On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (37 page)

“Ah, so you do think I am a simpleton.” He snorted. “I have no henchmen. The fewer people involved the better. People have a tendency to talk. I have selected the most loyal of the Spiketrout rowdies to have at my beck and call. Only you, Burgermyer, Parker, I, and your beau know about our doings here. You are as good as disappeared, my young friend.”

“I suppose I have underestimated your intellect.” Tory shuddered with relief. The cave entrance was unprotected. Now he could consummate the second half of his design. He hoped Bilodeaux would bite as easily.

Coughing and kicking at the ground to distract Bilodeaux from any noise he might make, Tory reached into his pocket, took out the shell box, and carefully placed a handful of bullets back into his pocket as soundlessly as possible. The remaining few shells he left in the box and tucked behind a stalagmite.

With his hand clenched around the bullets in his pocket, he hollered toward Bilodeaux. “You won’t mind if I at least sit closer to the fire to get warm. The dampness of this cave is causing my bones to ache.”

“Your lungs sting, your bones ache. Any other ailments bothering you?”

“I won’t be much good to you sick or dead.”

Silence hovered over them. “All right. All right.” Bilodeaux grunted. “Come on over. Perhaps we can keep each other warm.” He scooted over as if to make room by his side when Tory, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, edged closer to the fire.

Tory gathered confidence in his voice. “That will never happen, Bilodeaux. One thing is certain, if you touch me, I’ll make sure Franklin hears about it. Whatever happens with his gold or land, you lay one finger on me, and I doubt he’ll let you live to make any good use of it.”

The silence that followed Bilodeaux’s awkward chuckles indicated that he’d conceded to Tory’s warning.

Sitting across from Bilodeaux, Tory measured his next move. The flames leaped, flickered, snapped at him. He swallowed. He must remain calm. He inhaled, his right arm tight around his bent knees, his left hand still in his pocket, clenched around the shells. His fear of fire must in no way keep him from his one and only attempt to rescue himself, to rescue Franklin.

With his free hand, he reached for a small branch sticking out from the fire. Casually, he toyed with it, not wanting to draw Bilodeaux’s suspicions. Bilodeaux observed him only for a second. Grunting, he turned back to the fire. Tory lifted the branch, a flame dancing on the end, and grasped it in a tight fist.

Balancing in a subtle squat, he licked his lips. Bilodeaux seemed focused on the flames, lulled into a trance by the way they cracked like whips. Tory squeezed the small torch, his fingernails cutting into his palm. The metallic shells began to itch against his sweaty hand. Coalescing his energy, he took a deep breath.

In one fluid motion, he tossed the bullets into the fire, rolled backward, rushed to his feet, and fled for the cave’s opening.

A rush of explosions like from a string of dynamite ricocheted off the cave walls behind him. He stumbled, cut himself on a stalagmite, scurried to right himself, and charged ahead. The small torch barely lit his path. Sheer luck prevented him from gouging his head on the stalactites hanging from the rocks overhead. Gunshots whizzed by his ear. He heard Bilodeaux on his tail, cursing him in French, ordering him to halt. He found himself scurrying up an incline, slipping, rushing forward on his hands and the tips of his toes.

Light appeared. A steep climb of about three feet awaited him. He tossed the torch aside and leaped with all his power, tearing the knee of his trousers on landing. The brightness of the sun blinded him after his confinement in the dark for so long, but he kept running. He had little time to fuss with Bilodeaux’s gray stallion, which was hitched near the cave entrance. He bushwhacked through the alders and thickets, zigzagging to keep Bilodeaux off his heels. He wasted no effort glancing back. He gritted his teeth and kept running.

He heard twigs crunch and snap behind him. Bilodeaux must be fast on his trail. He skidded down some duff along a steep slope. He tripped and twisted his ankle on a fallen aspen covered in duff. He discerned the sound of heavy breathing. Bilodeaux—and he was coming down on him like a hound after a fox. He must keep moving, despite his ankle. Which way was Moonlight Gulch? He had no idea where Bilodeaux had held him captive.

He observed the moss growing on the north-facing side of the tree trunks. Both Wicasha and Franklin had taught him, while they’d hiked the forest surrounding Moonlight Gulch, that moss grew on tree trunks away from direct sunlight. Parker and Burgermyer had ambushed him on the trail about five miles north of the homestead. Surely they hadn’t taken him south of Franklin’s land. He must be still north of there, closer to Spiketrout.

He hoisted himself up with the trunk of a tree and, wincing in pain, ran straight down the slope until it leveled off in a small dell full of early-blooming pink pasqueflowers. Finding the sun flickering from the crowns of the pines and birches, he squinted as he made his way south.

But he didn’t get far.

A shadowy figure lurked between the alder bushes at the edge of a ponderosa grove abutting the dell. Bilodeaux must have found him again. Limping from his twisted ankle, Tory dropped to his knees. He crawled behind a birch tree and peeked out. Bilodeaux had gone. But where? Tory held his breath, waiting….

A heavy hand clasped his forearm, covering most of it from his elbow to his wrist. Tory’s heart deflated.

“I’ve been scouting for you.”

Tory jerked up. Wicasha’s wide, dark eyes gazed down at him. Exhilaration enfeebled Tory. He almost fell over like a doll when he tried to stand. Wicasha steadied him.

“Wicasha, I thought you… I thought you were Bilodeaux.”

“I don’t see him around. But we’ll have to keep going if he’s trailing you.”

“I’ve sprained my ankle.”

“No matter.” Wicasha lifted Tory as effortlessly as if he were a sack of goose feathers. “The trail is just over the next incline. We’ll be home soon.” After flinging Tory over his broad shoulders, Wicasha carried him toward the trail and on to Moonlight Gulch.

Chapter 32

R
ALPH
B
URGERMYER
faced down Franklin like a general with an army of ten thousand men behind him. He clutched Franklin’s revolver, which he had swiped from him after Franklin had rushed out of the cabin to check who had blasted onto his land. Franklin had hoped Wicasha had returned with Tory. Bile had burned his throat when he’d seen the no-good Burgermyer galloping in on his crowbait of a pinto.

“Don’t make any moves, just listen to what I got to say,” Burgermyer said. The muzzle of Franklin’s Smith & Wesson brushed Franklin’s mustache. “We’re gonna go inside your cabin and you’re going to get your deed to your land, then we’re going to go for a little trip. Just do as you’re told and that boy won’t get hurt. Not sure why you care, he’s nothing but a ranch hand, but Bilodeaux seems to have it in him you’ll give up your life for that brat.”

“You’re awful brave-acting, Burgermyer.” Franklin stood face to face with the outlaw. He wanted to strike him, but he held back in case Burgermyer possessed a slippery trigger finger.

Burgermyer nudged the barrel into Franklin’s chest. “Let’s go. Move it.”

They were about to go inside when the sound of galloping hooves made both men turn in the direction of the gate, still ajar from when Burgermyer had entered.

But Henri Bilodeaux did not bother to slow and walk his stallion through the gap. Instead, he rushed the gate full speed. His gray stallion cleared the top wire by at least six inches.

“What’s he doing here?” Burgermyer scrunched up his nose. “He’s supposed to wait at the cave for me to bring you back, along with the deed to your land.”

Franklin winced when he heard the word “cave.” They had been holding poor Tory in a damp, dark cave for more than two days. Scolding bitterness clutched his throat.

Bilodeaux dismounted before his stallion came to a complete halt. Next to the lanky Burgermyer, he stood chin-high. Like his cohort, his clothes were covered in dirt and soot. “I got your boy, Ausmus,” he said, breathless. “He is safe, for now. You can have him as long as you sign over your deed all nice and legal. No need to make this any more complicated. Go easy and no one will get hurt.”

“I want to see him now.” Franklin stepped closer to Bilodeaux. He scowled at him, his nose pointing to the top of Bilodeaux’s hat.

“There is no time. I told you he is safe. You sign your deed with me now—Burgermyer here standing in as witness—and afterward I will escort you to your boy.”

“I thought you wanted me to bring Ausmus to you,” Burgermyer said, kicking at the dirt. “I had him all ready to go. He was all scared and whimpering. What gives, Bilodeaux?”

“Shut up, you idiot.” Bilodeaux kept his eyes on Franklin, his rifle pointed at Franklin’s face. “We will get your deed, you will sign it over to me, and then we will take a ride to see your Tory. Everything will be nice and sweet. But we must hurry.”

Franklin eyed the rifle staring him down. The gun, close enough he could make out the rifling grooves inside the barrel, reeked of grease and sulfur. Bilodeaux had discharged it recently. His mind whirled with what to do. He realized the most important action was whatever would carry him quicker to Tory.

“The deed is in my war trunk next to my bed,” he said flatly. “You won’t miss it.”

Bilodeaux gestured with the gun to Burgermyer. “Get it. And grab something to write with.”

Burgermyer darted for the cabin.

“You really think you can get away with this, Bilodeaux?” Franklin said, fending off his resentment and anxiety with a snicker.

“You gave me no other choice, Ausmus. You speak of your rights, you and that boy of yours. Well, all mankind possesses rights. Rights to what will bring him riches, a better life. Your sitting on this land refusing to pan for gold—that is the true crime. You gave me no other option how to get it. Most others will agree. Even the marshal.”

“So the end justifies the means, is that it?”

Bilodeaux had no time to answer. Burgermyer jogged out of the cabin waving a piece of paper and one of Franklin’s graphite pencils. “I got it. I got it. Here it is.”

Bilodeaux ordered the lanky man to hold his pistol steady on Franklin while he yanked the paper from his hand. After unfolding the document and scanning it, he grabbed the pencil from Burgermyer. “Sign it over to me,” he commanded Franklin, shoving the pencil and deed at his chest.

“How can I be certain you haven’t harmed Tory?”

“You have my word. Now do as you are told. You sign, then I give you back your boy, unharmed.”

“We ain’t harmed him none,” Burgermyer asserted. “That’s the truth, other than a small knock on his—”

“Burgermyer,” Bilodeaux fumed through clenched teeth, “will you keep your mouth shut!”

“I’m supposed to trust the likes of you two?” Franklin eyed the deed pressed against his chest, hesitating, assessing.

“So you harbor less fondness for the boy than I assumed, Ausmus,” Bilodeaux said, a sinister grin stretching above his turquoise ascot. “My mistake. You do not care for him, after all.”

Burgermyer crinkled his nose, his gun still trained on Franklin. He scratched under his hat. He scanned from Franklin to his boss. Everything around Franklin seemed to converge into the bandits’ blaring eyes. He grabbed the deed from Bilodeaux with a defiant brutality and tucked it under his stump. “Give me the damn pencil.”

He snatched the pencil and was about to sign when shouting from the gate froze his hand.

“Stop! Stop!”

Franklin turned to see Wicasha waving his arms over his head. Tory, leaning against him, hobbled on one foot.

“He doesn’t have Tory,” Wicasha hollered. “I got him right here. Don’t sign away the homestead. Tory knows Bilodeaux’s scheme. He wants you to sign the deed. Don’t do it. Tory’s free and safe.”

From the corner of his left eye, Franklin gauged Bilodeaux’s reaction. Bilodeaux, his blue eyes blazing, lifted his rifle, but before he could fire, a shot rang out and the rifle flew from his hands. Franklin acted fast. He punched Bilodeaux full in the face, snapping the pencil in half in the process, and simultaneously kicked Burgermyer in his gut with his left foot. Both went down. Wicasha, with Tory gathered in his arms, raced to them, his rifle smoking.

Franklin grabbed their guns and stared down at the two sprawled bodies. “Get some rope. Let’s tie them up before they come to, so we can cart them into town.”

T
HE
sight of the two men bound like wayward hogs in the back of Franklin’s wagon grabbed nearly all of Spiketrout’s attention, including those indoors. Nobody wanted to miss the spectacle of the men bouncing down Main Street. Bilodeaux’s gray stallion and Burgermyer’s pinto, tethered to the back, wheezed and snorted. Franklin pulled alongside the jailhouse.

Marshal Reinhardt stepped onto the boardwalk, shaking his head. “You bring in more bodies in that wagon of yours than any man in the Hills, Ausmus,” he said, peering into the back of the wagon.