On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

by Shelter Somerset

  Somewhere in his unclogging mind, an understanding took hold. As the rainy night caressed him, he kept still, allowing the new sensation to seize him. He lay helpless, yet contented. A supple light began to fill his deadened soul.

  Tory had whispered during their lovemaking at the Gold Dust Inn, “Always belong to you.” Had he uttered mere words during a moment of unquenchable lust, a sinister extension of Tory’s game? Or had Tory affirmed his commitment to Franklin that night, a commitment that might have sprouted from his first correspondence?

  Franklin had submitted himself to Tory, permitting him to do what Franklin had never imagined. The sensation of Tory penetrating him had been painful, but he’d relished the closeness, the intensity of melding with Tory’s body. What had it meant? Had an unusual, mystical marriage taken place between him and Tory at Madame Lafourchette’s inn that night?

  Tory had broken from his captivity in a cold, dank cave and rushed out of the darkness to search for Franklin at Moonlight Gulch. Franklin now also observed a light emerging, beckoning him. Pushing him to seek Tory. Yet he balked.

  Always belong to you. Did Tory ever belong to him in the same vein that his homestead, and everything else on it, belonged to him? Had Tory woven his way into his existence much like how the creek curled its way through his land?

  He moaned with one final spasm, unleashed against a withering pain of need, fear, loneliness.

  Franklin climbed out of bed and retrieved Tory’s letters from his old Army trunk. He read them again, each one, by the residual light of the stove. He detected his mustache lifting, tickling his nose. He was smiling.

  Wicasha had said Tory was working at Madame Lafourchette’s as a cook. Wicasha knew Franklin well. Franklin detested the idea of his being at a hurdy-gurdy house. He never did want him to work there, even that day when he’d driven Tory into town after his first night at the homestead. Something about Tory had made Franklin want to protect him from the rowdies. Since Wicasha had mentioned Tory’s whereabouts, an added irritation had compounded Franklin’s misery.

  Shouldn’t he at least listen to what Tory had to say? Didn’t he deserve that much? Surely he hadn’t staged all the love and attention he’d shown Franklin since last September. The caring for his wounds from working the homestead, the gentle touch of his hands when he’d trimmed his hair. All that wasn’t subterfuge. Was it?

  And Tory was certainly no gold digger. Franklin had no doubts of Tory’s sincerity when he’d pleaded with him to never pan for the gold amassed in the creek pool.

  He’ll always be peering in at the world from behind bushes. Wicasha’s words brushed his mind and released a sharp odor, like the crushing of the leaves of the stinkweed. Too much had passed between him and Tory for Franklin to let him float from his life like dandelion seeds. He should at least hear him out. He owed Tory that much.

  He had decided. He would drive into Spiketrout next morning and finally have a face to face with Tory.

  The night sighed. Franklin crawled back under the bedcovers. Sleep inched over him. Like the warm wash of a kettle bath over his achy limbs, wispy dreams swallowed his torment.

  BUOYED with fresh optimism, Franklin rode the muddy trail into town dressed in his Sunday best, rehearsing over and over in his mind just what he would say to Tory once they’d meet for the first time since he’d abandoned him in Spiketrout more than two weeks before. He would maintain a distant air, but allow Tory to speak his mind. They would find a remote table away from the rowdies. He’d sit opposite him with an unmoved expression. According to Wicasha, Tory would be glad to see him under any circumstance.

  Franklin would listen to Tory’s explanation of why he’d answered his advertisement and what had induced him to come to the Black Hills. While listening, Franklin would pretend to mull Tory’s words over in his mind, although he’d already determined his intentions. Standing casually, he would offer to allow Tory to return to Moonlight Gulch where he may continue as Franklin’s hired hand. But they must maintain a proper distance, of course.

  Would Tory take Franklin’s fancy dress as a sign that he was desperate for him to return as his lover?

  Once in town, Franklin hitched Lulu next to the Gold Dust Inn and asked one of the girls fanning herself outside for Tory. He was surprised when Madame Lafourchette approached him a few minutes later with a worn expression.

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Tory left this morning on the six thirty stage for Rapid City. Went to catch the new train line to Dakota Junction. Sorry to see him go. He was bringing in more money for me just with his cooking than some of my best girls with their affections.”

  Franklin had to work the spit in his mouth to speak. “You know what his final destination might be?”

  Madame Lafourchette drew back her lips, painted the same burgundy red as the goose feathers in her chignon hairpiece. “He left so unexpectedly. Never even mentioned he was leaving until this morning. All he said was he had to go. I figure he’s heading back to Chicago. Poor sweet thing. Seemed so lost and hurt. Whatever did come between you two, anyhow? He never would cough up about it.”

  Franklin barely heard her. Her jasmine perfume suffocated him. He glanced past Madame Lafourchette’s fluffy shoulder to the grandfather clock against the wall. It was ten thirty. Four hours had passed since the stage had left town carrying Torsten Pilkvist. He’d be halfway to Rapid City by now.

  He considered chasing after him, but by the time he reached Rapid City, Tory would be aboard the train heading to Dakota Junction. Maybe he could rush a telegram to the Rapid City train depot. But then he deflated, realizing it was over. Torsten Pilkvist had left his world as unexpectedly as he had entered. He had no reason to go after him.

  The light-green leaves of the aspens and the wildflowers parting the duff in the dells failed to inspire Franklin the way they normally would when he rode the trail back to Moonlight Gulch. Sapped of any hope, of any feeling, he found the ruckus of the birds no more joyful than the clamor of drunks and gamblers at the Gold Dust Inn. Mere noise. Empty clatter.

  Tory had been an illusion after all.

  Chapter 37

  THE stagecoach pitched and swayed over the hilly terrain south of Deadwood. The rain from the night before had muddied the trail and caused delays. Tory should’ve arrived in Rapid City three hours ago for the new North-Western railroad spur to Omaha, and then onward to Chicago. He hoped they would have a later train.

  Despite the annoying delays, it was a good idea to leave the Black Hills after everything that had happened between him and Franklin. Besides, the people at the Gold Dust Inn were crazy. He could never endure working as a renter. Ludicrous idea. He had no business there. So why was the pit of his stomach expanding with each lumpy, mud-covered mile the stage crossed?

  Two prospectors climbed aboard at Lead, filling the stage to capacity. Tory had no interest in striking up a conversation with any of his fellow passengers. He gazed out the window, disinterested in the lush mountain scenery that had at one time captivated him.

  “Placer gold’s all snatched up,” one of the old prospectors with thinning gray hair said. “Dry as a bone. Not a thing left, except perhaps in far-flung places no one with sense would go. People trying to scam each other with brass shavings.”

  “There’s some gold left in the rock,” his red-haired companion said.

  Tory glared at them, irritated. He was sick of talk of gold. He turned back to the soggy landscape, beaten and tired.

  “No one wants to put that kind of backbreaking work into getting gold,” the gray head said. “It ain’t worth it. Yep, the streams are all played out. Not one left that someone hasn’t sifted through and sucked dry.”

  “Word is there’s a stream south of Spiketrout untouched,” the one with red hair said. “On someone’s homestead.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Frank Ausmus.”

  Hearing Franklin’s name, Tory jerked his head toward the t
wo prospectors. His mouth lopped open. He cocked his head, needing to hear more.

  “I heard about that dude,” the gray-haired man said. “He’s sitting on all that potential gold but don’t want to pan for it. Crazy fellow. Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “He’s the one who got Henri Bilodeaux locked up for scamming to get his hands on his land.”

  “Serves him right,” the gray-haired man said with bitterness. “I’ve heard about that deadbeat’s exploits. He’s got no right to Ausmus’s land. Even if he is dumb enough to not pan for gold on his own homestead.”

  “It’s more than just plain dumb, it’s plain unnatural.” The prospector scratched his red hair under his hat. “Especially when people are going around starving and without decent clothes.”

  “You mean gamblers, drunks, and opium addicts?” His silver-haired travel companion snickered.

  “They ain’t all like that. Bilodeaux wants the gold for the good of the community, I hear. He talks about using it to build a hospital and an orphanage and other community whatnots that folks could use. Maybe even build a park for kids.”

  “That crooked Frenchman ain’t got no notion to do any of that. If that was the plan, he and some others would’ve used their own gold for that a long time ago. Why is it people only get generous when they use other folks’ money? He just wants his hands on it for himself. He should be hung for what he’s trying to do. A man has a right to his own property.”

  “I think the people have a right to it, if it could help them.”

  “That’s nonsense. People act like vultures on a carcass sometimes.”

  “Bilodeaux’s got a whole plan going,” the redhead said. “Word is he’s got the deputy of Spiketrout in on it.”

  “You talking about the same Bilodeaux jailed for kidnapping and extortion? He got some seven years, I heard.”

  “Yep, that’s the same dude.”

  “He sure is planning well into the future, then. He got some notion to get revenge once he gets out? Won’t he ever let the poor homesteader rest?”

  “Not that far into the future.” The redhead smirked. “He got out a few days ago. Some scheme cooked up by him and the Spiketrout deputy. Walked out of the territorial prison in Bismarck as free as you and me.”

  “Wasn’t there some other men who got locked up along with Bilodeaux for the same crime? Burgermeister and Parker or something like that?”

  “Ralph Burgermyer and Jack Parker. And they ain’t going nowhere. The law don’t help those with no friends or money.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I heard it from a buddy who just got out of jail for shooting an unarmed bandit. But he was on his land, trying to get at his claim. Jury was crooked.” He scoffed. “Was in the same cell as Bilodeaux for a few days before they moved him. Then he had to shack up with that sourpuss Burgermyer.”

  “What do you know? So what’s Bilodeaux got planned for Ausmus?”

  “Gonna waylay him right off his land, saying something like he gonna torch the place and take all the placer gold he can get. Saying it’s all for the good of the community.”

  “You don’t say.” The gray-haired man shook his head. “I sure hope that Ausmus is ready for him.”

  “Won’t bother me none,” the other man said. “Ausmus got it coming to him. The dude’s wasting all that wealth. He deserves whatever harm he gets.”

  The silver-haired man shrugged, his mouth turned down. “I still say a man’s got a right to do what he wants with his own property.”

  “Not when it’s hurting others.”

  It was a good minute before the two prospectors’ words penetrated Tory’s mind. When they finally did, he jumped up in the stage, nearly striking the padded ceiling. His fellow passengers gaped at him. Tory’s heart leaped into his ears, pounding until he was near deaf.

  “Stop the stage! Stop the stage!” he screamed toward the driver with his head out the window. “You’ve got to stop the stage.”

  The driver pulled the horse team to a halt. “What’s going on back there?”

  Tory hopped out. “When does the next stage head this way back to Deadwood?”

  The driver checked his pocket watch. “In about two hours, I’d say. No telling, though. With all the rain last night, a bunch of the stages are backed up. I got a telegram this morning two stages are delayed an hour at least.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Never mind. Please, get my bag. I have to head back.”

  “This some kind of trick?” the shotgun messenger asked, his rifle poised.

  “No, please. My bag.”

  “You going to walk?” The driver narrowed his eyes.

  “I have no choice. My bag. Please, hurry.”

  With his satchel in hand, Tory ran as fast as he could down the trail, slipping on the mud in a few spots. Half an hour later, muddied and panting, he spotted a man fixing a wheel to a wagon full of caged hens that faced the direction of Deadwood. Tory dashed over to him.

  “Can you drive me into Spiketrout?” he asked, gulping for breath.

  The man stared at him from his squat position, his arms frozen over the fresh wheel. “I’m only going as far as Deadwood.”

  “Then take me there.”

  “I got two lady passengers in front.” The man stood, wiped his hands on his breeches. “There’ll be no room for you.”

  “I’ll pay you ten dollars. Please. I’ll ride in the back with your hens.”

  “Ten dollars? Hop on up, son.” And the man gave him a hand into the wagon’s box.

  Chapter 38

  FRANKLIN was clearing debris away from the front of the cabin when Wicasha raced to him on his gelding.

  “I just got in from Spiketrout, Frank. I got some bad news.”

  “I already know, Wicasha. He’s gone.”

  “He sure is. We better get ready.”

  “Get ready? Get ready for what? What are you talking about?”

  “He’s coming for us. It’s going to be big this time, Frank. I can feel it in my bones. We’re going to have a full-out battle.”

  Wicasha filled in Franklin with the news he’d heard about Bilodeaux’s release from prison while he was in Spiketrout looking for summer work. Franklin listened in disbelief. So much had already happened, and now this. His melancholy transformed into action.

  Over the next few hours, they prepared for the coming attack. They stockpiled whatever weapons they could get their hands on and cleaned them so that they would perform without flaw. They dragged out the wagon, cart, plow, and anything else large enough to duck behind. They piled hay as high as it would stand. Franklin insisted he wanted to play no further games with Bilodeaux.

  “I can feel eyes on us, Frank,” Wicasha said once they settled outside the cabin, the rifles, shotguns, and revolvers either on their persons or propped against the table or the makeshift covers. “He’s got some men with him this time, more than a few simple-minded cohorts. Word in town was Ostrem’s with him. Probably about five or six of them altogether.”

  “How long you think they’ve been stalking us from up there?”

  “I’ve smelled their campsite for a few hours. They been staking us out for a while. Planning and waiting. Bilodeaux most likely got back into the area last night.”

  “What do you think they got in store?”

  “Probably try to use force of some kind. I suspect they’ll come in with guns blazing. Bilodeaux has nothing to lose this time.”

  “We’ll be ready for him.”

  Both men kept their eyes peeled around the surrounding mountains and rock faces. They were as vigilant as eagles.

  “That fence won’t keep them back, I fear,” Franklin said.

  “No matter,” Wicasha said. “We’ll be ready for them either way.” He eyed Franklin. “I’m sorry to hear about Tory. I heard from some others in town he left for good.”

  “There’s no use for sorrow. It’s over. Al
l in the past. Wasn’t thinking straight much with him around, anyway. I was in a war with Bilodeaux. War makes men do crazy stuff. Things’ll right themselves. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even find a nice woman and settle down.”

  For the first time in many weeks, Franklin grew annoyed with Wicasha’s silence. He wanted the Lakota to agree with him. Yet even Franklin could not fool himself into believing he’d want anyone other than Torsten Pilkvist. The young man who had entered into his life last summer and the woman he had corresponded with in Chicago—he wanted them both. Knowing that they were one and the same, he no longer cringed with regret and shame for having loved them. But what good were such feelings now? Tory had left. Franklin would never set eyes on him again.

  And as he gazed around his land, with pistols and rifles cleaned and ready, he realized Tory’s abrupt departure was for the best. If he did love Tory as much as his guts told him, then bringing him into a war zone would be unwise. Best to let him return to Chicago, or wherever he wandered next, out of the way of whatever danger lurked ahead. The young man had his whole life before him. Good thing he was gone from the Black Hills, where war clung to the mountains like pungent wood smoke in the air.

  “I got a plan, Wicasha,” he said. “Grab those field glasses from inside, then climb up on the windmill and keep a keen eye on things. Now don’t fret any once you see what I’ve got in store. You keep your eyes peeled up in the mountains. Pretend like you don’t even notice me.”

  While Wicasha climbed the windmill with his sidearm and two rifles, Franklin ran inside the barn. He hadn’t thought of his purchase from last summer in a while.

  Where was it? He dug about, kicked aside sacks, livestock feed, empty crates. Then he saw it. In the back against the wall. He had ordered it from Denver and had it delivered to the Spiketrout mercantile, figuring it might come in handy. The violence that surrounded him required effective protection. The crate of dynamite.

  He traipsed for the creek with the twelve dynamite sticks and other supplies in a burlap sack, shrugging off what he knew must be Wicasha’s skeptical sideways gaze from the windmill tower. By the creek bank, he prepared the dynamite (inserting the caps and stringing the wire connecting each), stripped naked, and dove into the pool with the sack of sticks. He placed each stick strategically in the fashion he’d learned while working at the quartz mine. Beneath the water, he wedged the dynamite between the boulders or in deep crevices, using his hand and both feet. With the lead wire in hand, he rushed to the surface and gasped for oxygen. He swam for the bank, waded ashore, and connected the wire to the blasting machine. Stepping behind a hefty ponderosa pine, he waited no time clicking the blaster.