On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (18 page)

The Indian leaned in closer. His raw breath made Tory wince. “You have the whitest skin on a man I’ve seen in a long time. All the white people here are darkened by the sun, except the whores. You must come from a big city—unless you’re a whore.”

Tory grimaced. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

Then a gruesome thought forced Tory to his haunches. Had the Indian done something horrible to Franklin? Why else would he be on his land? Unsure what else to do, he kicked and flailed his arms, terrified of what bloodcurdling fate had befallen the man he’d grown to love. But the Indian, with one hand, held him supine against the hay.

“You’re a feisty one,” he said evenly. “That’s a lot of fight for one so small.”

“I told you,” Tory said between swings and kicks, “I’m not small. I’ll fight you. I’ll fight your entire tribe.”

The Indian eased his pressure on Tory’s midsection and laughed. “My tribe is long gone from these parts, chikala wasichu. But you’re welcome to take them on.”

Noticing a change in the Indian’s demeanor, Tory stopped squirming and followed the Indian’s dark eyes as he turned to gaze over his broad shoulder. Franklin Ausmus had climbed the ladder and was peeking into the loft at them.

“What in tarnation is going on here?”

“I found him sleeping,” the Indian said. “Won’t say much, Frank. Not sure what to make of him.”

Hearing the Indian address Franklin by name, Tory sat up on his elbows. He’d forgotten about Franklin’s good friend Wicasha, the Lakota Indian he often wrote about in his many correspondences. Relaxing at the realization, he no longer resisted Wicasha’s grip.

“He’s just a boy,” Wicasha said, “but he’s got a lot of fight in him.”

“I’m… I’m not a boy,” Tory said, softer. “I’m nineteen.”

“Is he trying to steal from me?” Franklin asked Wicasha.

The Lakota glanced around. “Looks like he got into your jerky. He was probably hungry. Ate some chocolate too. He’s got his luggage down there.” He nodded toward the ground.

Franklin grimaced at Tory’s satchel, then shifted his scrutinizing gaze at Tory. He screwed up his tanned face into sharp rivulets and stepped fully onto the loft. His hand went to his sidearm. “You a hired man of Bilodeaux?”

“Bilo—? No, no, never.” Tory couldn’t reveal what he knew from Franklin’s letters. Although hearing Bilodeaux’s name twisted his stomach, he had to play clueless. “I don’t even know who that is,” he said.

“You come here to spy?” Franklin’s fingers twitched.

Sweat broke out over Tory’s forehead. Despite the tense moment, Tory became mesmerized by Franklin’s jade-colored eyes. Franklin had never mentioned his eye color in any of his letters, and Tory hadn’t expected a pair so bright. “No, sir.” He swallowed. “I have no intentions of doing anything of the sort.”

“Then what business have you in my barn?”

“I… I… well, I was needing for a place to rest.”

“On your way through the woods in your fancy boots and hat?” Franklin scrutinized him with contempt. “You just happen to be taking a stroll in the middle of the Black Hills, with your satchel in hand, and assumed my barn was an inn? You think we’re fools?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

Franklin lifted an eyebrow. “You one of those bankers from Spearfish or Deadwood come here on behalf of Bilodeaux?”

“I told you, I… I have no idea who this Bilodeaux is. I’ve never met a man with that name.” He tried to maintain some truthfulness.

The Indian stood, towering over Tory, still sprawled on his back. Seeing how Franklin interacted so comfortably with the Indian, Tory suppressed the instinct to scurry from him. Surely if Franklin liked him, he must be a good man. But then, did Tory really even know Franklin? What kind of a man was he? Tory eyed the revolver inches from Franklin’s hand.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Tory said.

Franklin shook his head. “I’m gonna have to barbwire the whole damn property, like I worried.”

“You won’t need barbwire because of me,” Tory said. “I hadn’t meant any harm. I was just tired… and hungry.”

“You still haven’t explained what you’re doing here,” Franklin said. “How did you come to be in my loft?”

Tory wracked his brain for a good story. He supposed he could reveal some of the truth. “I’m new in town,” he said. “I only arrived this afternoon. I came all the way from… from the east. I was tired and wanted a place to lie down, so I climbed into your wagon and used the burlap sacks for blankets. When I awoke, I found myself on your homestead. I was hungry but didn’t want to bother you, so I wandered into your barn to search for something to eat. It’s the truth, honest. I planned on hiking back. I swear.”

Franklin and Wicasha peered at each other. Then they studied Tory. Suspicious ripples curled along Franklin’s forehead.

“He looks harmless to me, Frank. What do you say?”

Franklin waited a moment before responding to Wicasha. “I reckon he’s telling the truth. Don’t look like he can do much harm.” Franklin reached out his hand to Tory. “Come on. Get yourself up from there. Might as well get something decent to eat other than jerky and candy.”

T
ORY
ate the hot venison stew as if he hadn’t partaken food in days. The Indian had left for his home somewhere deep in the hills, leaving the two of them alone. Franklin, seated opposite him, stared at him with the same curious wrinkles on his forehead, his eyebrows knitted.

“I didn’t get your name?” Franklin asked after a prolonged silence.

“Tor—” Tory’s words skidded on his tongue and slammed into the back of his teeth. He couldn’t give Franklin his real name. He had almost forgotten. He needed to practice more caution.

“Your name’s Tor?” Franklin eyed him sideways through the steam rising from his plate.

“Yes, actually, it’s Tory.”

“Interesting name. I guess no stranger than mine. I’m named after Benjamin Franklin.”

“I know.” Tory nearly dropped his spoon. Franklin had mentioned his namesake in one of his letters. He must be vigilant not to divulge anything that he might know from them.

“How do you know who I’m named after?” Franklin again eyed him harshly. “I hadn’t even told you my name yet.”

Tory thought fast. “I heard the Indian call you Frank. I figured it must be short for Franklin. And who else would you be named after but Benjamin Franklin?”

Franklin seemed to soften as this possibility registered with him, and he went back to his eating.

“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble,” Tory said after several more silent spoonfuls of stew.

“You didn’t cause much trouble. Just not common to get visitors around here unless they’re after something.”

“I’m not after anything. I don’t want your possessions or anything like that.”

“Best not.”

Tory let his gaze rove around the cabin. It was smaller than he’d imagined. Only the barest necessities furnished the place, but they were all comfy-looking. The few possessions Franklin had seemed for functional purposes: cooking, hunting, fishing, trapping. Tory set his eyes back on Franklin. “I can leave after supper and be out of your way, if you like,” he said.

“Leave how?” Franklin grunted. “You stowed away in my wagon.”

“I can hike back to Spiketrout.”

“It’s over a two-hour hike even in the best cowhide boots. You wouldn’t last a half hour in those fancy paper-thin city boots of yours.” Franklin nodded out the window. “You’d be lucky to make it out of that gulch without blisters eating your feet like a swarm of mosquitoes.”

Tory stared out the window to where the ponderosa abutted the creek. Somewhere beyond lay even wilder country than Moonlight Gulch. He cringed at the image Franklin had described. The thought of getting lost in the Black Hills terrified him. He thought about the two missing prospectors the horsemen along the Cheyenne-Deadwood trail had searched for and the severed Indian head in Deadwood. He had never considered how he’d make it back to Spiketrout when he’d stowed away in Franklin’s wagon.

“I’ll pay you for a ride back,” he said.

“It’ll be dark by the time we reach Spiketrout.” Franklin stood and dumped his plate into a bin next to the stove. “You’ll have to spend the night here. I can take you back in the morning.”

Tory glanced around more openly. There looked to be no place to bed down. He was both excited and troubled. He had fooled the Civil War veteran long enough. Tory would spend one night. After that, bright and early next morning, he’d depart from his life once and for all, before his deception caused either of them any more heartache.

Chapter 13

F
RANKLIN
lay awake in his feather bed. The previous day had been rough. He had gone into town for a haircut, supplies (he’d ordered the dynamite on instinct thinking he might need it someday), and to see if his penmate from Chicago had sent him any new letters. How long had he waited for one of her replies? More than a month? No use hoping any longer. The dream of one day meeting the woman he had talked himself into believing he would marry had been dashed to the ground and grinded into the dirt.

He had received dozens of other responses to his advertisement in
Matrimonial News
, but none had touched him like hers. He had fallen in love with her way with words. Even her handwriting. He thought she had written something profound in her letters. The other letters he had thrown away. How had he allowed her to deceive him?

He’d kept writing her time and time again, hoping she’d reply. By the fourth letter, dejected and confused, he’d stopped. Why he still kept Torsten’s letters in his old leather Army trunk, bound with twine, he didn’t know. He could not force himself to toss them into the fire, although he had no real use for them. Perhaps he could read them later in life, remind himself what a fool she’d taken him for.

Sighing, he stared at the dark ceiling. She had been nothing but an illusion. She had teased him for her own feminine pleasure. She was no different than the women in the Black Hills. A mere flirt. Perhaps worse.

And then to come back to his homestead to find that young man stowed in his barn. At least his presence had taken his mind off his sorrows. Right now, the young man was nestled in the corner of the cabin on an old cot Franklin had used at the quartz mine. He sensed he was sound asleep. It was comforting knowing someone was close. Wicasha sometimes bunked at the homestead if he stayed late, especially in the winter months, when the sun descended early over the mountains and it was too dark for him to reach his camp in deep snow. Both appreciated each other’s company, but they also valued their privacy.

Last night after supper, the young man had said he was from Chicago. It seemed like everyone was from there. Torsten was from Chicago. Franklin had read somewhere that more than one million people called Chicago home, and thousands more were pouring in each month. Not that many people existed in Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming Territories combined.

Outside he heard the nighttime winds rush off the mountains and rustle the branches of the aspens and pines. A comforting sound. A sound he had dreamed of sharing with Torsten someday. Night birds cackled in the distance. He understood, suddenly, why they were called mockingbirds.

He turned to his side. How could he have allowed himself to fall for someone whom he had never set eyes on? What a stupid idea to take out an advertisement in a matchmaker periodical. Love was nothing but an echo fading farther and farther from his ears. Self-loathing kneaded its way into Franklin’s soul. He squeezed his eyes shut. Would the pain ever go away?

F
RANKLIN
awoke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee. Groggy, he rubbed his belly and wobbled from behind the wooden partition that concealed his bed. Tory, dressed and refreshed-looking, was at the stove cooking breakfast. The sizzle of frying food set his stomach grumbling.

“Good morning,” Tory said to him with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty to make breakfast. It’s the least I could do after you’ve put up with me.”

Franklin scratched his head with a grunt. “Well, that’s okay, I guess.” Half asleep after a fitful night, he pulled on his boots and scuffled to the outhouse. After a short detour to the well to wash, he found breakfast waiting for him at the table. Tory grinned at him while he poured them each a cup of steaming coffee. The potatoes, scrambled eggs, and bacon looked and smelled tasty, he had to admit. He took a seat and sipped the black coffee, relishing the bitter hot liquid oozing down his throat.

“Good coffee,” he said. “How’d you get it so smooth?”

“I put an egg in it. Learned it from my parents. It’s Swedish.”

Franklin shrugged. “Whatever works.” He took a few bites of the hot breakfast. “So, you sleep all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” Tory said. “The cot was very comfortable.”

Franklin chuckled. “You’re a flannel-mouthed liar. But thanks for not complaining.”

“How can I complain after everything you’ve done for me?” Tory said. “I’m an intruder into your home, and you took me in like a gentleman. I’m in debt to you.”