Moontrap - Don Berry (38 page)

Monday rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "That's
fact," he admitted. Thurston and the other five men had drawn
near now, and Monday added in a voice loud enough for them to hear,
"Except it must o' been some kind o' mistake, though. Y'know,
there's some around here gets awful excited when things ain't
organized just right."

There was some laughter, and the men near the porch
turned to grin at Thurston. "Truth sure god truth,"
somebody said, snickering.

Still mounted, Thurston rode up to the porch and
looked coldly at Monday, who leaned casually against a post.

"
Well, Monday? " he said, unsmiling.

"
Well, Thurston," Monday said affably.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and one of the
farmers turned away, stifling a laugh. Thurston glanced angrily at
him, then turned back to Monday.

"
Are you decided?"

Monday looked up in surprise. "Why, surely,"
he said. "Are you?"

"
What does that mean?" Thurston snapped.

"No harm intended," Monday said. "Just
didn't seem reasonable a man'd set himself for a few days' hard
ridin' dressed like that."

Thurston was neat in his dark coat and vest, as
usual, and made an odd contrast with the other members of the posse,
farmers dressed in their worn denims and heavy, dust-gray shoes.

"I thought maybe there was a church service or
somethin'," Monday said. "Say, any o' you fellows got a
little tobacco?" The man who had spoken to Monday first grinned
and stretched out his tobacco pouch. The rest of them were watching
Thurston with unconcealed amusement. Monday slowly unfolded the pouch
and got out his pipe. He let himself slide down the post until he was
sitting on the porch.

"The way I dress is certainly no concern of
yours, Monday," Thurston said sharply.

"No sir," Monday said, a little humble.
"Just seems like it sort of—spoils the organization, like."

"What kind of game are you—" Thurston
broke off as Virginia came out of the cabin, followed by the three
half-breed children. They walked quickly off the porch past Monday,
not looking at anyone.

"Wheres MeekP" Thurston demanded as the
woman passed. Virginia did not answer, but moved through the crowd
with her children, not even turning to acknowledge that she had
heard.

"Try pretty please," Monday said absently
He tamped the tobacco down in the pipe bowl and handed the pouch
back. He looked calmly up at Thurston. "Do we get t' wear them
little blue hats again?" he said.

This time the laughter was general, and the farmers
made no attempt to suppress it. It was obvious they were thoroughly
enjoying Thurston's discomfiture. The amusement stopped suddenly cut
off by the echoing roar of a discharging gun inside the house.

For a moment the crowd stood frozen with shock. Then
Monday leaped up and slammed through the door. Just in time to see
the bedroom door open and Meek appear. supporting himself with both
hands, his face white and twisted with pain.

"
Meek! What hap—"

"She went off." Meek grunted.

Monday grabbed him under the arms and supported him.
The right leg of Meek's denim trousers was blackened and there was a
dark, wet stain spreading through the lower part. Monday helped him
back into the bedroom and put him on the bed. The long rifle was
lying on the floor, the barrel still smoking, and the room was full
of blue smoke and the acrid smell of burned powder.

A dozen men had piled into the house after Monday and
clustered around the bed. Monday snatched out his knife and ripped
the trouser leg down from the knee.

"Checkin' the flint," Meek said, with
effort. "She—went off." The bedclothes were absorbing a
spreading brown stain. The hole was clean, through the fleshy part of
the calf, and the blood that drained from it was very dark.

"Somebody go for Doctor Beth," Monday
snapped. There was the sound of running feet across the main room,
and in a second the loud "Hya!" as the man mounted and set
off at a full gallop.

"
It ain't bad," Monday said, sponging away
the blood with the corner of a muslin sheet. "Didn't get the
bone. Y're damn lucky, Meek."

Meek grunted.

"Any dunghead that'd check his flint with a full
charge in—" Monday broke off suddenly and glanced up at the
set face of Meek. The wounded man opened his eyes slightly and met
Monday's regard steadily. Thurston had shouldered his way through the
crowd and was
standing at Meek's head.
"Meek," he said evenly. "You did this deliberately."

There was a vaguely discontented murmur from the
crowd behind Thurston, and Monday straightened up to stare at the
smaller man.

"Thurston," he said, "you go too far.
"

"
By god, you do," one of the farmers said
angrily "I know you set your cap against these boys, but you got
no call t' say somethin' like that!"

Thurston whirled to look at the speaker, but the
other did not turn away. The balance had suddenly shifted. Meek was
too well liked. Another farmer pushed forward and said, "No man
goin' t' shoot hisself just t'spite you, Thurston. Now you leave off,
hear?"

There was a general mutter of agreement.

Monday bent back down to Meek. "How y' feelin',
hoss?"

Meek clenched his teeth and moved his leg slightly.
The brownish stain was now nearly eight inches across on the
bedclothes, but the heavy flow of blood seemed to have lessened. Meek
looked up and tried to grin. "Smarts some," he said.

"Take it easy, Joe," somebody said
sympathetically.

"Ain't got much choice," Meek said.

Thurston wheeled and left the room, passing through
the crowd of men who stared at him without expression.

A few minutes later Dr. Beth came striding up the
porch with her instrument case, panting a little from the hard ride.
She plowed into the crowd without a word and leaned over the bed,
examining the wound.

After a moment she straightened up. "Get out of
here, you men," she said. "Get, now!"

Slowly the group filed back out into the main room,
muttering in an undertone.

Thurston came over to him. "Monday, if you're
leading us astray to give him time—that's a hundred-mile trip . .
."

Monday shrugged. "Frankly I don't give a damn.
You got any better ideas?"

Thurston was silent, then turned away. The carpenter
named Bill said, "Look's like we got t' take Monday's word or
forget it. It's a big country."

"
Yeah, but what I want t' know is, who's t' pay
passage on the boat," one of the others said.
Monday
spread his hands. "This here's more or less official, ain't it?
T' keep law and order in the territory? I expect the territorial
government'll pay."

"That'll take months, the way them boys work. "

Monday looked at Thurston. "Well, them as has
money might pay now, an' the territorial government'll pay 'em back
when they get around to it."

"Hell, I got no money," somebody muttered.
"I didn't figure it was going t' cost a man any money t' be on
this here posse."

"
Lessn y' lost y'r taste for huntin',"
Monday said to Thurston.

"All right," Thurston said finally. "It
can be arranged. But I'm warning you, Monday, if this is a ruse of
some sort, you will regret it."

"Maybe we best settle that out right now,"
Monday said, rubbing his neck. "Seems t' me you ain't so eager
t' get Webb as you appeared yesterday. You want him or not?"

"I'll have hirn," Thurston said. "A
vicious murder like this can't be overlooked, Monday, even if one of
your friends committed it."

"Well, now," Monday said. "You're
making a big thing out o' that. But it ain't me draggin' my feet an'
makin' speeches. I'm ready t' go."

"If you two are going t' stand around making
faces at each other we ain't none of us going any place,"
somebody muttered.

"Take y'r choice, Thurston," Monday said.
"I'm trying t' get along. If you don't want me on this hunt, you
just say so in front of ever'body an' we'll know where we stand."

Thurston looked at Monday, then at the twenty or so
men who stood waiting, their faces impatient. He turned and walked
back to the sleek bay mare and mounted. "Come along, then,"
he said. He turned the horse and started off toward the center of
town and the boat landings at the edge of the river. Monday watched
him go silently. Gradually the others mounted and set off behind the
small man.

It was surprising, Monday thought. But not really, in
the end. He watched the train of horses form behind Thurston. They
followed whoever moved first or talked loudest. It was just damn near
that simple. He shook his head in wonder and mounted. They ought to
make Young's Bay at the mouth of the Columbia by nightfall, with
luck. Then, in the morning, it would start.

3

The sun was already beginning to lower steadily when
the old man reached the steep hills that were the first ramparts of
the Coast Range. They began abruptly, sweeping up from the plain
without transition, and he was pleased. It was clear and distinct;
here the plain ends, here the mountain begins. There was a cleanness
that satisfied something in him.

A stream ran along the foot, and the old man briefly
considered making camp there, then decided against it. He was certain
he had a good twenty-four hours, but if somebody should come up
behind, it was too exposed.

He dismounted and walked down to the edge of the
stream, knelt beside it to drink. He had only a few hours of daylight
left, a few miles into the hills, and the chances were he'd have to
make dry camp. Beside him his horse dipped into the water, the reins
dragging beneath the hoofs. The old man straightened up and looked
around him, stretching his neck and letting the water settle. Then he
bent down again, wanting to fill his belly. There was nothing so
reacherous on the trail as the sudden appearance of thirst, which
took a man's mind off everything else and made him careless. He
didn't want that to happen.

After a few minutes he mounted again and started up
the trail that wound across the range. He rode slowly into the sun,
not hurrying, letting the animal find the pace that suited her. His
first day or two in mountains he did not know was always a great
pleasure for him. He liked to go without haste, letting the structure
and appearance of the land soak into his bones, looking everywhere,
listening, watching, feeling.

It was a constant miracle, and he had never lost his
sensation of wonder at the variety of the world. Everything
different, everything unique, each stone and tree and blade of grass
different from every other. Behind each apparent likeness there was a
thin, bright core of difference, and in the end, no two things were
really like. It was a thing he had always loved to feel, the basic
solitude of each thing that existed in the world. Without possible
number, and his brain whirled when he tried to think how many things
there might be, if you could count them.

The sun disappeared behind the hills ahead just after
he crossed the first ridge. He rode a little farther on, just to
understand the feeling of dusk in these hills. Finally he moved off
the trail a few yards into the brush and made camp. It was perfectly
arbitrary; he would sleep where the night had caught him, and he knew
he would not remember the camp. He liked to have at least an hour to
look around and pick a campsite, so he would remember it, be able to
bring it back to his mind at some other time. But he did not feel he
had the time, and that hour was better used this day in going farther
on. Tomorrow might be different.

He picketed the horse and settled down, permitting
himself to realize for the first time just how tired he was. There
was a tension across the back of his shoulders and his neck was
stiff. The muscles in his forehead were strained from squinting ahead
into the sun all afternoon, and he rubbed the back of his hand across
them, trying to work out some of the strain.

Finally he sighed and went over to the saddlebags. He
had filched some jerky from Monday's larder, and he took out a
handful of the leathery black strips and went back to sit under a
fir, resting his back against the rough bark. Absently he chewed on
the strips, staring unseeing at the brush ahead of him. The jerky had
been overdried and was brittle. He decided tomorrow night he would
have to have a camp with water so as to soften it up a bit.

The pearl gray of the sky, dimly glimpsed through the
mat of limbs above him, was darkening rapidly when he finished. In
the deep forest of Oregon night came too quickly and the old man was
jealous of light. He got out his blanket and rolled himself up,
fidgeting around to locate a position where the stones and fallen
sticks on the ground did not dig into his old frame too deeply.

He let his mind wander, enjoying the unnameable
period that was neither waking nor sleeping. Before he had left the
mountains, the real mountains, he had made himself out a sort of
list. It was in the way of a promissory note to himself, things he
granted himself for the pleasure of it. Sitting around his lodge fire
at night. he had carefully constructed in his mind the shape of
events that might occur, and had chosen between them.