On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (10 page)

Franklin had decided years ago, when he’d first settled on his homestead in 1876, not to pan for the gold. Not everyone understood. Sometimes even he didn’t. But he had made an unbreakable promise to himself. The gold would stay put. No one, not even cotton-picking Bilodeaux, could force him to change his mind.

A sturdy gust came down off the mountains surrounding the homestead. Smoke from the chimney swept over the mounted Bilodeaux. His form wavered. Franklin resisted the urge to pull out his sidearm and shoot the bastard.

“Listen, Bilodeaux,” he said between clenched teeth as the smoke cleared, “this is my land, legal by law and decree. I was here after the government kicked out the Indians. I got the deed to prove it. You have no rightful business coming around here. I’m tired of telling you.”

Bilodeaux’s gaze from his high mount, menacing and persistent, cut through Franklin. “Laws never meant much in the Hills, Ausmus,” he said. “I am speaking not solely for myself, but on behalf of the entire community. The Black Hills are growing up around you. The frontier is officially closed. You cannot hold out the people much longer. Gold is in that creek pool that sits on your property. The people have a right to it and all the wealth it can bring them.”

“The people have only one right, and that’s to mind their own businesses,” Franklin said, stepping forward to emphasize his point, his hand braced close to his sidearm. “And unless you’re interested in joining Napoleon in his grave, I suggest you mind your own business by removing yourself off my property, once and for good.”

Bilodeaux drew in his heavy lips. He stared down hard at Franklin. “I am not finished with this, Ausmus. There are still matters that need settled. You will hear from me again. Be sure of it. À bientôt.” He turned his gray stallion and rode off down the trail leading into Spiketrout, leaving behind a plume of dust.

Franklin stared after his adversary long after the hurried gallop of the horse’s hooves faded. He shivered from his latest encounter with him. But not due to fear. Disgust sent a cold spasm through Franklin’s limbs.

Frustrated, he traipsed back inside the hot cabin.

“What does that fool want this time?”

Franklin stirred the pot of venison stew. His Lakota friend, Wicasha, had already served himself and was eating at the table.

“Same thing he’s been after since the pacer gold started drying up,” Franklin murmured. He plated himself some stew and sat down across from the tall Lakota, who had been paying one of his welcomed visits. “No wonder three wives left him. That man is surlier than a badger cornered in a woodpile.”

“He’s nasty, no doubt.”

“I hate to say it,” Franklin said, shaking his head, “but I might have to place barbwire around my land to keep that ruffian out. Never foresaw I’d have to resort to it, but if that Bilodeaux don’t stop coming around here making threats, might have to get some.”

“Barbwire won’t keep him out,” Wicasha said as he chewed the potatoes and venison.

“At least I’ll be making myself clear.”

“If you ask me, next time shoot him for trespassing.”

“I only wish it was that easy, Wicasha.” Franklin spooned hot stew into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “He’s got a lot of the law on his side. If he dies, no telling who else might be hankering for the gold. More than just him think they have a right to my land and whatever they find on it. A lot of deadbeats in Spiketrout.”

“Maybe we should pray he dies like Napoleon.”

Steam from his stew washed over Franklin’s face. “Consumption would be too good for him. Let’s pray that he dies like Custer.”

P
INE
mist sparkled in the rising sun like a million shards of diamonds. Deep-blue spruce and pines surrounded the gulch with their usual brilliance. The caterpillar-like buds of the aspens had begun to open, the unfolding leaves green and tender. Rays of sun warmed his face where he sat at a roughhewn plank table he’d crafted from the local pine. Refreshed from a restful sleep, Franklin, still in his union suit, ate his breakfast of scrambled eggs, jerky, and fried potatoes away from the heat of the cabin. With the magpies and canyon wrens yapping in the aspens on the slopes, he chewed slowly. No need to rush. Quiet and peace trickled down from the granite peaks. He relished life on his homestead, a paradise he called Moonlight Gulch.

Gazing at the periwinkle sky, he concluded he had found Zion, with or without someone to share it. With the sun shifting higher over the peaks, he reckoned life could be a lot worse. He would never forget how he’d first come across his land. After he left the quartz mine in ’76, he’d set out on horseback to find a spot to call home. He’d wandered the Hills for weeks, camping, biding his time, waiting for a place to holler his name. One night, sitting by his campfire, the nickering of distant horses traveling among the thick aspens and pines grabbed his attention. Although the federal government had officially opened the Black Hills to white settlers by then, he still feared the Sioux or a rogue cavalryman. He’d dismantled his camp and followed an old Indian trail lit by the full moon deep into a gulch. Shortly, he came into a clearing. The moonlight slicing through the pines and aspens danced off what he thought was flat-lying granite. Closing in, he realized it was a slow-moving creek. Soon, he heard the lush valley call his name. He was home. And he hadn’t looked back since.

The call of an osprey forced him back to the present. A full day loomed ahead. He carried his empty plate into the cabin and dressed. After slopping the hogs, milking his one dairy cow, feeding the horses, cow, and mule, he hitched his mare, Lulu, to the wagon. The morning warranted a trip into Spiketrout to run some errands—and to check the mail at the postal office. He hadn’t gotten around to it yesterday. Bilodeaux’s unexpected visit had set him on edge, and he had wanted to stay close to the homestead to keep an eye on things. Today, he was more relaxed. Wicasha, who had wandered back to the homestead from his camp with the sunrise, had said he’d watch things.

Midmorning sun hung from the sturdy aspen and spruce branches and warmed his back as he made his way along the nine-mile makeshift trail into Spiketrout. A steep rock face soared above him to his right, the meandering creek for about two miles to his left. The familiar cool draft from the five-foot waterfall greeted him before the trail veered sharply right. As he left behind the rock face and the rush of the waterfall, the gulch opened into a sun-splashed dell. Blue pasqueflowers bloomed in tall clusters in sunny spots. Golden butterflies, newly emerged from their cocoons, danced above the yellow buds of the larkspur. Alfalfa—the same patch from which Franklin gathered the propagation for his crop field—filled the dell with lavender sprouts.

Lulu followed the trail onto a forested ridge. The trail, grooved from ten years of Franklin’s wagon wheels rolling over it, climbed the longest of about four inclines. The mare snorted as she pressed her ears into the upslope. Cries of hawks trickled down from the lush mountainside.

The trail leveled off in a wide alder grove. For half a mile, Lulu followed a family of mule deer, before the mother and her two yearlings disappeared into the cluster of alders.

Franklin wondered what type of woman would want to live in such rustic environs. Few women—the sort that he envisioned—sought a secluded, rustic lifestyle. Were the ones who read those matchmaker periodicals savvy enough to understand the type of men who advertised in them? The closer he came to Spiketrout, the more his mouth drained of spit.

As much as his friendship with Wicasha had strengthened during the years, he didn’t feel comfortable enough to tell him about placing the advertisement with
Matrimonial News
. Late last night, after their usual good-natured bantering, Wicasha had hiked back to his camp without Franklin uttering a word about his plans. Wicasha harbored a keen inquisitive streak, one Franklin believed best left unstirred. He worried that James Carson, Spiketrout’s postmaster, might have questions. The last time Franklin had business at the postal office, he’d sent his advertisement to
Matrimonial News
. Postmaster Carson had barely glanced at the envelope before he’d stuffed it in the slot that read “U.P. West/San Fran.” Franklin prayed Jim retained his professionalism once Franklin started receiving mail from mysterious women—
if
he received any.

Two hours and many doubts later, the dusty, decaying town of Spiketrout appeared. The town, both quiet and rowdy, always struck him as odd. Spiketrout, like Deadwood (a town four times larger and ten times as raucous), clung to its bygone gold rush days but always seemed on the verge of waking from a drowsy hangover. The population had declined from three thousand at the height of the gold rush to just under eight hundred today. Only one drinking hole remained—the Gold Dust Inn.

Franklin parked the wagon alongside the barbershop, where he figured he’d get cleaned up before heading to the postal office to check his mail. A trim, shave, and quick kettle bath later (all for thirty-five cents), he crossed the street to see Postmaster Carson. Hot blood seared his cheeks when he thought of how silly his pursuit of a mail-order bride might look to others. He tried to will down his flush before stepping inside the postal office.

Jim Carson flashed him his typical friendly smile when he entered. “Hi, Frank. How you been?”

“Things are good, Jim,” Franklin said. “What about you?”

“Can’t complain. Things back at the homestead going all right?”

“Spring’s keeping me busy,” Franklin said. “Still got lots of mending work, and the planting’s coming along.”

“I know what that’s like,” Jim said.

Franklin, holding his Stetson in front of his pants flap, detected a slight tremor to his hat.

“You here looking for your mail, I reckon,” Jim said. “I got a bunch for you.”

Franklin’s heart quickened. He gulped, trying to maintain his composure. Jim dug behind him and slapped a bundle bound with twine onto the countertop. From his frozen position, Franklin noted three pieces of mail, two more than usual. He rarely heard from his folks back in Tennessee. When they did correspond, they usually waited until July, when the hog farm quieted long enough for his mother to compose a lengthy letter. No one else he knew would be writing him.

“Here you go,” Jim said, sliding the bundle closer to the edge of the counter.

Squaring his shoulders, Franklin placed his Stetson on his head and snatched the mail. Avoiding eye contact with the postmaster, he stuffed the bundle in the side pocket of his buckskin jacket and thanked Jim for his service.

“See you in a few weeks, Frank. Good luck.”

Good luck? What had he meant by that? Postmaster Jim had never bid farewell to Franklin with a “good luck.” Had he?

Had Jim known all along about Franklin’s silly scheme? The notion that anyone might sent a chill up his back. His folly was embarrassing enough without the entire Dakota Territory finding out.

Nonetheless, once outside, Franklin could hardly wait to sort the mail to see who had written. He found a secluded bench on the edge of town, across from the Chinese laundry (he made a mental note to bring his clothes for a wet wash next time) and away from pestering eyes. With a quick scan to make sure no one spied him, he withdrew the bundle of mail from his jacket and untied it, sorting it over the bench. One letter was from the Department of the Army. The second was from the company that had sold him his windmill, most likely another bill. Grimacing, he tucked those away in his jacket for later. The last unmarked envelope, heavy and thick, was postmarked from San Francisco. Respondents to his advertisement in
Matrimonial News
.

His heart beat so fast he grew dizzy. Why was he anxious to read mere letters? From women he’d never had contact with before? But that was the hot spice in the stew. Inhaling the crisp mountain air, he opened the envelope and gazed at the four letters from inside, numbered so that the publisher knew whom to forward the letters to, unsure which one to open first. One letter had no actual name for the return address other than initials. He decided to save that one for last and secured it under his thigh.

The first letter he read came from a twenty-three-year-old Cincinnati woman who lived with her parents. Her family owned a butcher shop. They had something in common, Franklin thought. His family ran a hog farm. She had recently graduated from finishing school in Lexington, Kentucky, and hoped to go off for two years in Europe, “perhaps on my honeymoon.” Sounded a little too sophisticated for Franklin’s tastes. Educated, yet her words came across as childlike, unsure, hackneyed. He took an immediate disliking to her. He set that letter aside and opened the next.

The second letter was from a seventeen-year-old from Rotterdam, New York. She talked about how she disliked working in a ticket booth at the canal, the town in which she lived was too wet, and the house for her family of ten was far too small. Franklin shook his head. Too negative.

The third letter—written with such a fancy script Franklin had to hold the pages in different positions to comprehend the curly words—bored him to tears before he reached the third of seven pages. From what he could decipher, the twenty-nine-year-old St. Louis native currently resided in Kansas City where she worked for a steamer company. She was elusive about her job duties. Franklin had worked for a steamer along the Mississippi long enough to know for what purpose steamer companies usually employed women. “Another prostitute,” Franklin muttered, and he tore the letter to pieces and let the wind carry them across the street to the Chinese laundry.

Sighing, he gazed down Main Street to where the spruce-covered gulch sandwiched the town. So far, the letters came from women seeking a means to escape their lowly lives. Franklin did not wish to be a mere island of security for desperate maidens. He began to worry he’d wasted his thirty-five cents to place the advertisement.

He studied the fourth and final letter, the one with mere initials for a name on the envelope. “Well,” he said to himself, prying open the letter with his thumbnail, “this one couldn’t be any worse than the others.”