On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (16 page)

He turned to the endless sea of grassland, hoping it might dull his guilt, when the woman seated across from him addressed him as if she had read his thoughts. “Are you meeting anyone in Spiketrout?” she asked.

Tory sat upright. “No,” he said, his gaze falling to the roughhewn floor. “I don’t know anyone in the Black Hills.”

He had told her the blunt truth. Franklin Ausmus was no less a stranger than any of the passengers riding with him on the stagecoach. The realization sent a chill down his spine. For the first time since he’d set off on his journey, he understood how fantastic his scheme was. Franklin was not the one person in the world who adored him—Franklin had no idea Tory even existed.

Perhaps his father had been right. Tory had lived with his head in the clouds.

The more miles of trail the stagecoach swallowed, the more Tory realized he should never meet Franklin Ausmus face to face. But he was too close to turn back on his venture now. He really did wish to see the mountains of the Wild West. Franklin had described the Black Hills as another Switzerland. He might as well go into Spiketrout and see the sights, and afterward, like any tourist, return to his hometown—and beg his parents for forgiveness.

The woman turned her attention to her stirring child. Tory appreciated the respite in their conversation. He stared out the window, his private ambiguities churning along with the grinding of the wagon’s rolling wheels.

T
HREE
more passengers boarded the stage in Chugwater, filling the coach to capacity. One of the new passengers, a middle-aged man dressed like a lawyer, refused to relinquish his window seat after Tory climbed aboard from his rest break. Squeezing past him, Tory sat between the man and a cowboy who smelled like iodine. An extra passenger leaped onto the roof. Tory heard him clamber around until finally he settled into position.

The closer confines triggered more talk. One of the new passengers, a man in his sixties with bright brown eyes, told stories of his silver rush years in Colorado between spitting tobacco juice out the window. Everyone fixated on his tales, even Tory, who harbored no interest in scrounging for silver or gold.

“And the funny thing about it all, I weren’t even looking for none,” the man said of his silver days. “I was just wanting to plant my legs permanent on a homestead. It was like the silver came at me out the canyon like jumping mice.” He scanned the wide-eyed faces of his fellow passengers. “But you best watch out what the earth spit up, you just might get more than you bargain for. I got silver happy, that’s what I got, drunk with my easy-gotten riches. Started shooting at everything that moved in the woods. Even distrusted the chipmunks. Kicked up a row shooting everything that chirped under the duff. Thought the whole world was out to steal my claim. Yet in the end, I lost all I had in a faro game in Leadville.” He shrugged. “But I’m hooked now. Can’t get enough. Nothing I can do about it. Settling down on a homestead ain’t enough. I wander all over the country chasing after the latest gold or silver strike, coppering my bets. Now I’m off for the Black Hills. A bit late, but I got nothing to lose. Nowhere else to go.”

Tory listened to the man’s haphazard adventures. He hoped his own fortunes came to him in a much different way. He did not want to find himself wandering the western landscape alone, “coppering his bets.” How much of his hopes and dreams still rested upon the unseen shoulders of Franklin Ausmus?

The driver halted the horse team several times along the way for rests and to kick the mud that accumulated from the trail off the wheels. Evening twilight faded as the stage rolled into Ft. Laramie. The woman with the toddler said good-bye to Tory and wished him good luck in his Spiketrout business, “whatever it is.” Tory, happy that the lawyer had also left, slid to the window and gulped in crisp air. Stars broke out in the eastern sky. A last fan of light swept over the western horizon.

Half an hour north of Lusk, the stage stopped at the Little Bear Inn. Worn out, Tory decided to stop overnight. He climbed out of the stage with two other passengers, including the driver and shotgun messenger, who changed places with their overnighting counterparts, and checked in.

The inn, crowded with gamblers and cancan girls serving frothy mugs and shot glasses, bustled with a dark energy. Tory had never witnessed such a display outside of the 35th Street cabaret. Sweet smoke hung thick. He took supper alone at a small table away from the action, grateful no one bothered him. The server girl, dressed in the deepest-cut blouse he’d ever seen (and uglier than a mastiff), provided him extra attention. He picked at his late-night meal and climbed upstairs for a bath and good sleep.

Unfortunately, before he reached the top step, the housekeeper informed him the inn had run out of hot water and rooms. Dirty and sweaty, he was forced to share a room with a grumpy soul around his age who had boarded the stage in Chugwater. He mentioned he came from Belgium, although he spoke so little that Tory had no way of detecting any accent. Tory wondered why he had stayed overnight after only an eight-hour journey from Chugwater. Perhaps the Belgian was unused to travel in the rugged frontier.

Although Tory took pride in his handling of the arduous journey (nearly two days without sleeping horizontally except for one short nap on the hardwood bench at the Union Pacific depot in Omaha), a soft bed pleased him—whether he must share it or not. Both men slept in their clothes and kept as far to their edges of the double bed as possible. After a surprisingly restful night, despite sleeping next to a stranger and the occasional disruption from the raucous crowd downstairs, Tory stirred first, dressed in fresh clothes, and took his breakfast alone before heading outside to await the next stage. Ahead of the sun rising fully above the horizon, the incoming stage, lighted by lanterns, appeared around a bend in the trail. The two drivers and their shotgun messengers swapped places. Following behind the Belgian, Tory guilefully snatched a window seat.

With a fresh team of horses, the Cheyenne driver steered the stage back on the trail. The rocking of the full Concord lulled Tory and most the other passengers into a snooze. Not too far down the trail, the sound of approaching horses jerked Tory upright. The other passengers also awoke with a start. Tory’s Belgian roommate clutched the woman beside him. Three of the passengers, likely experienced stage travelers, reached for what were probably their firearms. Tory instinctively felt for his breast pocket, where he concealed his remaining three hundred dollars in a cowhide purse.

A group of horsemen sidled up to the coach. The driver halted the horse team. Tory craned his neck to see the goings-on. Above the horses’ nervous squeals, the horsemen and the driver exchanged words. A moment later, the horsemen rode off in a plume of dust.

“Nothing to fuss about, folks,” the shotgun messenger shouted back toward the passengers. “Just some hired men searching for two prospectors who went missing from their camp.”

A sigh circulated inside the coach. Tory watched with fascination as the men removed their hands from inside their jackets where, he supposed, they carried their firearms. An old-timer with black eyes made the sign of the cross and suggested everyone join him in prayer for the lost prospectors, “most likely killed and eaten by Indians or gold-greedy deadbeats.” The passengers obliged him. From under the brim of his derby, Tory glanced around at the downturned heads. Many of the passengers never lifted their heads or opened their eyes. With the jostling of the stage, they had already slumped back to sleep.

Unable to doze again, Tory kept his attention fixed out the window. The sun lifted higher over the grassy plains, casting long shadows from the isolated cottonwood trees. North of Mule Creek, he spied a dark mass in the midst of the grassland, black and strange, surrounded by the expanse of the American savanna. By early afternoon, the black island had transformed into a distant blurry wall. Ripples uplifted and jolted the stagecoach. The lead horses, pushing into the ascent, snorted and squealed. Suddenly, soaring pines, spruce, aspen, and birch trees appeared.

The trail cut a path through a small canyon. Emerald-blue hills peeked around the next sharp bend. The shotgun messenger shouted that they had just crossed into Dakota Territory. Tory leaned out the window and gazed at the granite peaks. His fellow passengers remained unfazed by the spectacular rising of the earth, so rich in green that the mountains appeared black. He realized then that the Black Hills had been aptly named.

But they were hardly hills. Some peaks soared close to what he guessed eight or nine thousand feet, the tallest natural structures ever to rise before his eyes, far taller than the office buildings of Chicago. The horse team led them higher into the mountains. He inhaled the sharp aroma of spruce and pine, a taste of damp sweetness on his tongue.

The trail revealed a treacherous side that came with the mountainous terrain. Old stagecoach wrecks rotted along the wayside. Harnesses and wheels lay abandoned. Flies swarmed the decomposed carcasses of horses, likely shot after breaking a leg. Or perhaps something worse had done them in. Had bandits shot them, looking to make off with everyone’s loot?

Romantic and fearful notions filled Tory’s head throughout the night. He chose to remain on the stage rather than stop over at another cheap trailside saloon. The dark confines, though disquieting (before nodding off, Tory had noticed the latest shotgun messenger standing with a lantern, showcasing heightened vigilance), lulled him into a deep sleep. He awoke by sunrise as the stage waggled into Ten Mile Station. A few miles north, the first hand-carved sign for Deadwood appeared. Soon, a cluster of tents emerged alongside the trail and off into the woods. Columns of smoke from fire pits blended to form an extensive cloud over the campsites. Men sat on stumps and stared into their fires. The thick smell of cooking meats, mixed with human and livestock waste, made Tory cough.

Before long, the trail widened into a road more like those found in Chicago. Brick and mortar two- and three-story structures lined the main thoroughfare and scaled the surrounding hills. The deep, lush gulch blocked much of the noontime sun. Streets fanned out from Main Street like piano keys. Felled lumber littered the sides of every block. The rancid stench of human and livestock waste and food of all sorts hit Tory in the face. At first glance, Deadwood seemed comprised of only saloons, brothels, and gambling halls. The teeming street seemed different from the crowds in Chicago. The people here looked harsher, less purposeful in their strides.

The stage pulled up to a transportation hub, and everyone filed out. Tory gathered his satchel from the shotgun messenger and asked him where the Deadwood-Spearfish stage left from. The man nodded across the street as he handed the other passengers their luggage. Tory maneuvered around the horse droppings for the stage that would take him into Spiketrout. From a second-floor window of a saloon, a painted woman whistled and flirted, motioning for Tory to come up and see her. A few cowboys on the street encouraged him to oblige. Flushing, he pretended not to hear.

The Deadwood-Spearfish driver told Tory he had a little more than an hour to kill. Tory wandered about a block down the street, his satchel clutched to his side. He glanced in the window of a shop and gave up trying to tame his wavy hair. He considered staying in Deadwood and doing his best to forget about the nonsense with Franklin Ausmus. But as he observed the rowdiness of the street, he fretted remaining in Deadwood any longer than he had to.

The smell of food set his stomach rumbling, yet he feared to enter the many inns lining Main Street that appeared loaded with drunks and prostitutes. Hankering for something to eat, he located a nearby drugstore. Joseph van Werckhoven popped into his mind when he stepped inside. Tory purchased two chocolate bars and paid the druggist. He nearly dropped his candy bars when he noticed a jar behind the counter that contained what looked like the severed head of a man floating in some yellow-green liquid. The druggist caught Tory’s shocked gaze and chuckled, as if he was used to similar reactions from newcomers.

“That’s the head of a redskin,” he said, eyeing the freakish spectacle along with Tory. “Rumor is a prospector was camping out by his claim when a rogue Sioux came up from behind and tried to scalp him alive. The prospector, a wrestler from back east, knew how to defend himself. He flung the Indian to the ground, stabbed him with his bowie knife, and then decapitated the redskin on the spot. People saw him carry the head into town, holding it by its long black hair. No one thought it was real at first. He managed to sell it to an innkeeper, but after a few complaints from alarmed guests, the innkeeper sold it to me. I’ve had it for about five years now. No one knows the real story. Sure does stir up talk.”

Tory didn’t know what to think. He backed out of the store, his mouth and eyes agape, and walked into a gregarious pedestrian reeking of whiskey, who hugged him and patted his backside before continuing on his way. Still shaking from the image of the Indian head, Tory sat on the edge of the boardwalk and ate one of his chocolate bars. A stray dog, one of many of the same breed and identical auburn coloring wandering the streets, nudged its nose at Tory’s hand. Tory broke off a small piece of chocolate and gave it to the dog. The dog rolled it in its mouth, spit it out, and trotted off down Main Street.

Observing the people on the street, he noted that Deadwood was as diverse as Chicago. Four men walking by were speaking Norwegian, he was sure. Two nearby spicy-looking women spoke Russian or possibly Polish. Across the street, a Chinese restaurant attracted an ample (and wild-looking) clientele. If he craned his neck, he could see the sign for a tavern serving Italian food. Another sign for a hostel was written entirely in German. Negro men carried on as openly as the whites. And Tory beheld a sight he’d never seen in his life—authentic Indians. Only two passed close enough for him to observe them. They wore western clothes, yet their unmistakable features mirrored the drawings and photographs he’d seen in books and periodicals.