On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (35 page)

Soon he could smell cooking, and his stomach grumbled. Must be past suppertime, perhaps seven o’clock, based on the lack of light coming from the crevice. He had no food, only the herbs in his pocket. He wished he had saved some of those oats he’d fed Carlotta.

He glanced behind him. Deeper blackness met his gaze. The opening to the cave must be closer to where the man had started the fire. If he could get to the fire, snatch some of it, perhaps he could use it as a torch and find his way out. But how would he avoid that man? Or his partner, if he lingered somewhere hidden?

Was he trying to talk himself out of getting near fire?

He wrapped his arms around his stomach. The dampness seeped into his bones. He wanted to sleep, but he feared he might never wake. He could use a drink. Despite himself, he felt his way to his left, where the man had said a small puddle was located. Finding it, he cupped some of the cold water and sipped. The water, dribbling through his fingers and down his chin, revitalized him.

After five or six handfuls, he scuffled back to his spot, his eyes fixed on the fire. Other than his pounding heart, it was the only sign of life in the dank cave. Then an idea came to him.

“Would you like to add spice to your meal?” he called to his kidnapper, hoping his voice remained steady. He heard movement. The man was stirring. He had succeeded in grabbing his attention. “I’ve got some spices you can use. I’d hate to see them go to waste.”

Footsteps echoed closer. “Spices? Where you got spices?” The man blocked Tory’s view of the fire.

Tory gazed at his murky form. “In my pocket. Dill, coriander, and some oregano. I bought some while in Spiketrout. I can put some on whatever it is you’re cooking. I’m sure it’ll improve the taste, whatever it is.”

The man breathed. “I already fingered your pockets.”

“You must’ve missed,” Tory said, his tone genial. He reached into his jacket and held out the three small bags of spices.

With a snort, the man squatted in front of Tory and yanked the herbs from his hand.

Tory could see he had lifted the bags to his face and was smelling the scents. “Thanks, boy,” the man said, his voice full of mirth. “These’ll make my beans tastier, you can bet. Too bad you won’t be having none.” Snickering, he stomped back toward the fire.

Tory mentally kicked himself for failing to carry out his plan. At least the man had missed finding the box of rifle shells whenever he’d “fingered” his pockets. Good thing Franklin had made them extra deep. Too bad Tory had no rifle to use the bullets in.

He worried for Franklin. Whatever nightmare Tory had gotten himself into, he hoped that Franklin wasn’t in a worse predicament.

Chapter 28

F
RANKLIN
cursed himself for his stupidity permitting Tory to travel into town alone unarmed. Winter had made him soft, forgetful, less mindful of his worries. He had become passive. Tucked away in the gulch in the warm cabin with Tory, he’d lost sight of the dangers that lurked all around them.

He should’ve known as soon as the first buds had emerged on the aspens and birches, Bilodeaux, too, would be awakening—awakening to his greedy deceptions and manipulations.

The sun seeped inside from the back windows. The brightness left Franklin empty, like a hot air balloon released of its helium. He and Wicasha had slept not a wink. Their overnight hunt for Tory had been futile. The nighttime forest had coughed up no tracks, no sign of Tory. Not even the skilled scout Wicasha had located clues that might lead them to Tory’s whereabouts.

Once they’d returned, they had sat awake through the rest of the night. Four lanterns had burned until the pink glow of dawn stole away the blue twilight. Wicasha had encouraged him by saying that morning would chase away the fears and the uncertainty. He had been wrong. Franklin paced. Wicasha sat at the table, his arms frozen across the top, his eyes on his half-eaten breakfast of cold roast and carrots.

Franklin kicked a dust pail across the floor. The sound reverberated in the small cabin, empty and chilly.

“Obviously Bilodeaux wanted me to know about Tory,” Franklin said, stomping back and forth. “Why else would he have let Carlotta wander back home? He wanted us to find her and to despair.”

Before speaking, Wicasha allowed Franklin to throw another tantrum, this time chucking a broom into the corner of his sleeping area. “Her showing without her rider is a message, you can be sure,” Wicasha said sympathetically. “A message that he’s ready to play a game with you.”

“What can we do? Reinhardt didn’t give a flying pig’s rump when I told him Tory’s missing.”

“The others will keep their eyes peeled,” Wicasha tried to assure him. “Doc Albrecht, Madame Lafourchette, Reverend Dahlbeck and his wife, the Tangs. Many others have shown concern for Tory.”

“What if it’s too late?”

“It’s not too late, Frank. Do you think Bilodeaux took Tory for no reason? He will use him as ransom. He wants your gold, not to harm Tory.”

Franklin recalled the stares the bandit had given Tory. Lustful, hungry ogling. He cringed. Perhaps Wicasha was wrong, like he had been about morning driving off the troublesome thoughts. Bilodeaux might want to hurt Tory. But would he…? Could he? Franklin tossed aside the wooden spoon he’d been fondling to curb his frustration. “I’ll give him my gold. I’m sick of fighting them. It’s not worth it if Bilodeaux or anyone else harms Tory.”

“You must love the chikala wasichu very much,” Wicasha said, his eyes following Franklin around the cabin.

Thoughts of his love for Tory softened Franklin. He almost chuckled, realizing how much Tory had stolen his heart. How could it be? How had it happened? Had he stewed in the backwoods of the Black Hills for so long that he would fall for the first human being who showed him the slightest tender care, even a man? Or, he considered, allowing truth to reach from his gut and grasp onto his mind, perhaps he had always searched for Tory. Perhaps the renter in Richmond had not been so much of an anomaly. Had he, Franklin Ausmus, been the one who had left his girl in Knox County, and not the reverse?

Shaking himself, he realized none of that mattered now. He must find Tory. Yet Wicasha insisted they stay put.

“Bilodeaux will come,” he said, making the Lakota hand sign for calm, both hands raised, flapping up and down at the wrists like a bird’s wings. “He will let you fret, then he will send a message somehow. There is nothing to do now but wait. Trust me. Bilodeaux must make the next move, and then you will have Tory back in your life.”

Chapter 29

I
T
HAD
to be morning. A brighter light fell from the overhead crevice used for the chimney. Tory’s stomach had stopped grumbling. He had gone without food for so long that his body’s hunger cravings had ceased demanding satisfaction.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms. He noticed an added ache to match the one in his head—his back. His buckskin jacket had proved a poor excuse for a mattress on the hard cave floor. His cravat, having choked him during much of the night, lay unfastened next to him. Clammy chill nipped at him. He slipped on his jacket and blew hot breath into his cupped hands.

Presently, Tory could make out shapes and shadows in the cave more clearly than the previous night. The cave appeared medium in size, with no noticeable openings or climbable shelves. Flowstone and columns spread around him. He detected no means of escape on his side of the fire, which still flickered with feeble flames. Two men stood on the fringe. Bilodeaux’s thick accent suddenly reached his ears. He and the other man were arguing.

“I want my recompense,” the man grunted.

“You will get it, Burgermyer.” Bilodeaux sounded perturbed, impatient.

“When?”

“As soon as we get the deed to his land. You will be paid in gold, like the rest of us. Lots of it.”

“You think Ausmus will give up his land, with all that gold on it, just for some youngster?”

“Trust me,” Bilodeaux said with an odd lilt to his cunning voice. “He will not want anything to happen to that one.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You do not have to. Just shut up and keep watch over the entrance.”

“Listen, Bilodeaux. If not for me, you wouldn’t even know about this cave. You owe me a bit more respect.”

“I owe you nothing,” Bilodeaux barked. “Now, where is that boy?”

The man Bilodeaux had called Burgermyer must have pointed, for Tory did not hear a response. Footsteps receded as he obeyed Bilodeaux and went to keep watch outside. Soon, another set of
footsteps approached Tory. A few seconds later, Bilodeaux looked down at him.

“Comfortable?”

“I knew you lurked behind this.” Tory had no use for inane pleasantries with Bilodeaux. He was ready to butt heads with him if he must. “I never heard of anything so desperate. Tricking Franklin into signing over his deed in exchange for me?”

“Your Franklin gave me no other choice, mon ami.” Bilodeaux dropped to a squat and dragged his finger along the cave floor. Tory, unable to distinguish any subtle facial expressions, watched Bilodeaux’s teeth and eyes shine bright and penetrating. “All he had to do was relinquish his gold,” Bilodeaux went on. “He could have kept his land. Could have kept you. But it is his greed that prevents things from running smoothly.”

“But it’s his land. How can someone be greedy for what belongs to them? Greedy people take from others. Franklin can do what he wants with his own property. You have no rights to it.”

Bilodeaux laughed, throwing his head back in the way Tory had become accustomed to seeing with the bandit. “Rights? What does the word
rights
mean, anyway?” Bilodeaux said. “You want to hear about one’s rights?”

Tory sat straighter, alert to the change that had come over Bilodeaux’s tone. Severe, piercing, yet faraway.

“My father left my mother and me when I was no older than two,” Bilodeaux said, his gaze on the rigid cave floor. “Left us penniless, with absolutely nothing. He took even the dishes. I watched my mother struggle. I grew up hungry, angry, wondering how I could protect her yet knowing I was as helpless as she. It reached a point she would do anything for a pence.” He stood and walked to his right staring off away from Tory. His voice became muffled.

“I vowed I would never live in poverty again,” he said. “When I think about men like your beau sitting on so much wealth, it sickens me. Rights? I have rights too. Rights to live a life that men like your Franklin Ausmus cheated me out of. Rights to sanctify my mother, who endured unthinkable misery merely to feed her son one measly meal a day.”

“Franklin isn’t responsible for your father leaving you and your mother.”

“He is more responsible than you realize, mon petit chéri. It is men like him who want only for themselves, like my father, leaving nothing for anyone else, not even crumbs to scrape off the floor.”

“Your unfortunate past is no excuse for criminal behavior.”

“Criminal behavior?” Bilodeaux’s voice strengthened. He had turned back to face Tory. Tory could almost feel his blue eyes cutting into him. “What do you understand of criminal behavior? You think I am a criminal?” He laughed again. “You have no idea what a real criminal is capable of. You are living like a prince in my company. If I did to you what the real criminals of the world do, like what the Tories in Quebec did to my mother, treating her like a slave to do what they wished with her until they used her up like filthy rags, you would scream bloody horror.”

Despite the chill, sweat broke out above Tory’s brow and dribbled down his temples. Bilodeaux’s meaning eluded him. The man was mad. The longer he was forced to remain in his presence, the more Tory feared for himself and Franklin.

“Don’t you have enough money?” he spewed, tears salting his eyes.

“There is no such thing as
enough money
.” Bilodeaux snorted. “Money is like water. You do not pour one cup, drink it, and be satisfied for the rest of your life. You must have more. De plus en plus. More each day, until you die.”

“Why don’t you leave Franklin alone?” Tory snapped.

“It is not so simple.” Bilodeaux stepped closer. “Beyond wanting the gold in the creek pool that sits on his land, all for the good of the people of Spiketrout, of course, your Franklin represents a man who, well… he is the worst of all men. The idea that he does not pan for the gold on his land when others suffer… it is more than unnatural. It is cruel. Men like him should be punished. There should be laws against his kind of selfishness.”