On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (44 page)

He smelled smoke, could hear the crack of lapping flames. Bilodeaux was burning down his barn. Burning everything. Franklin craned his neck to look out the window, but from the floor where they had tied them, he could only see smoke curl to the distant mountain peaks.

If only he could get the old man away so he could squirm and loosen the ropes. Bilodeaux’s men had tied them haphazardly over his one arm. He could wiggle his fingers.

“They’re going to leave you in here to die without a speck of gold, McIntosh,” Franklin spat at the old man, hoping his plan might work. He had no other choice. He needed to get McIntosh out of the cabin.

McIntosh stood, his grip on his rifle tightening, the cigarette clenched between his stained teeth. Franklin could see his knuckles go white. “I said, shut your face.”

“Don’t want to hear the truth, huh? They’re keeping you in here while they scoop up all the gold. I hid most of it in the barn, you know. They’ve found it by now.” He’d gotten the crusty man’s attention, all right. His forehead corrugated with deep wrinkles, his lips puckered like he was sucking on a lemon. “I panned it a long time ago,” Franklin went on. “Didn’t want anyone to know. You didn’t really think I’d blow up my creek pool without taking the gold out first, did you?” He faked a snicker. “They’re probably getting ready to load up the saddlebags, probably even fill my wagon with all the gold I got stored, while leaving you behind, with nothing.”

“You a lying sack of cheese, Ausmus.”

“If you say so, McIntosh.”

More squealing. Dozens of rifle and pistol blasts. Wicasha’s body went limp against him. The weight of his large frame pushed Franklin forward, complicating maneuvering his hand. Any more time wasted surely meant death—to them both.

“Sounds like they got your steed that time, McIntosh.”

McIntosh shuffled to the window. “I don’t see nothing.” He raced to the side window that looked toward the barn. “It’s all burning down. Everything,” he said once he turned back to Franklin, grinning.

“Including your horse, McIntosh. They’re going to leave you high and dry. I know those outlaws. They’ll leave you in here.”

McIntosh’s entire face puckered. Red inched its way along the loose skin on his neck and into his wizened cheeks. He spit out the cigarette. He peered out the window again. “Where the hell is that steed of mine? What those bastards doing? I just take a look-see what’s going on. You best keep still.” He went for the door. As soon as he was gone, Franklin went into action. He twisted, squirmed, carrying the weight of Wicasha’s body. Finally, he loosened the ties on his wrist. Wicasha’s ties remained firm, but now Frank had the leverage to work them loose. He dug his fingernails into the rope, tried to work his way between the grooves.

“Stay with me, Wicasha. We’ll get out of here.”

Outside, he could hear cursing. Bilodeaux barking orders. French and English thrown above the crack of flames. He kept focused on the second rifle on the table. He had to get to it before McIntosh returned.

He was within arm’s length, but the gun lay to his right. For the first time in many years, he resented having one arm. No way could he get to it with his stump. If only he could will it to grow.

Then he saw another shot of flame. He thought the flames were coming from the barn and pigpen. But the heads of two men rushed by the window, screaming and shouting and chortling, carrying torches. Bilodeaux’s men were setting fire to the cabin. McIntosh cursed him from outside. “You lying sack of horse turd, Ausmus. You’ll get yours. You think you can fool me? You’ll get yours. Who’s the fool now?”

“I have been dreaming of this day for many years,” came Bilodeaux’s hoarse voice above the rise of flames and smoke. “Finally, I get my revenge for your vile humiliations.”

Franklin jerked up, tried to rouse his friend. “Wicasha, wake up. Wake up, Wicasha. They’re torching the cabin. We got to get out of here.”

The Lakota no longer moved. His cold, hard body, as if his blood was frozen in his veins, grew heavier and heavier against Franklin’s back.

Smoke oozed inside from the crevices in the wood and under the floorboards. Franklin wiggled, squirmed, kicked, cursed, prayed. He was helpless. Nothing more he could do. Soon, he’d be as dead as his friend. At least they would ascend together.

The flames climbed the walls, torched logs fell into his sleeping area, igniting the floorboards like bales of hay. Fire engulfed the feather bed.

Suddenly, Wicasha no longer felt heavy. As if he had left the world, taking with him the weighty worries of the material earth. Franklin gave one last cry before the roof began to rattle and break.

Chapter 41

T
ORY
, clutching the horseman’s rifle, had been waiting in the thick alders by the rock face near where the fence once stood. He had come across the barrage of wild men and needed to collect his breath and thoughts before choosing how to act. He had witnessed everything. The barn, henhouse, pigpen, storage barn, and much of the grass along the hillside had all been engulfed in flames. The outhouse had exploded like dynamite, sending one of the marauders to his probable death. He had watched in horror as the men kicked asunder part of the barbwire fence. And in their sickening rage, he had seen them butcher and waste the animals, including Carlotta. But only when the gang set fire to the cabin, which he knew from the men’s gleeful and twisted shouts that Franklin and Wicasha were trapped inside, had he jumped into action.

He came out firing the first volley, his limbs shaking violently, screaming for God’s mercy upon him and his friends. Franklin and Wicasha had taught him enough about shooting that he hoped he’d get good enough aim, despite the constant muscle spasms. The men, drunk with their orgy of destruction and wild shooting, had not noticed Tory coming at them. One of Tory’s bullets struck a man in the neck, sending him flying off his charger. Another shot lamed Bilodeaux’s gray stallion. It ran off toward the creek before tumbling and falling over. Shots whizzed by Tory’s ears once the men noticed him. He volleyed back, striking Bilodeaux himself, the ringleader of the carnage. Once the fourth man saw Bilodeaux and his accomplices lay either dead or dying, he took off on his horse down the trail.

Horrified of the fire around him, Tory froze. A few yards away, Bilodeaux lay by his writhing stallion. The man was still alive but struggling. He had dragged himself across the clearing. A blood trail streaked the grass. Tory could see the fury still smoldering in Bilodeaux’s dark blue eyes.

Strident snapping jerked Tory’s attention. The back wall of the cabin had caved in. He must get to Franklin and Wicasha. Bilodeaux, too, had flicked his head in the direction of the discordant snap of wood and coiling flames. Tory fired another shot. Bilodeaux jumped, arched his back, then slackened. Veiled in the smoke, he and his stallion merged into one beast.

Tory only allowed himself a second to coddle his fear of fire. Picturing Franklin trapped inside, he shouldered his dread like he did his rifle. Inhaling, he rushed in, forearms covering his face from the raging inferno.

“Franklin!” Gray smoke concealed his view. He coughed, gagged. Heat wrapped around him like searing tentacles. He saw movement of limbs. Frank and Wicasha were tied together back to back on the floor. Tory fell to his knees and fought to loosen the ropes. Rafters began to split and fall. Wood hissed like venomous snakes. Fighting his fears, the fears he had carried with him since he was five years old, Tory screamed and shouted as he pushed and pulled on the bonds.

Mustering all his strength, he yanked the men toward the door. By then, Franklin had kicked free the loosened ropes on his ankles. Heaving Wicasha onto his back, he rushed through the door with Tory close behind. Outside, they fell to the earth and coughed, spitting phlegm. Franklin shook the last of the ropes from him. Wicasha collapsed to his side. No coughs, no tears came from his still form.

Through the haze of smoke, Tory crawled to Franklin and, dropping the rifle, wrapped his arms around him. Tears of fear, relief, and love poured down his cheeks. “I’m so glad I came back for you. I’m so glad you’re all right.” He sobbed like a boy.

Flames engulfed the cabin in a final sweep.

“Franklin, we got to get out of here.”

Franklin did not want to leave his friend’s side. But Tory’s tugging forced him to his feet.

“There’s nothing you can do for Wicasha. We need to get into Spiketrout.”

Tory pulled Franklin upwind from the smoke and flames, encouraging him to move faster away from the flying sparks. Bloody and covered in soot and soil, Franklin held onto Tory and pressed his head onto his shoulder. They slipped and limped toward the dismantled gate, coughing and wheezing.

A rifle shot echoed through the gulch above the crack of flames and falling timber, then another, and another. Both Tory and Franklin jerked up. Bilodeaux stood by the side of the flaming cabin about twenty yards off, his wide open eyes leering at them. He appeared frozen, like a statue, his rifle pointing straight at them. His eyes gaped. Something inhuman and unworldly emanated from his fiery irises.

Tory braced himself for the pain, the agony. He turned away from Franklin. He could not bear to watch one more man he loved expire before his eyes.

But neither fell. Slowly, Franklin and Tory turned to gaze into each other’s eyes. Against the soot and sweat and his singed horseshoe mustache, Franklin’s eyes sparkled with green fire. Full of abundant life.

Still clutching his rifle, Bilodeaux fell forward, propped up by the gun. In an instant, he fell completely over and lay lifeless.

Wicasha, his dark eyes fluttering from where he lay trembling on the ground, held onto the rifle Tory had dropped by his side. A thin ribbon of smoke wafted from the muzzle.

Chapter 42

O
UTSIDE
their temporary cabin tent, the kind used by the cavalry, Tory stirred the pot over the open fire. He no longer recoiled from the flames. Franklin kissed him full on the mouth and carried his plate of stew to the makeshift table he’d fashioned from fallen logs. A minute later, Tory joined him.

“Torsten Pilkvist, you make some brain-slapping good food.” Franklin stared at Tory, his expression comically severe. Then a slow smile crept above his taut jaw line. His horseshoe mustache, trimmed after the singeing a week before, lifted to near his ears.

“That’s why you want me to stick around, for my cooking?”

Franklin shrugged. “I don’t see any harm having a good cook around, do you?”

Tory simpered. The love pumping his blood at that moment was like nothing he had ever experienced. More full-blown than a steam locomotive crashing into his body.

“I guess we can count our blessings,” Tory said, glancing around at the few items they had salvaged from the fire, including the stewpot. A growing pile of logs, recently felled by Franklin and Tory, spread near where the cabin once stood. They were set to start rebuilding by the end of summer, after the logs had a chance to cure. “Lucky all this happened in the spring and not the autumn. We’d be freezing our tails off about now.”

“That’s what I like about you,” Franklin said, “always looking on the bright side.”

“No matter, at least that Bilodeaux is out of our lives. I still can’t believe it sometimes. I cringe, expecting to see him riding in on his gray stallion.”

“Don’t need to worry about that no more,” Franklin said, his cheeks bulging with stew. “He’s gone for good. He’s the devil’s trouble now.”

They were both relieved to have put the entire ordeal with Bilodeaux behind them. The bandit was dead. Two shots in his back by Wicasha’s painfully steadied hand just as Bilodeaux was about to shoot Tory and Franklin had ended any more of his enraged greed. One last shot, just as Bilodeaux had turned in surprise to see where the bullets had come from, had finalized the already done deal.

Many men from Spiketrout, including a few women, had heeded Tory’s call for help during his charge down Main Street that afternoon. They had gathered quickly, and, as Doc Albrecht had later described, met the lone survivor escaping on horseback down the trail head-on. Like Bilodeaux, Jason Wozniacki posed few worries for Tory and Franklin now. Tried a day after his capture, a Deadwood judge had given him a fifteen-year sentence. He never made it. In the jail wagon heading to Bismarck, vigilantes overtook them and shot Wozniacki in the heart. Turned out the killers were paying him back on another score, no connection with Franklin whatsoever.