On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (17 page)

Tory was relieved to board the stage with a group of smart-looking men and women about his age who said they were heading to the Spearfish Normal School to earn teaching certificates. Happy for the politer company, he braced himself for his final destination. So close to Spiketrout, he realized with a start he had planned little for his excursion. He had depleted so much energy focusing on Franklin Ausmus he’d forgotten to consider practicalities, like lodging. On some absurd level, he’d figured Franklin Ausmus might provide him shelter. But that could never be.

The jarring trip farther up the hills and through narrow gulches took another three hours. They arrived in Spiketrout with the afternoon sun resting above the pines and aspens atop the western slopes. Many of Spiketrout’s buildings appeared uninhabitable, either boarded up—which vandals had clearly ignored—or leaning over as if they were falling asleep. The roof of one small structure had caved in and been left to rot. About a quarter the size of Deadwood, Spiketrout had only one visible inn—the Gold Dust Inn, which was marked as the staging station for the Deadwood-Spearfish line.

Tory was the sole passenger to debark in Spiketrout. He felt abandoned watching the stage carrying the students from the Normal School continue on to Spearfish without him. Alone, he looked up and down the dusty street, unsure where to go or what to do. A spicy-looking woman twirling a parasol stood outside the Gold Dust Inn. She seemed amicable despite her domineering stature. As he neared, the smell of her jasmine perfume overwhelmed him. Music from a player piano oozed onto the street.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you know if this inn has any vacancies?” he asked.

The woman tilted her parasol away from her face. The afternoon sun revealed ruby lips, painted cheeks, and blue eye shadow clear to her eyebrows. Under the wisps of her thick eyelashes, she scanned Tory from his gaiters to his derby. “I’m the proprietress of the Gold Dust Inn. We got some rooms left. You looking to stay a while, honey?”

“I might need a place to stay for a few days. I’m new in town.”

“I can see that, honey. You’re about as wet behind the ears as I’ve seen around here. I saw you get off the stage. Most don’t stop here for good no more, not since the gold’s dried up. What brings a boy like you to Spiketrout? You’re a little late for the gold rush.”

“I’m not here for gold. I’m exploring, I suppose.”

The woman threw her head back and laughed. Baubles hanging from her earlobes bounced and swayed. She twirled her parasol like a windmill in a storm. “I figure it’s about time we started getting some tourists out here,” she said.

“I’m not actually a tourist.” Tory flushed. “At least I don’t consider myself to be.” He pondered how much to reveal about his travels. Perhaps she might be of some help to him. “Do you know the whereabouts of a Franklin Ausmus?”

“Frank?”

“I suppose so, ma’am. I believe he lives on a homestead outside of Spiketrout, but I’m unsure in which direction.”

She pointed her long painted fingernail across the street, where a group of men were gathered outside a barbershop. “That’s Frank right over there.”

Tory nearly dropped his bag. He followed her gaze to the group of about four or five men. Composing himself, he studied the face of each man, wondering which one belonged to Franklin. When the one wearing a buckskin outfit turned fully toward Tory, he recognized the right sleeve rolled above where the elbow would be, the only one among them with one arm. He had not exaggerated the description of himself in his advertisement—
tall, good-looking
.

He looked exactly how Tory had pictured him. Dark-brown, wavy hair that matched the color of his horseshoe mustache fell from under a cowboy hat to his broad shoulders. Tight buckskin revealed a man accustomed to heavy labor. Qualms Tory had had earlier seemed to vanish. Franklin hadn’t existed as a dream or a dime novel character. He was real. Flesh and blood.

“What do you want with Frank?” the proprietress asked.

“I know him in passing,” Tory said, still gazing across the street. “I doubt he’d remember me.”

“So you want a room, honey?” she asked after a pause.

“I’ll check in later. Thank you for all your hospitality.” Tory needed to get a closer look at Franklin before he left for his homestead. Clutching his satchel, he crossed the street without a backward glance at the painted woman and retreated behind a parked wagon, where he could watch Franklin undetected.

Franklin shook hands with one of the men and stepped inside a nearby mercantile. The weight of the surrounding gulch pressed on Tory’s shoulders while he waited for Franklin to reemerge. A handful of minutes later, he came out carrying a crate marked “explosives.” Tory marveled how he balanced the box with his one arm and stump. He carefully slid the crate into the back of a wagon, then crossed the street to the postal office. In short time, Franklin stepped back onto the boardwalk. Tory stooped lower and peered around the wagon to study his face. He looked dejected, sad. Next, Franklin walked back to the same wagon, tossed what looked like a Montgomery Ward catalog onto the bench, and headed straight for the Gold Dust Inn across the street. Tory followed him.

When Tory got to the inn, he stood by the door and gazed around. The inn, half-full of gamblers and carousers, reeked of tobacco smoke and alcohol. One of his favorite tunes rolled out of the player piano, “Oh, Dem Old Golden Slippers.” A yellow cat brushed against his legs, stretched, then darted for the stairs. Looking up, Tory saw Franklin’s reflection in the mirror above the bar. Tory had never seen anyone look so gloomy and angry at the same time. The bartender slid Franklin a mug of frothy beer.

What had made Franklin so angry in such quick fashion? He’d gone into the postal office a happy man and emerged desolate-looking. Suddenly, the answer grabbed Tory around his throat. Franklin had gone into the postal office to see if “Torsten P.” from Chicago had sent him any letters. The poor man must still be hoping she’d written. What else could it be? He must be heartbroken thinking that she’d rejected him. What a mess Tory had made of things. Maybe he should have sent him a written explanation from the train.

He had never considered the impact his letters might have on Franklin when he’d first decided to write him. He had allowed his own selfish motives to blur reason. His self-interest had buoyed a lonely man’s hopes for companionship and ground them into dust.

The painted proprietress stepped up beside him. “Well, why don’t you go and talk with your long-lost friend, honey? He sure does look like he could use one.”

“I can’t, not yet.” Cheeks burning, he dashed out the door and across the street, where he cursed himself for having misled Franklin all those months. Yet Tory’s shame propelled him to long for Franklin all the more. He couldn’t leave him. Not after such a long journey. Not now, when the veteran shouldered so much sorrow. He had to console him, without fretting about why.

With no eyes upon him, he climbed into the back of Franklin’s wagon, careful to avoid the crate of dynamite, and hid under several burlap sacks. He rested his head on his satchel and waited for Franklin to come. It was the first time in a full day that he’d been able to lay supine, and the heat under the sacks tired him. As rhythms from the street faded into a monotonous hum, his dreams carried him adrift above the surrounding gulch.

Chapter 12

H
E
AWOKE
to jostling and rocking. Rubbing his eyes, he realized the wagon was moving. Stealthily, he peeked out from under the burlap. Franklin was conveying him along a narrow trail surrounded by towering blue-green pines and spruce. A deep gulch veiled the trail in a dark shadow. He checked his pocket watch. He had slept a good hour.

From his concealment, he watched the gulch deepen. A sharp bend in the trail revealed a waterfall as tall as he was, gurgling with cooling froth. He resisted the urge to sit up to take in more of the scenery. He spied ravens clustered in the pines and aspens. The trail followed along the creek for another half hour all the way into a clearing. Soon after, the wagon turned sharply and stopped.

Tory ducked back under the sacks. He heard Franklin descend from the wagon and walk to the back. The horse nickered. Next, he heard Franklin pull the crate of explosives from the wagon. A low grunt followed by fading footsteps assured Tory Franklin had left. He waited a few minutes for the silence to seep in before folding back the burlap. Cool air refreshed him. The temperature was a good ten degrees cooler at Franklin’s homestead than in Spiketrout.

Watchful, he raised his head to eye level above the side. The small homestead stole his breath. This was the paradise Franklin had described with so much passion in his letters. Difficult to believe he was seeing it with his own eyes—Moonlight Gulch.

Green mountains topped with granite fists soared on all sides. A sheer granite rock face towered from the creek to the horizon. Another smaller one extended along a small field of crops. What looked like string beans, potatoes, and leafy greens grew from the rich soil. Yellow alfalfa swayed in the breeze around the edge of the field. Tory noted that Franklin had worked the land with plow trails and irrigation ditches. Franklin’s small barn rose near a henhouse and pigpen. Built into a hillside, a storage barn was barely noticeable. A windmill, the one Franklin had purchased from Chicago, worked steadily by a well. And anchored in the middle of it all was Franklin’s small cabin, a column of smoke rising from the chimney.

Franklin stepped out of the barn. Tory hunkered down, his heart racing. He heard the clinking of leather and iron. Franklin was unhitching the horse. The sound of the horse’s hooves abated as Franklin led it to the barn. Carefully, Tory raised his eyes above the side just enough to watch Franklin exit the barn, his shoulders still slumped, and slog inside the cabin.

With Franklin out of sight, Tory clutched his bag and climbed out of the wagon. He stole away behind the barn should Franklin unexpectedly emerge from the cabin and detect him. The smell of roasted venison set his stomach growling. He wondered if he could reach the storage barn. Potatoes, greens, or cured meats might be stored there. But the dash across the stump-covered grassy field would be too risky. He dodged inside the barn instead.

A dairy cow, a mule, and two horses greeted him. He gestured for them to keep quiet. They stirred a bit but eventually settled into their own world. For a moment, Tory inhaled the rich smell of livestock, enjoying his first genuine moment of privacy since he’d left his home on Chicago Avenue three days ago.

He edged about the barn, searching for food. An odd pile of barbwire lay in a corner. The crate of dynamite sat beside it. Then he remembered the one remaining chocolate bar he’d purchased in Deadwood from the druggist with the gruesome Indian head. He nearly ate it in one bite, the melting chocolate gooey and scrumptious.

In the barn’s loft, strips of meat cured on wooden poles. Tory’s mouth instantly watered. Still hungry, he dropped his bag, climbed the ladder, and pulled down one strip. Within seconds, he devoured it. Another strip went equally as quickly.

A sting of drowsiness weakened his legs. Too tired to worry about anything but lying down, he sprawled over a bed of hay and again floated off to sleep.

H
E
STIRRED
, grumpy, swatting at his father’s nudging. He wished he would leave him be. Just ten more minutes, he wanted to yell. But he wondered: How could his father be pestering him? He was not home in Chicago. His father was a thousand miles away. His eyes flashed open. A large Indian crouched over him, staring straight into his eyes. Tory shot upright. He shook his head, trying to rouse his senses. Like those in Deadwood, he wore Western clothes, but his burgundy skin, broad nose, and coal-black hair could only belong to an Indian.

Tory scurried backward against the wall. “Don’t… don’t you touch me,” he said, wanting to inflict warning into his wavering voice.

The Indian held the wrapper from Tory’s chocolate bar. He glanced at it with a wrinkled forehead then gazed back at Tory. “What’re you doing in here?”

Tory imagined the most horrific scenario, like those he’d read in Wild West dime novels. Was the Indian going to scalp him? “Stay away from me,” Tory said, kicking straw at him. “Stay away.”

The Indian chucked the candy wrapper over his shoulder. “You’re a chikala wasichu.”

“W-what?”

“Tiny white man.”

“I’m… I’m not tiny. I’m five feet five.”

“You look like a chikala wasichu to me.”

His near-perfect English bewildered Tory. “Leave me be, please.”

The Indian narrowed his dark eyes, as black as onyx, and seemed to study him. He scanned Tory from his derby to the tips of his gaiters. “You have stylish clothes and wear fancy boots. You’re not from here. You live in the big city.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Now, please, leave me alone.”

“Why does a wealthy-looking city boy want to steal from a small homesteader?”

“I’m not wealthy, and I’m not stealing from anyone.”