On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (21 page)

“Too late for that,” Franklin said. “You can sleep on the cot in the cabin like before. No point letting you freeze. It gets cold at night in the mountains. You won’t be any good to me if you’re sick with pneumonia or dead.”

And for the three dollars a week, plus room and board, that Franklin had said he would pay him in wages, Tory figured that was good enough. He tried his best to keep from grinning all the way back to Moonlight Gulch.

Seemed his trip to the Black Hills wasn’t for naught, after all.

Chapter 15

T
HE
happiest days of Tory’s life passed at Moonlight Gulch. Though Franklin had kept his promise to work him hard, his first week by his side flowed as easily as the creek running through Franklin’s land. He learned to slop the hogs and milk a cow, pump water into the sluice to water the crops, and snatch an egg from under a hen without getting pecked. Running a homestead, Tory discovered, was a never-ending task, much more tedious than the running of a boarding house and bakery. Yet Tory would not have traded his experiences for all the free time in the world.

The hardest task was censoring what he said around Franklin. He knew Franklin far better than Franklin would understand. The few times he had slipped, revealing information only Franklin would know, he wiggled his way out by blaming his knowledge on Wicasha, who popped in for occasional visits. Franklin seemed to accept Tory’s explanations.

He felt bad for deceiving Franklin. He tried to atone by working extra hard. Franklin seemed to appreciate his diligence. Tory could not deny a genuine affection had developed between them. Franklin had taken a liking to him, he was certain.

That became clear one evening a week after Tory had first arrived at the homestead. They were idling in domestic comfort, away from the heat of the cabin while supper roasted in the oven, after toiling in the field side by side all day. Granite peaks were silhouetted against the indigo sky. The scent of wild honeysuckle wafted down from the forested ridges like sweet breath. By the added light of a torch, Tory rolled dough for kanelbulle at the plank table while Franklin, leaning against a tree stump, sewed a buckskin jacket. It was then that Franklin finally revealed his loneliness, previously disclosed only in his letters.

“It’s nice to have someone around to talk with,” he confessed. Tory detected a pink glow on his tanned face.

“That’s understandable,” Tory said in a casual tone. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t want company now and then.”

“Wicasha’s a good friend to have,” Franklin went on, “but we have our separate lives.”

Tory genuinely wanted to know more about Wicasha. Franklin had never gone into detail about the Lakota’s life in any of his letters—at least not before Postman Persson began burning them.

“What’s Wicasha’s story?” Tory asked, lifting his eyes from the cinnamon rolls only long enough to gauge whether Franklin was ready to talk about him.

Franklin rested his sewing in his lap. Gazing at the lofty peaks, he seemed to reflect. “He’s an outcast from his band,” he said, turning back to his buckskin jacket. “He helped the cavalry scout out the Sioux back in the ’70s.”

“I thought he
was
Sioux?”

“He is. A Lakota, part of the Sioux Nation.”

Tory’s hands stiffened. “Then how did he come to fight against his own people?”

“It’s a long story,” Franklin said, “one even I don’t fully know. But I do know Wicasha supported the United States like the Crow did.”

“That must’ve been difficult for him.”

“I reckon he’s got his reasons. He’s a good man. That’s all that matters to me. What he did or why, that’s all in the past. He’s a decorated war veteran, even traveled to Washington to get a medal.”

“No kidding?”

Franklin recounted how Wicasha had led scouting missions into Sioux land with thousands of Custer’s troops at his back. He and other Crow soldiers easily blended into the natural surroundings and could track warrior bands with little detection. He was fluent in French, the language he learned from his father, who had been taught it as a boy by French fur traders, which enhanced his handiness in dealing with Sioux resisters. His understanding of the quirks of the Black Hills had earned him respect from soldiers and commanders alike.

The Lakota outcast lived deeper in the Hills than Franklin, inaccessible by wagon or even most animal stock. He had found the spot soon after he and Franklin had left the quartz mine, where they had become fast friends. He came across Franklin’s homestead while wandering the Hills in search of what he had said was “Wakan Tanka”—God. Soon after, he settled nearby, beyond the hillocks. Wicasha was known by his fellow Lakota as “Chachola”—without friends.

Franklin called him by the basic Lakota word Wicasha, which simply meant “brave man.”

“I guess it makes sense why you two would be friends,” Tory said. “You’re both decorated veterans and you both live apart from others.”

Franklin smiled into the dancing torchlight. Chatter from the wrens and finches filled the short silence. “I guess you’re right about that,” he said.

“Weren’t you afraid of any of the other Indians when you first moved out here?” Tory said. “They all can’t be friendly like Wicasha.”

“I never had much trouble with them.” Franklin shook his head. “The federal government allotted the Black Hills to the local Sioux by treaty, but by the time I moved in, the settlers and gold prospectors had forced most of them out.”

Gold. Seemed one couldn’t talk about the Black Hills without mentioning gold. Tory knew Franklin sat on a fortune of it, yet he refrained from prospecting. Ever since reading his letter when Franklin had mentioned his troubles with Bilodeaux, Tory had wondered why.

“Did you ever consider prospecting?” he asked.

“I have no need for gold.” Franklin’s shoulders tightened as he worked the needle and thread with his one hand while balancing the jacket on his knees. “The boom didn’t come until a few years after I got here. Custer and his men found the easy-gotten gold in the streams in Deadwood Gulch. When news broke out the gold was coming out of streams like bonytail biting on fishing hooks, the bevy marched in. Towns sprung up overnight. People like things that come simple and painless. I found out the easier things come, the greedier people get.”

“You mean like that Frenchman?” Tory said, spreading cinnamon butter over the dough with a spatula while waving away two black flies.

“He’s French Canadian. And yes, like him. He’s been scheming to get his hands on whatever streams and creeks in the Hills haven’t been tapped of gold. Dams the streams, takes in so much gold you’d think he’d be happy with what he got. But he wants more. Says it’s for the good of the community, but he always pockets for himself what he gets.”

“Won’t the marshal help you?”

“Reinhardt’s no use to me. He’s more concerned about losing his hair than holding up the law. Besides, Bilodeaux’s got him in his hip pocket.”

Tory had started to take a liking to Franklin’s southern twang. It sang to him like the rustle of the leaves in the lush forest. “Did you ever think about prospecting the gold anyway?” Tory asked.

“Nope, never,” Franklin said, a frown stretching his mustache. “Nature’s given me all I need right here without assaulting her for gold. I seen it turn decent men into scoundrels overnight. I’m comfortable with the way things are. I plan on dying here in my old age.” He lowered his head. “Was planning on marrying, but I guess that won’t be happening.”

Tory grimaced. He still could not get past having caused Franklin emotional pain. If only he could atone for misleading Franklin. What would Franklin do if Tory ever revealed his true identity? He gazed toward the murky mountain peaks where the granite rock face edged closest to the creek. Dark clouds eased over the Hills from the west and obscured many of the higher peaks. A sign to keep his mouth shut, Tory figured. Franklin Ausmus would probably kill him if he ever learned the truth.

“What domestic bliss.”

Tory and Franklin looked over to see Wicasha strolling toward the cabin. He was wearing that same odd grin on his face that Tory had noticed the past week. Apparently Franklin had taken note of it too.

“What’s with you, Wicasha? You been smiling like a damn fool lately.”

Wicasha snorted through his broad nose. “I’m not the one who’s been smiling like a fool.”

The silence that followed forced Tory to think. Franklin had been smiling a lot lately. He had no idea if Franklin smiled regularly, but he speculated it did not come easy to him. Unlike most of the weathered men of the Black Hills (many with brown-and-white road maps for faces), Franklin’s face was devoid of laugh lines.

Tory wondered if Franklin enjoyed his new company more than he let on. Wicasha had a way of forcing issues to the surface. Tory was growing to like him more and more.

“I haven’t been smiling any,” Franklin said, turning his attention back to his sewing. “You come here just to make stupid comments?”

“No, I’m here like always to keep you company, but I see you don’t need me for that much anymore.”

Tory had never considered that he might have taken Wicasha’s place. The two frontiersmen lived as loners and had become each other’s only steady companion. He realized the Indian had visited less and less. He wanted to make it up to Wicasha. When Wicasha turned to leave, Tory called for him. Wicasha gazed at him, the torchlight throwing dark shadows around his eyes and mouth.

“Why don’t you stay for supper?” Tory said. “There’s a venison roast in the oven with potatoes and carrots and some wild mushrooms I found in the woods. And I’m making kanelbulle for dessert.”

“You’re making what?”

“Kanelbulle. Swedish cinnamon rolls.”

Wicasha’s taut mouth formed into a soft grin. He sat down next to Tory and watched him cut the rolled dough into two-inch portions.

“Swedish, huh?” he said, eyes wide.

“Ja,” Tory said, chuckling. “Just like my pappa makes.”

Chapter 16

“W
OO
-
HOO
!”

Wicasha dove into the creek pool with a splash, followed by Franklin. Small waves broke against the bank, where Tory stood looking on, unsure whether he should undress and join them. He desperately needed a bath. When he’d mentioned he was going to the creek to “freshen up” before starting supper, he hadn’t expected Franklin to declare, “A peach of an idea,” and dash to the natural pool along with Wicasha before Tory even had a chance to lift his feet.

Hidden behind a cluster of alder bushes, he gaped at Franklin and Wicasha’s clothes strewn in a trail. Modesty most often circumvented Tory, but he felt bashful in front of Franklin. Realizing he had no way of avoiding it, he kicked off his boots, slipped off his work clothes and undergarments, and carefully draped them over a bush, all while keeping a close eye on Franklin and Wicasha. When their backs were turned, he ran for the pool and jumped in. Surfacing, he gulped a mouthful of air.

Several yards away, Franklin and Wicasha splashed and frolicked. The sun sparkled off the spraying water like it was quartz. Franklin ran naked to the cabin and returned a moment later, brandishing what looked like a cake of lye soap. Knee-deep in the creek, Franklin rubbed his body clean with the soap, stretching his legs, limber as a housecat with one arm. Within minutes, the water around his knees bubbled with soapy froth.

Tory could hardly peel his eyes off Franklin’s glistening, sinewy body. Veins twined around the muscles on his forearm and calves. Water dripped from his horseshoe mustache and down his hardened chest and stomach. It was the first time Tory had seen his stump in the flesh, outside of a sleeve. He moved it as naturally as his left arm.

Sitting on a smoothed granite rock, Wicasha shouted for the soap. Franklin tossed it to him. Wicasha’s thighs bulged as thick as pine trunks. But it was Franklin who captivated him. The missing arm failed to detract from his handsome looks. In a way, it accentuated his ruggedness. He had been wounded in battle, a brave warrior, with the stump more a testament to his courage than any government-issued ribbon or medal.