On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (33 page)

Often on cold, dark nights, Tory read aloud to Franklin from one of the four books he’d brought from Chicago or from one of Franklin’s tattered ones, or he’d recite from memory favorite passages of Walt Whitman. Franklin always grinned whenever Tory read to him. The look on his face, rosy and cheery, radiated simple happiness. He seemed to enjoy hearing the sound of Tory’s voice.

The best moments were when Franklin stood and stretched after long periods woodworking or sewing and wandered over to Tory and kissed his head for no apparent reason. A frisson of power and warmth would overcome Tory. He’d lay aside his stirring spoon or pencil or book and wrap his arms around his new beau.

Tory never tired submitting to Franklin’s touch. Inhibitions no longer hindered their passion under the glow of lanterns or the ambient light of a snowy day. They searched each other with their hands and tongues, whispering their hearts’ longings, exposed and unrestrained.

One time, while Tory poured hot water into Franklin’s kettle bath by the stove, Franklin simply stood, lifted Tory, and, leaving wet footprints across the cabin floor, laid Tory out on the bed. To the crackling of the wood fire, they made love until a chill reminded them that the embers needed feeding.

“Does it seem odd to you to lay with a man the way men are meant to with women?” Tory dared ask while Franklin stoked the fire. Tory lay sprawled on the bed, naked and spent. “Do you miss the touch of a woman, Franklin?”

Franklin remained quiet, contemplating. His brown skin had faded during the winter, and Tory found the faint freckles on his nose and cheeks delightful. Flames from the fire reflected in his eyes like tiny green orbs. Franklin’s answer? He strutted to the bed, climbed on top of Tory, and pecked him with many kisses until Tory’s giggles left him coughing.

Franklin’s lifting Tory off his cot and tossing him onto his bed that hot and muggy October night after the murder trial hadn’t really surprised Tory. He had sensed the stirrings inside Franklin, as he often did with men. If anything, Tory was shocked that Franklin had acted so quickly and with so little self-scorn afterward. Franklin’s steadfastness had reaffirmed what Tory had guessed from the first time he’d read his advertisement in the
Matrimonial News
: Franklin harbored a strong, strident masculinity—so potent he was like the lone bull sitting upon a hill, dauntless in his desires.

Once Tory had realized who had carried him off, he had relented to Franklin’s power. To feel his body pressing into him, melding with his, had swathed him in a surreal fervor. He had whispered into his ears, begging Franklin to do as he pleased, to take him fully. The days that followed carried the suggestion that Tory had another grasp at romance. He and Franklin Ausmus had become lovers. Not even nature dared to question it. Bachelorhood might not loom in Tory’s destiny after all.

Guilt for having written Franklin those letters chafed him at times, usually when Tory was studying Franklin from across the cabin while he focused on a task. He’d see the workings of his mind comingle with the movement of his hand and knees that he often used as second and third hands, and realize that, along with his unwavering strength, Franklin was a gentle lamb—a man who kept to his own business and had harmed few in his life outside of the mandates of war. At times, Tory found himself on the verge of confessing his deed, his lips puckered, the words poised on his dry tongue. Franklin, annoyed with Tory’s staring, would finally ask, “Speak your mind, Chicagoan.” Tory answered only with flushes and chuckles. He never could reveal the truth.

Could Franklin accept that it was Tory—and not Torsten P.—who had written to him seeking to be his mail-order bride?

In February, they celebrated Tory’s twentieth birthday. With the snowshoes Franklin had crafted from buckskin and pine, they hiked along the creek. Tory, wearing one of Franklin’s hefty bear-fur coats, stood over the frozen creek pool and tried to see down to the bottom. Air pockets resembling diamonds obscured his view. The crunch of snow and frozen twigs joined their light chatter as they tracked a snowshoe hare to the barbwire fence but never found him. Melting icicles hung from the pine branches. The hazy sun warmed their exposed faces.

Tory lamented the first tangible sign of the lengthening days. Winter, sheathing them in solitude, had safeguarded them from all the tribulations of the world, walling off the pillagers. He enjoyed being stuck in the cabin with Franklin, when all he had to do was stand, turn his head, or utter a sigh, and Franklin would glance up with a smile or press his bushy mustache firmly against his mouth.

Yet spring released the fragrances and sounds that tickled Tory. Fever for adventure and exercise, to spread his arms to the Black Hills, lifted him early from bed each morning along with the sun and ushered him out the door. In those moments he missed Chicago the most. He’d reflect on his time with his comrades and their springtime baseball games or strolling the busy avenues where he would watch people and all the commotion.

Tory was not alone with his restlessness. The spring also aroused more agitation from the animals, particularly the hogs. One early April day, when the last of the snow had melted, Tory stepped outside the cabin, wondering why the swine were fussing. Franklin, stomping around the pigpen, seemed beside himself.

“What’s the matter with the pigs, Franklin?” Tory said, walking to the pen. “I can hear them squealing inside the cabin.”

“They know it’s that time of year.”

“What time of year?”

“Slaughter season. Time for last year’s pigs to become this year’s bacon and ham.”

Tory winced. He’d seen more animals shot, gutted, butchered, hung, and cured in his eight months at Moonlight Gulch than in his entire life. He’d read about (and often smelled) the stock yards back in Chicago; never had he seen so many large animals killed. The pigs, especially, exhibited a humanlike awareness. But he understood the realities of subsistence living.

“Don’t shoot that one.” Tory pointed to a three-hundred-pounder he’d named Grover after the portly president.

“He’s not big enough yet.” Frank grunted over the squeals. “He’s got another year.”

“I’ll make sure to put him on a diet.” Tory had grown fond of the pigs, despite the stench.

Franklin eyed Tory in his gray pinstripe suit, blue cravat, and felt derby. “What you so dressed up for?”

“I wanted to go into town to mail a letter. It’s about time I inform my parents about my whereabouts.”

“Is that what you been scribbling in the cabin the past few days?”

“It’s unfair to keep them wondering about my whereabouts. I should’ve told them months ago. Besides, I’m itching to get into town and buy a few things we ran out of over the winter. I haven’t been back there since October. That’s half a year ago.”

“Can’t you wait for me? We can ride in together tomorrow. I sort of planned it.”

“I’d rather leave the hog butchering to you, if that’s okay.”

“Just make sure you don’t dillydally. You might as well trade some of the jerky at the mercantile for some rifle bullets while you’re there. I was going to, but since you’re going…. We used most of them last hunt.”

Tory flushed. “Sorry, I suppose that’s my fault.” Franklin and Wicasha had been teaching him hunting skills, and his wayward shots wasted rounds.

“No worry, you’re learning fast. Get a twenty-pack. We don’t need many. And don’t think about riding one of those farm chunks into Spiketrout.”

“Why not?”

“Those horses are too big for you. Either hitch the wagon or ride Carlotta.”

“Ride a mule into Spiketrout?”

“She’s good for it. Done it myself a few times when the horses were tuckered out or lame.”

“Well, I’m not for hitching the wagon, unless you want to.”

“I’m up to my knickers in pig slop.”

Tory chuckled. “I guess I’ll ride Carlotta.”

“Don’t forget to lock the gate behind you.” Franklin turned back to the hogs.

“I’ll see you later this afternoon. I’ve already got supper cooking in the Dutch oven.” Tory saddled Carlotta and made sure to stuff the large pockets of his buckskin jacket, the one Franklin had made for him for Christmas, with enough jerky to barter with Mr. Kenny at the mercantile. He also stuffed in a handful of oats for the mule in case she tired during the eighteen-mile round trip.

He relished the quiet ride into Spiketrout. Spring was fully awakening. The small waterfall had broken from winter’s icy grip and frothed with a fresh exuberance of snow runoff, not yet full force, but growing. Added color dotted the perpetually lush landscape. Along the south-facing slopes, tiny blossoms struggled to bloom. Pasqueflowers had pushed aside the duff, revealing purple bulbs about to explode. Berries hung from the alders like tiny ornaments. The breeze off the higher elevations brought the smell of snow, but the sun-dappled forest radiated with warmth.

Tory was almost disappointed to see Spiketrout emerge under the canopy of trees two hours later. Main Street lay flat, like a dirty blanket. Mud puddles and fresh horse dung in the street sloshed under Carlotta’s hooves. The wood structures smelled dank and mildewy. Yet most things remained how he’d remembered them. Shouts, laughter, and player piano music streamed from the Gold Dust Inn, where the town folks had probably wasted most of their winter nestled in booze and Madame Lafourchette’s steam heat. A few stragglers hung out under the canopy of the barbershop. Two men leaning against a post ogled Tory on his mule.

First stop, the postal office. He needed to deliver his letter to his parents. He’d decided against sending them a telegram until after they’d responded to his first outreach. Then, maybe, if all went well, they could maintain a regular correspondence by more modern means. He hitched Carlotta and strolled inside. Jim, working behind the counter, greeted him with a smile. The postmaster had several pieces of mail for Franklin, including a parcel he had stowed in the back, but Tory said he wouldn’t be able to carry them and that he and Franklin would fetch them in a few days. He handed Mr. Carson the letter to his parents and headed across the street.

Tory traded the shopkeeper, Mr. Kenny, jerky for a box of rounds and some herbs. Mr. Kenny said he was glad to get the jerky, since he had run out. “None of the folks in Spiketrout seem to do much hunting anymore,” he said. “They are all too busy with their drinking and scrounging. If it wasn’t for all us business owners and decent homesteaders like Franklin, we wouldn’t have any honest customers.”

Tory pocketed the twenty-pack of bullets and herbs in his jacket and thanked Mr. Kenny.

On the way back to the homestead, Tory grew troubled. Mr. Kenny’s coarse words had conjured images of Henri Bilodeaux. He had not thought of the man since before Christmas. Like the other desperados in Spiketrout, he possessed one standout attribute—a keen insight into his own wants. Carlotta stirred too. She halted and fussed, wheezed and squealed. Maybe it was a bad idea to ride her for such a long journey, Tory thought. Inexperienced in horsemanship, Tory tried to use gentle words to coax her. He stopped for a short break and handfed her oats. A pleased palate seemed to motivate her. She settled down, and they got back on their way. Ribbons of sunlight brushed Tory’s shoulders as Carlotta carried him along in an easy stride. The crunch of leaves and duff under her shoes filled the narrowing gulch. Tory thought he heard other snaps. He looked around. Perhaps it was the echo of Carlotta’s steps.

An object ahead attracted his attention. As they neared, he could hardly believe his eyes. A man lay on the side of the trail, holding his stomach and moaning in pain. He spurred Carlotta to a trot and quickly dismounted.

“What’s wrong?” Tory asked, squatting next to the man. “Are you all right? Can you speak?”

The last thing Tory remembered, he was reaching for the man’s shoulder to shake him when a sharp pain spread across the back of his head.

Chapter 26

W
ORRY
kept Franklin from concentrating on his chores. He put too much feed in the horse trough. He’d forgotten to collect the hens’ eggs until their cackling reminded him. He left open the gate to the pigpen after the slaughter and wasted ten minutes rounding up a wayward hog. The sun was already setting beyond the western peaks. They should be sitting down to supper by now. What was keeping Tory?

He took the roast off the fire but had no intention of eating, despite how delicious it smelled. From the window, he saw Wicasha making his way along the field. Relief buoyed Franklin. He dashed outside to meet him.

“Wicasha, I’m glad you’re here. Stay by the homestead, will you? I need to ride out to Spiketrout.”

“This time of day? It’ll be dark soon. What’s going on?”

“Tory went into town to deliver a letter. He should’ve gotten back by now.”

Franklin did not like the lines that creased the Lakota’s face. Wicasha had made a handful of trips into Moonlight Gulch since mid-March, and he had regained most of the weight he’d lost over winter, thanks to Tory’s cooking, but his face still sagged with skin. That skin now crinkled and flexed with what Franklin recognized as alarm.