On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (12 page)

He imagined what Franklin must look like. He had said he was tall in his advertisement, but little else. Tory suspected he must be powerfully built if he ran a homestead single-handedly. Tory gazed at the letter, his breath catching. Franklin’s handwriting was shaky, as if he were using the wrong hand to write, yet his words stood out bold and confident.

Perhaps he should wait a few days before responding. He did not wish to appear too eager. But Franklin had responded in quick fashion. He had been living without companionship in the Black Hills for ten years. How desperate must he be?

A jolt of jealousy raced along Tory’s body. Had Franklin corresponded with others? He shook his head and chuckled. What difference did it make? He could never meet Franklin under any circumstances. Besides, Franklin deserved other correspondents. Actual women, no doubt.

After rereading the letter four more times, he took out his lead pencil and tablet from his desk drawer. Without further delay, he wrote the rugged man living in Dakota Territory a heartfelt reply.

May 14, 1886

Dear Franklin,

I received your letter today with gladness in my heart. Your life in the Black Hills sounds more exciting than what I read in the silly Wild West dime novels I sometimes buy from the street vendors in Chicago. People say your part of the country has beauty matched only by the glory of California’s mountain parks. I can imagine how awe-inspiring everything must be to behold.

How is the weather there this time of year? Springtime has arrived in Chicago. The weather is warm for May. We usually do not warm up until around mid-June. I expect the thermometer to fall any day. One of my former teachers informed me Lake Michigan affects Chicago’s weather in unusual ways. It’s more than a lake, however; it spreads as wide as the largest seas. I tried once to look across the other side to the state of Michigan; I saw only more water. Are there large bodies of water in Dakota Territory?

I have never traveled west of Madison, Wisconsin. But I have seen the eastern states. My sister lives in Washington, D.C. I had the great fortune to visit her a few summers back. The journey excited me, for I was able to see other states. My dream is to one day visit each of the thirty-eight states and their capitals. Do you think Dakota will ever be admitted to the union? From what I read, many people are moving there. Is it possible as many people are moving there as they are to Chicago? Sometimes I imagine Chicago will sink into the lake, so many have filled the city. I hope that you are not getting squeezed out like we are here.

My parents appreciate the influx of people. In addition to the bakery, my family runs a boarding house to profit from the overflow. My mother and father, poor peasants from the Old Country, are almost shaken by how their hard work brings them good money. In Sweden, they had very little even after relentless toil. Personally, I’ve never cared much for money. Perhaps that is because I’ve never worried over it to such an extent that it weighs on my mind. Nonetheless, your life in the woods is admirable, and I envy you.

One of my favorite poets, Walt Whitman, believes nature inspires the individual to greatness. Do you find that true? Here is a passage from one of his finer works:

Smile Oh voluptuous cool-breathed earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset, earth of the mountains misty topped!
Earth of the virtuous pour of the full moon tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for me!
Far sweeping earth, rich apple-blossomed earth!

Whitman’s words inspire me to discover wonder where I had once seen only open space. I suppose poetry can lead to passivity, and that is not good, for we need labor and industry to keep us alive and well. But allowing the soul to ruminate can be good also, do you agree?

Please write me soon, Franklin. I look forward to reading one of your fine letters. I sense that you are a gentleman, with sincere compassion.

Yours

Tory paused. He pondered how to sign off. Franklin had requested his name. What should he write? He did not want to use an alias. He had misrepresented himself enough already. Besides, the postal office would want a name to match the person of residence. Postman Persson would be confused if Tory fabricated a name. Perhaps Franklin would mistake Torsten as a female name. Many people unfamiliar with Swedish names often did.

Before signing off, he considered doing away with Whitman’s poem. Would Franklin find the passage offensive? He had left out the last line to refrain from coming across too forward: “Smile, for your lover comes
.
” He snickered realizing how shocking that would be for Franklin. What would he think of his new “refined lady” from Chicago then?

Shaking his head, he turned back to his composition and decided to keep the poem. He signed off as “Torsten P.,” matching how Franklin had signed his name, and set his pencil aside. With conviction, he sealed the letter in an envelope and delivered it to the postal office straightaway.

Ten days later, Tory intercepted another of Franklin’s letters from Postman Persson.

May 24, 1886

Dear Torsten,

I have just finished reading your letter and I was unable to keep from writing you right away. Your name is very pretty. It reminds me of my sister’s—Gretchen. She was named after my great-grandmother, meaning “Little Pearl.” I am told I am the namesake of Benjamin Franklin, our country’s great philosopher. That is much to live up to, I must say. Does your name have a special meaning in Swedish?

Today the weather brings all of us in the Black Hills much-needed rain. My newly planted crops drink thirstily. The rains also give me more time to devote to sitting at an inn in Spiketrout and writing you. A fire rages next to me, and its warmth only eclipses what I feel from your latest correspondence. I cannot tell you how much joy it brings me to receive your response to my letter in such quick fashion.

I must confess your letters bring me into Spiketrout more often than usual. Once the weather warms, I typically venture into town once a fortnight. Now, I take to the trail into Spiketrout no less than once a week. I no longer worry what the postmaster here might think of my correspondence with an “unknown” lady from Chicago. I only look forward to reading your replies.

The passage from Walt Whitman nearly brought tears to my eyes. He expressed my true emotions with such clarity. Each morning I awake and step from my cabin and I behold the earth and sky and mountains that surround me. The mountains let out a sigh, and I can smell their sweet breath. If you could only blanket yourself with such beauty! I flush thinking I must have some cowboy poet deep inside me.

Since we are in the initial stages of a steady correspondence, I feel I must confess to you something at this juncture. I hate to transform my letter from ruminations of Whitman’s gentle poetry and the beauty of the Black Hills to something ugly, but I fear that I must.

As I once mentioned, I am a veteran of the Civil War. I enlisted at the youthful age of fourteen along with many of my comrades in eastern Tennessee. We stood loyal with the United States in that part of the commonwealth. Strict abolitionists, we had fought to secede from Tennessee but failed. Steadfast in our convictions, we joined the Federal troops and headed to battlefields along the western front. Under the command of the great and venerable General Ulysses S. Grant, I saw sporadic fighting in western Tennessee during the Battle of Fort Henry and on to the Battle of Fort Donelson, which both quickly fell into Yankee hands. Most of us from eastern Tennessee were glad to see it happen.

After combat in that theater, my regiment traveled eastward to southern Virginia. We had no idea we would encounter the fiercest fighting yet of our young age. The fighting raged incessantly. My regiment soon learned we were still tenderfeet as soldiers. I lost many a good comrade during those southern battles, which lasted nearly the length of an entire year.

It was during the siege of Petersburg, a gruesome and endless battle that raged near the South’s capital, that I found a fate that I will carry with me to my grave. One day during ferocious fighting, a musket ball struck my right arm just below the shoulder. I had lost too much blood for Army doctors to save it. They amputated above the elbow the next evening. Although I lost my arm, I considered myself lucky to keep my life, unlike many of my comrades during those bloody mêlées.

I hope I have not scared you away with my revelation or disturbed you with horrific images of war’s grim realities. Although God made me right-handed at birth, as are most decent men, I’ve learned how to use my left quite well over the years. Working at the lumber yard and quartz mine, I proved as capable, if not more so, as my comrades. I can chop wood, stir a pot, and even thread a needle. And I can also hold onto a woman as gently as any two-armed beau.

Torsten, it’s best to leave this letter at that. I will wait and read your next reply, if you choose to write. If you decide you no longer wish to correspond with me, do not lament. I understand a woman would want a man who is not lame or disfigured.

May your life in Chicago forever treat you well.

Regards,

Franklin Ausmus

Spiketrout, D.T.

Tory shielded the pages of Franklin’s letter under the desk to prevent the tears that trickled down his cheeks from smearing the words. Both esteem and remorse touched his soul. Of course Franklin
having only one arm did not concern him. If anything, his disfigurement
endeared him to Tory more. A war veteran with a permanent injury must crave love and affection more than anyone. He certainly deserved as much.

The amputation of his right arm explained the shaky handwriting, Tory thought, wiping a straggling tear. Adoration heated Tory’s wetted cheeks. Eagerly, he composed another letter, insisting in no way would Franklin’s affliction sway him from wanting to correspond.

Twenty-three days later, a reply arrived.

June 17, 1886

Dear Torsten,

Do forgive me for failing to reply to your last letter in a more timely fashion. I am so happy to read that you are not dissuaded by my war injury. Reading your kindhearted reply made what I had to endure here the past several days more tolerable.

That brings me to why I haven’t written you as quickly as I would have. I had wanted to write you several times, and you crossed my mind often, but business demanded action. I’ve had some issues here at my homestead. I will not burden you with some of the problems of life in the Black Hills. I suppose all places have their drawbacks, including Chicago. Word of the labor unrest in Chicago has reached the Black Hills. I am saddened to have heard about the calamity. That someone would use dynamite to cause such a brazen act of bloodshed bruises my heart. I pray those who were killed will enter God’s Kingdom. The warmer weather brings out the savagery in men all over, so it seems.

In Spiketrout, we have ruthless men as well, and some women, who have but one master: greed. They know nothing about decent behavior and respect for private property. With the receding winter, their fingers have thawed, as has their self-indulgence, and they are apt to wrap their hands around my land. I mentioned previously about the Gold Rush of the Black Hills. Gold is still to be got, but the spots are drying up. That is why many hunger for my homestead.

I sit on what might be a healthy amount of placer gold. A creek pool on my land harbors much of the gold that man will often die and even kill for. Yet I have chosen not to pan for it. You might ask why. I suppose I have my reasons. I simply wish to keep things as they lay, as God intended. In truth, I have no desire for gold. Years ago I chose to leave the gold to the trout.

Men in the area, drunk for gold, know about my untapped creek. They want it for themselves. Unfortunately, one of the filchers—and I hesitate to allow you to read his name with your own eyes—Henri Bilodeaux, has enlisted a man of the cloth to use scripture to wrestle my land from me. Father Peter Fisk, the Catholic priest of Spiketrout, has said that God, and God Himself, insists I allow the prospecting of my creek so that the hungry and homeless can be fed and sheltered. He claims that “the meek shall inherit the earth.” I had to laugh at him, although I felt badly for guffawing in the face of the clergy. But perhaps he had it coming.

Do you think of me as harsh, Torsten? Perhaps I am in the wrong? I’ve resided on this land for ten years; surely they should respect my civil liberties. I respect God’s words and I keep in my cabin a cherished Bible given to me by my beloved mother the day I marched off to war. Although I do confess that no one has heard the step of my boots inside a church in many years, yet I believe in our Lord. I consider Nature to be my church.

The events with the nefarious Bilodeaux led me to a trip into Spiketrout at the bequest of the local marshal, another man who lacks in fortitude and decency. He has his good points, but his weaknesses far outweigh them. Unfortunately, he tends to bet his chips with the bandit, Bilodeaux. They often work side by side in dastardly endeavors. The good news is that I have extricated myself from both men’s grips—at least for now. I am happy to say our correspondence may continue unimpeded. That is, if you wish it to.

I only fear now that you are displeased by my rancor with a preacher. Forgive me if I have offended you.

I hope that you and your family are found in peace and good health.

Regards,

Franklin

Spiketrout, D.T.

No, Tory did not find fault with Franklin’s actions. He understood them completely. Using an ethically questionable priest and a marshal to pry him from his land seemed unjust. The urgency of Franklin’s script left an indelible imprint on Tory’s heart. The man had suffered enough. Must he face the wrath of ruthless gold diggers? And that nefarious Henri Bilodeaux. Reading his name had chilled Tory’s veins. He imagined what a cold-blooded bandit he must be, worse than the wicked characters he’d come across in dime novels. Worse, perhaps, than the German nationals who had lobbed dynamite at the Chicago police officers attempting to disperse a mob of labor protesters, the same ghastly affair that Franklin had referred to.