On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (43 page)

And as he gazed around his land, with pistols and rifles cleaned and ready, he realized Tory’s abrupt departure was for the best. If he did love Tory as much as his guts told him, then bringing him into a war zone would be unwise. Best to let him return to Chicago, or wherever he wandered next, out of the way of whatever danger lurked ahead. The young man had his whole life before him. Good thing he was gone from the Black Hills, where war clung to the mountains like pungent wood smoke in the air.

“I got a plan, Wicasha,” he said. “Grab those field glasses from inside, then climb up on the windmill and keep a keen eye on things. Now don’t fret any once you see what I’ve got in store. You keep your eyes peeled up in the mountains. Pretend like you don’t even notice me.”

While Wicasha climbed the windmill with his sidearm and two rifles, Franklin ran inside the barn. He hadn’t thought of his purchase from last summer in a while.

Where was it? He dug about, kicked aside sacks, livestock feed, empty crates. Then he saw it. In the back against the wall. He had ordered it from Denver and had it delivered to the Spiketrout mercantile, figuring it might come in handy. The violence that surrounded him required effective protection. The crate of dynamite.

He traipsed for the creek with the twelve dynamite sticks and other supplies in a burlap sack, shrugging off what he knew must be Wicasha’s skeptical sideways gaze from the windmill tower. By the creek bank, he prepared the dynamite (inserting the caps and stringing the wire connecting each), stripped naked, and dove into the pool with the sack of sticks. He placed each stick strategically in the fashion he’d learned while working at the quartz mine. Beneath the water, he wedged the dynamite between the boulders or in deep crevices, using his hand and both feet. With the lead wire in hand, he rushed to the surface and gasped for oxygen. He swam for the bank, waded ashore, and connected the wire to the blasting machine. Stepping behind a hefty ponderosa pine, he waited no time clicking the blaster.

The first stick exploded, spraying frothy water and boulder shrapnel for a dozen yards. Then another explosion. Soon they were popping off so quickly Franklin lost count. The boulders roiled, rocked, splintered. The accumulated shockwaves sent Franklin reeling back. Vinegar-like nitroglycerine fumes coated the air. Sitting upright on his elbow and stump, he could see chunks of shiny yellow rock flow down creek.

Gold nuggets blasted onto the bank. He kicked them into the gushing pool, which was losing volume by the minute, and tossed in more of what he could find. Dead fish washed up by his feet as he pushed the sandy bank toward the pool and whatever gold dust or nuggets might be trapped in it. He was glad to see it go.

Water rushed over, where for perhaps a thousand years it had remained a tranquil pool corralled by the boulders. Bilodeaux might claim Franklin’s life, but Franklin would have the final victory. The gold deposits would be harder to get at. Thousands of dollars had already washed down creek. The spring runoff whisked them away faster than the wind carried the dust. The sound was like an enormous waterfall. Then it subsided. The pool was gone.

He glanced at Wicasha above the pines and spruces. The Lakota stood tall on the windmill. He had seen it all, magnified by the field glasses. Dripping wet, Franklin dressed and headed toward the cabin. Wicasha lowered the field glasses and raised his rifle high into the air. He had understood. Franklin smiled at him.

The explosions would bring Bilodeaux and his men barreling down the mountain at any moment, fueled by confusion and anger at what he assumed they had already realized he’d done. He hoped that the barbwire might slow them. So far, it had done little to prevent outsiders from penetrating his world.

Now, he must take his own position. He grabbed a .45 and, with his bare feet, cocked a Winchester between his legs, ready to fire both weapons.

A handful of minutes later, Wicasha lowered the field glasses and waved from the windmill. “Bilodeaux and his men are coming,” he cried.

“How many men they got?”

“About four or five. They even got Deputy Ostrem with them, like I heard.”

A multitude of galloping hooves descended from the north-facing slope. Within minutes, the raiders appeared in the grove. Franklin noted that Bilodeaux had not even the courage to lead. Deputy Ostrem took the first charge into Moonlight Gulch. He scaled the barbwire fence with minimal effort. The others followed. Franklin’s pains building the fence had not even slowed them. In fact, it might have shot them farther ahead with the horses’ wide leaps.

The horsemen filed in line before Franklin. He was certain by the way they eyed only him that they had yet to spot Wicasha atop the windmill.

“You have no business coming back here,” Franklin snapped. “You belong in prison, Bilodeaux, with your fellow convicts.”

“We’re here for the gold,” Bilodeaux said. “Like I promised you.”

“There’re people hungry in Spiketrout, and beyond,” Deputy Ostrem said.

Franklin grunted at them. “You mean the men who gamble away their wages and buy whores?”

“People have a right to a good time,” Ostrem said. “Ain’t their fault they can’t eat.”

“Where is it written a man minding his own business on his own land must take care of people he ain’t even laid eyes on before?”

“What about the women and children?” Bilodeaux said. “Good people, people with families.”

“The people. The people. You’re always going on about the people.” Franklin spat at him. “You could care less about any of them, Bilodeaux. You only want more money and power for yourself. Quit using the lame excuse that you want to save mankind. I’m not stupid. I can see through your specious games, bandit. There ain’t nothing left for you or anyone else, anyway. I blasted away the creek pool.”

Bilodeaux whispered to one of his men, someone whom Franklin did not recognize, and he rode down to the creek, where dust from the exploded boulders was still settling. A minute later he galloped back. “He’s right,” he said. “It’s what we heard right. He shifted the entire creek. The pool’s gone.”

“We’ll take care of you,” Bilodeaux said between clenched teeth. “Get him!”

Franklin rolled to the side of the cabin. Guns fired. Dirt and duff blasted from missed shots. Sparks rained from barrels of guns and rifles. In a flash, he caught sight of Wicasha on the windmill. The men did not know he was there. Franklin scurried backward behind the hay pile. Straw snapped and sprayed from gunfire. One of the bandits fell off his horse and clutched his bloodied arm. He’d been shot by either Franklin or Wicasha, or perhaps his own men by mistake. Wicasha fired off several shots but missed his targets. Franklin grabbed another revolver from the table, dashed behind the wagon, and fired off shot after shot. More rounds rang out from the bandits. They were aiming at Wicasha. They’d spotted him. The field glasses fell from Wicasha’s hands, followed by Wicasha himself. Franklin, wheezing from the dust, ran for him, but shots by his feet forced him to take cover behind the plow. With his attention diverted over his dear friend’s calamitous fall, Bilodeaux’s men surrounded Franklin at gunpoint. Trapped, he had nowhere to run.

Chapter 39

T
ORY
saw the Spearfish-Deadwood stage leaving. He jumped off the wagon and raced to catch it, but he realized the slow-moving stage would take too long. He’d already wasted a good hour riding with a wagonload of squawking hens. He saw a saddled horse hitched to a post, its owner’s rifle and bag wedged in the saddle straps. He looked around. Someone was getting a drink from a well. He must be the horseman.

A powerful surge overtook Tory. He had lost Joseph van Werckhoven in a tragic fall without any way to save him. He was not going to allow Franklin Ausmus reach a similar demise, whether the man still loathed him or not.

He dropped his satchel, containing nothing but clothes and toiletries, and mounted the horse. Grabbing onto the horse as tight as possible, he slapped and spurred the horse to a full gallop. Hesitant to obey an unfamiliar rider, the horse faltered. But Tory’s urgent spurring propelled the mare onward. The man by the well cried after him, his mouth gurgling with water. Tory detoured into the nearby woods to keep the law off his tail, but he made sure to turn back onto the trail heading to Spiketrout once he was far enough away from town. He checked the trees for moss growing on the north-facing trunks, just as Franklin had taught him, to maintain the correct course.

“Please, just keep moving,” he implored the confused horse. “Trust me. Please.”

He rode the horse high and hard. The mare soon melded with his motions, focused on the pressing mission as much as Tory. Mud splattered onto his travel clothes. He wiped his eyes clear of sweat. An hour later, he came into the muddy streets of Spiketrout.

He galloped down Main Street, shouting without stopping as if he were Paul Revere warning Concord residents of the approaching British. “Help. Anyone. Help. It’s Bilodeaux. He’s out to get Franklin Ausmus. Please, help. He needs help at his homestead.”

Without checking to see if anyone heeded his call, he headed straight for the trail to Moonlight Gulch. He could feel the pull of Franklin’s homestead. He was certain others would come along soon. The sun beamed down from the west. Blinding curtains of sunrays draped across the trail.

He did not realize that the horseman had most likely run his mare half the day until she could go on no more. She slumped forward, and Tory slid off the saddle that had loosened during the strenuous gallop. A thick lather coated the horse’s hide. Once the mare fell to her side, rendering her crow bait, Tory, without hesitation, gathered the rifle, strapped it to his back, and raced down the trail.

Using his flair for speed, he ran as fast as he could the remainder of the way. “Locomotive,” the sobriquet his old friends back in Chicago had given him, could gallop faster than a spent horse. His city boots rubbed his feet raw, but he continued on unfettered.

As his muscles heated, he gained speed. The weighty iron rifle strapped to his side failed to hold him back. Sprays of mud and duff kicked up into his face. No time to spare. The sense of doom lay over his head like the sun that rained from the branches of the spruces and birches.

But even Tory had limits. He had to rest, if only for a moment. Blood drummed in his ears. His lungs felt like knives were piercing him. Bent over, he gulped as much oxygen as his lungs could take, and then he raced on.

Chapter 40

“
H
OW
you feeling, Wicasha?” Franklin whispered.

The bandits had bound Franklin and Wicasha together back to back inside the cabin. Their hands were tied and their legs had been roped like a wayward pig’s. Franklin could feel something wet on his shoulder. Wicasha was bleeding on him.

“Wicasha, can you hear me?”

A moan, faint, but something.

“Don’t… don’t worry… holding up.”

Franklin knew by Wicasha’s voice he was languishing. And languishing fast. He had to find a way to untie the ropes, rush Wicasha to Doc Albrecht. Did the others in town know about Bilodeaux’s scheme? Would they rush to their rescue?

He had never needed his friends more than now.

“Shut up.” Jeff McIntosh, a middle-aged man Franklin had seen a few times in Spiketrout, had been left to sit watch over them while the others raided his homestead. He was much older than his fellow bandits, yet surliness oozed from his yellow eyes. “You keep your mouths shut or I’ll shut them for you.”

Franklin could feel his friend’s body growing colder. He was losing blood. He needed urgent medical attention.

McIntosh rolled a cigarette, sealed it with a swipe against his tongue, and lit it with a match struck against the table. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, he said, “It’s over for you, Ausmus. Your Indian friend is already dead. You won’t be far behind. Quit struggling and let God take you. We don’t need you down here no more, anyway.”

Franklin was about to speak, but the sound of squealing and screaming from the horses and other animals paralyzed his voice. Bilodeaux and his bandits were slaughtering Franklin’s livestock, shooting them, and, from the sound of their gurgling wails, slashing their throats, most likely solely for the feel of warm, gushing blood.