On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (25 page)

And there were the taxidermist and butcher, Clarence and Walter Grishin, brothers who worked in the same shop on the north side of town. Franklin often sold his deer kill and jerky to them for a fair recompense. They were known for their politeness and quickness to rush out of their shop, their knives raised, whenever they heard a ruckus on the street and thought someone might be in harm’s way. And the Chinese family, the Tangs, who ran the laundry, always minded their own business but were known to stand their ground against ruffians. Franklin, who brought them much business, might expect their support.

Would any of those kind folks intervene on his behalf? Even if they did, what influence could they wield over a town full of nefarious drunks, all clamoring for whatever gold lay in the creek pool on Franklin’s homestead?

He had never wanted help from people before. Had never needed it except for his stint at the Army hospital in Maryland. Helpless and battered, he could barely move for weeks. But that did not count. If it weren’t for ruthless people, he’d never have spent an entire month in a hospital in the first place. Now, he had no choice but to hope for his fellow man’s help.

Wicasha had little sway with the men of Spiketrout, but it was nice for him to have rushed to his side when he needed it. He had always cherished his friendship. And Tory? He barely knew him. But he’d proven just as loyal. It was astute of him to go after Wicasha. He nearly chuckled aloud remembering how Tory had dared to fight with the rowdy men while the marshal had hauled him into jail. Feisty, for sure. And sharp.

He saw Tory in his mind, standing stoically beside him while the town hurled unfounded accusations. Tory’s hair falling from under his rawhide hat in golden waves and his crystal-blue eyes sparkling in the sun….

H
E
AWOKE
to a much brighter cell than when he had fallen asleep. What sounded like thousands of finches chirped in the ponderosa grove behind the jailhouse. Stunned that he had actually slept at all on the lumpy stinking cot, he rubbed his eyes and gazed about the grungy cell. It looked worse than the day before.

Chattering from the front office roused him. He pressed his head against the iron bars and peered toward where Deputy Ostrem had spent most of the night snoring and farting. The deputy had moved, but Franklin recognized his voice coming from somewhere in the office. He sounded as if he were speaking with someone but Franklin heard no responses. Then Franklin figured he must be talking on that strange audio transmission apparatus that had first come into existence ten years prior. Workers had strung the wires for it from Spiketrout to Deadwood and into Rapid City on towering creosote-soaked pine poles a year before. Wicasha had been one of the laborers.

“Yes, sir…. It’s already been taken care of…. No problem…. I reckon we can do that….”

It was difficult to gauge the details of Deputy Ostrem’s conversation, but Franklin had little trouble guessing
who
the subject was about.

“All right. I’ll see to it. … Right away. … Yes, sir. … See you then. … Good-bye.”

With the click of the apparatus, Franklin shouted down the short hallway toward the deputy, “Can a man freshen up some?”

Deputy Ostrem sauntered down the hall, his ring of keys rattling. Franklin had always had a difficult time judging the deputy’s true age. Fine lines streaked over his weathered brown face, and the skin around his taut mouth sagged. But the rest of him looked no older than a twelve-year-old boy.

“You don’t expect me to use that bucket, Ray,” Franklin said once the deputy faced him.

“You promise to get right back in here?”

“I’d be stupid to face the whole town hunting me down.”

“All right.” Deputy Ostrem unlocked the cell door and escorted Franklin to the back. A few paces beyond sat the outhouse, sparkling with morning dew. When Franklin emerged a few minutes later, Deputy Ostrem was waiting for him.

Just as the deputy slammed the cell door on Franklin, he heard the grating, shuffling gait of Marshal Reinhardt, followed by his gruff voice calling for Ostrem. Like an obedient serf, the deputy double-checked the lock and rushed to the front office. Franklin cocked his ear toward their voices.

“I just got off the telephone with the Deadwood judge,” Deputy Ostrem told the marshal. “He said he’ll be here by eleven for the trial. He’s taking the eight thirty stage. He’s agreed to use the Gold Dust Inn for a courtroom. He said he wants a room for the night.”

Franklin relaxed at knowing a little more of what was to come. So they had already arranged for a judge from Deadwood to preside over his trial. He wondered which one. Franklin was familiar with a few of the Black Hills judges. Some had better reputations than others. At least he would be in friendly environs. Madame Lafourchette would see to it that nobody got out of line.

The marshal murmured something. A minute later he shuffled over to Franklin’s cell. “All right, Frank, I’m telling you right now, don’t give me any trouble this morning.”

“I want to know more about this judge you got coming here,” Franklin said, his eyebrows squeezed together to emphasize his concern. “What’s his name?”

“You don’t need to worry about that, Ausmus. Just be glad you’ll be getting one. We’re making sure you get all your rights and due process and whatnot that you’re entitled to.”

“If you were concerned about all that, you never would’ve locked me up in the first place. You know I didn’t kill that Johnson.”

“I don’t know anything.” The marshal narrowed deep brown eyes at Franklin. “That’s why we’ll be holding a trial, all nice and legal and constitutional. Now just sit tight and don’t give me no headaches. We’ll let you know when it’s time to head over to Madame Lafourchette’s.” He tipped his hat and walked back to the front.

“This is a big waste of everyone’s time, Reinhardt,” Franklin shouted after him, his hand clenched on a bar to his cage. “Any reasonable man knows I done nothing wrong.” He wanted to taunt him for never taking off his hat, even indoors, knowing good and well how sensitive the marshal was about his thinning hair, but he held back from rubbing him any rawer. He was about to reaffirm his innocence when the Reverend Dahlbeck and his wife, Matilda, walked into the jailhouse. Matilda, carrying a tray covered with a tea towel, bypassed the men and headed straight for Franklin’s cell.

The men’s heavy voices traveled back to them as Matilda uncovered the tray and slid it into the slot on Franklin’s cell door. “I made a nice breakfast for you, Franklin. Fried eggs, ham, toast, and some hot coffee.”

“You’re an angel, Matilda.” The sight and aroma of the food sent Franklin’s stomach grinding. The first thing he grabbed was the mug of coffee. He took one large swig. “That’s the best coffee I’ve had in a long time.”

“I didn’t expect these boys to know any better to treat you to something to eat.”

“Thanks for thinking about me, Matilda.” He carried the tray to his cot and finished off the black coffee. He had halfway finished his breakfast when Matilda winked at him and excused herself as her husband and the marshal came to his cell.

“The reverend wants to talk with you, Ausmus,” the marshal said, as if annoyed.

Franklin waited for Reinhardt to leave before setting his tray aside and meeting Reverend Dahlbeck at the iron bars.

“Did you give Johnson a send-off, Reverend?” Franklin whispered.

“Johnson was a Catholic,” Reverend Dahlbeck said, matching Franklin’s low voice. “Father Fisk attended to his soul’s needs.” The reverend leaned in closer to the bars. “Be thankful they’re giving you a speedy trial, Frank.”

Franklin did not feel like being thankful, but he supposed the reverend had a point. He shouted toward the marshal, who was speaking with his deputy. “I want some representation. I’ve got a constitutional right.”

“He’s right, Marshal,” Reverend Dahlbeck said in his defense. “There’ll be a mistrial unless he’s got a proper advocate.”

Reinhardt, poker-faced, stood at the end of the hallway. “And who do you think that might be? We haven’t had an advocate in town since the gold started drying up.”

“Send a telegram to Deadwood,” Franklin said. “Or use that talking contraption. Have one come over on the stage with the judge.”

“The territorial courts will accuse you of fraud, Marshal,” Reverend Dahlbeck said. “You’re just wasting your time unless you oblige him.”

“I’ll represent him.”

Franklin pushed his forehead against the bars until it hurt so he could see who had just spoken. Doc Albrecht was standing just inside the jailhouse, his black derby clenched in his fingertips. He was smirking in his usual nonchalant way.

“You?” the marshal said, turning to the doctor. “What makes you think you know anything about the law?”

“I know a great deal,” the doctor said, focusing his smiling eyes on Franklin. “I used to practice law before going to medical school. I vowed I never would step foot inside a courtroom again after I witnessed a fiasco of a trial a score and five years ago, during which time an innocent man who I represented was found guilty in absentia, then hunted down like an animal and subsequently hanged. But I’m willing to push that all aside now. On behalf of my friend, Franklin Ausmus.”

Franklin’s mouth remained straight, but he could feel his heart lighten with a warm gladness. His friends
were
coming to his aid.

“You got a license to practice?” Reinhardt asked.

“I have passed the bar in four states.”

“Is that all right with you, Ausmus?” the marshal asked, looking at him from under the brim of his hat. “You want the doc to be your advocate at the trial?”

“Suits me fine.” Franklin allowed his grin to show fully. “Suits me fine, indeed.”

“All right, then,” Marshal Reinhardt grunted. “We’re all square with the law and the constitution. Everyone happy?”

“Not quite,” Franklin said.

“What now?” The marshal sighed.

Franklin set tapered eyes on Reinhardt from between the iron bars. “I still shouldn’t even have to face trial,” he said. “Bilodeaux has orchestrated this whole subterfuge.”

“I’m certain Bilodeaux’s behind it too.” Reverend Dahlbeck spoke with his chin held firm.

“Well, if that’s so,” the marshal said, “then it’ll all come out at trial. I’m sure the doc will be able to help you with your laments. In the meantime, let’s clear out. This ain’t no meeting house.”

Chapter 20

T
HE
town bell rang for Franklin’s trial. By the time the ringing had stopped, the makeshift courthouse was packed with as many people the town of eight hundred could squeeze in. Curiosity seekers streamed into the streets and blocked both sides of the boardwalk. Anyone wishing to get past by foot or horse had no choice but to wait out the trial if they did not wish to climb the surrounding mountains to circumvent the herd.

Tory, alongside Wicasha, ached to stand with Franklin. Only when they had come to town to see Franklin had they learned the trial was to take place that morning. Packed in by the growing throng, Wicasha took Tory by the arm and pushed and shoved to the back of the Gold Dust Inn. Wicasha led Tory to the little-known kitchen entrance. Madame Lafourchette, her “crowning glory” exploding with sugar curls and her face decked out in more paint than Tory had ever seen on any woman, spied them. With her wide bustled burgundy skirt and overpowering jasmine perfume, she squeezed them through the spectators as her “special guests.” Two heavyset men who barricaded the bar stepped aside when the madam scooted Tory and Wicasha in for a grand view of the entire proceedings.

Franklin was seated at a poker table near the other end of the bar. So helpless he looked. Tory yearned to rush to him. Flashes of Joseph van Werckhoven lying dead on the sidewalk streaked across his mind. He had had no way to save Joseph. Was there a way to rescue Franklin from the humiliation and injustice? And a possible hanging?

“Who’s that man with Franklin?” Tory asked Wicasha, his heart quickening.

“That’s Doc Albrecht,” he said. “Reckon he’s acting as Frank’s advocate.”

The thought eased Tory’s mind, but only slightly.

Marshal Reinhardt and his deputy sat adjacent to Franklin at another poker table. Tory had never seen the marshal without his hat on. His receding hairline reached near to the back of his head. In a court of law, even one that was temporarily established inside a hurdy-gurdy house, no man dared show disrespect by wearing a hat during the proceedings. The marshal’s stringy hair fell past his shoulders and seemed to accentuate his baldness.

Looking about the throbbing crowd, Tory was surprised that many of the men held foaming beer mugs and other alcoholic drinks. Madame Lafourchette must have wanted to cash in on the huge gathering. The booze flowed as if it were a typical Wednesday.

A group of five men descended from upstairs. The herd quieted, but only momentarily. In the ebb of the clamor, Wicasha whispered to Tory that the five men were likely the jury. They sat in ladder-back chairs arranged in a tidy row by the staircase. Through the haze of cigar and pipe smoke, Tory inspected each juror’s face.