. Always quick with a fun story to lessen the stress of war, Persson had reminded Franklin of his older brother, who had died from scarlet fever at age thirteen. In some ways, Persson’s quips had proved stronger medicine than the opium that had passed from hand to hand in camp to combat scurvy, dysentery, body lice, and other maddening ailments.

  Franklin held the bundle close to his heart. Torsten, the girl from Chicago, hadn’t rebuked him after all. A smile stretched his face. She hadn’t meant to end their correspondence. Her father, the horrible Mr. Pilkvist, had stood between them. Like Tory had once suggested.

  What might he do now?

  He sat taller. Pilkvist? Where had he heard that name recently? Tory had given his name to the judge during his murder trial. He was certain Pilkvist was the name he’d used. And hadn’t he heard him mention his family’s name a few times since? Tory? Torsten? His mind spun. What was it that Madame Lafourchette had said last night? Tory had come to town asking for him? Could it be? Impossible.

  There were probably many Swedes who lived in Chicago, all sharing the same surname.

  Franklin passed his hand over his face, resting it over his horseshoe mustache, where he allowed the rough bristles to poke his fingers (the same bristles that had often left Tory’s lips red and swollen). He bit his palm. The wagon seemed to pivot. Massaging his mustache, he tried to compose his erratic thoughts.

  Tory, carrying a sack, stepped out of the mercantile and made his way down the boardwalk with a smile. His toothy grin slowly faded as he approached the wagon. Franklin could not conceal the bitter horror that he knew plastered his face like a death mask. Tory stood by the horse, his hands clutching his sack of purchases. Franklin remained motionless save for the quivering of his hand.

  “Franklin, what’s wrong?”

  “Your full name,” Franklin whispered into his palm.

  “What?”

  Franklin kept his eyes straight ahead, as if Tory were still in the mercantile. He brought his hand to his side and licked his lips. “Tell me your full name.”

  “T-Tory Pilk… Pilkvist.”

  “Are you not Torsten Pilkvist from 12416 Chicago Avenue?”

  Only when Tory’s face went white and he dropped the sack did Franklin no longer doubt his suspicions. Tears stung his eyes. How could he? Why had Tory played him for such a fool? He’d never experienced such raging humiliation. Even Henri Bilodeaux had never devised such a dirty trick against him.

  Franklin glowered at Tory. “How could anyone stoop to such subterfuge?”

  “Franklin… I….”

  “I should’ve left you at Madame Lafourchette’s when I brought you into town last year.”

  “Please, let me explain—”

  “You can rot here in Spiketrout with the other deadbeats, for all I care. I don’t want to ever set eyes on your face again. Don’t you think about trespassing on my property like last time, or I’ll treat you like I did Bilodeaux.”

  “Franklin, please—”

  Tossing the parcel of letters into the back of the wagon, Franklin pulled the reins to get Lulu to galloping speed. The mare squealed, unaccustomed to the harsh snapping.

  Chapter 34

  ON THE drive home, Franklin tried to organize his stormy, muddled thoughts. Tory came from Chicago. Of Swedish ancestry. His parents owned a boarding house and a bakery. Walt Whitman was his favorite poet. And the last name. No getting around that one. All the same as Torsten P.’s.

  Madame Lafourchette had said Tory had inquired about him even before they had set eyes on each other. Too much for a coincidence.

  At the cabin, Franklin retrieved the letters Torsten P. had written him, which he still kept stowed in his old Army trunk. Next, he dug among Tory’s belongings in a chest of drawers and uncovered the journal he’d kept throughout the winter. Tory’s handwriting and Torsten P.’s were identical. Straightforward and unembellished.

  Everything coalesced into concrete recognition. Doubt no longer lingered. Tory showing up unexpectedly at the homestead. His lack of curiosity of Franklin’s life because he already knew so much about him from reading his letters.

  And, of course, Tory, in his silence after Franklin had confronted him in Spiketrout, had admitted to his scheme.

  Tory Pilkvist and Torsten P. were the same person.

  Sickness gurgled inside him, worse than when Army doctors cut off his arm. Now, something far greater had been severed from him.

  What worthless solace came from realizing that Torsten P. had not rejected him. She had never existed. And, in some appalling way, neither had Tory.

  Impostors like Tory were the reason why he’d hidden himself away in the mountains. He’d exposed his soul in those letters to Torsten. Yet he had received nothing in return but pain. Tory had played him like a hand at a faro table. And it was Franklin who had lost.

  To think he had given himself to Tory at the Gold Dust Inn in a way that no man would ever consider. How could he have been so gullible? So desperate to allow a demon to lure him into his den?

  He clenched Tory’s journal,
about to chuck it into the still smoldering oven, but he shoved it into Tory’s satchel instead, followed by his other belongings. Fuming, he stomped to the gate and, with a solid one-handed windup, heaved the bag over the barbwire.

  Wicasha watched Franklin from the barn, where he looked to be currying his gelding. Franklin refrained from making any eye contact with him. Wicasha, astute enough to find his way in the pitch darkness without the aid of a torch, knew better than to bother Franklin in his present state.

  Yet the remainder of the day, Wicasha lingered at the homestead, as if discerning he needed to stand guard by his friend. The notion both irritated and reassured Franklin. Wicasha remained silent, only speaking when necessary. But later that night, as they sat at the cabin table eating leftover stew that Tory had made (how bitter it tasted), Wicasha finally asked Franklin why he had abandoned Tory among the people of Spiketrout.

  “There is no Tory. There is no Torsten,” Franklin said, the food tasteless and dry in his mouth.

  “Frank, speak plainly with me.”

  Franklin stood with a harsh skid of his chair on the wood floor. He traipsed behind the wood partition. A few seconds later, he returned with the letters sent to him by Thomas Persson and the other ones Torsten P. had written him, and slapped them on the table.

  “There. Go ahead. Read them.”

  Wicasha eyed the letters, his face smooth and calm. Slowly, he reached for them. One by one, he thumbed through the letters, his expression passive and thoughtful. Eventually, he began to read, skipping every other two or three.

  Franklin turned his back to him. “I placed an advertisement,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, “in one of those foolish matchmaker periodicals. I didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want anyone to know. I was looking for a mail-order bride, I confess. I thought I had found one. We wrote back and forth for months, all during the spring and most of the summer. I fell in love with her through those letters. Then they suddenly stopped. I waited and waited, rode back and forth to Spiketrout four times a week like an idiot to check at the postal office. You must remember how often I was going into town, Wicasha. Well, that’s why. I did it for her.” He began to pace. “Turns out, Torsten, the girl from Chicago to whom I had given my heart, doesn’t exist. She was a joke concocted by Tory. Yes, that’s right. Tory was the one who had written me from Chicago the entire time, proclaiming those things I had assumed came from a woman named Torsten. To further his hoax, he traveled all the way from Chicago to Spiketrout just to ridicule me. Remember how you found him in the barn loft? There he waited for discovery so he could trick me, needle his way into my life, string me along like a jackass. And how he succeeded.”