Moontrap - Don Berry (48 page)

"What the hell are you doin' up anyways?"

"
I'm goin' t' take a piss, if it ain't against
the rules."

The guard laughed. "Well, I don't know," he
said.

Monday laughed with him and moved into the brush on
the other side. He started down the slope, heading for the trail that
led to the open meadow he had avoided so carefully.

Behind him the guard carefully estimated ten minutes.
Then he sighed and stood up. He made his way hesitantly over to the
blanket roll that was Thurston's. He squatted beside it and shook the
small man's shoulder.

"Mr. Thurston," he said. "Mr.
Thurston, wake up."

Thurston's head came up quickly, and he whirled to
face the other man.

"
What is it?"

"
You were right, Mr. Thurston. He's gone."

Thurston was silent briefly. "So now there are
two wolves on the mountain," he said finally, almost to himself.

"What'd you say, Mr. Thurston?"

Thurston sighed. "All
right," he said more loudly. "Wake up the others."

***

When he was out of sight of the guard post Monday
began to move more quickly downhill, sliding sometimes, almost
falling as the rocky litter of the slope slid out from beneath his
feet.

He reached the trail a few hundred yards below in
short time. The moonlight was incredibly bright, and he moved fast
toward the open meadow lying ghostly and silent in the pale glow. The
rock wall that stretched along the opposite side was silver and
black. He trotted across the meadow and scaled the wall. He was still
out of sight of the main peak, but only because of the slow curve of
the hill. He would skirt the side of the razorback ridge if he could,
staying off the crest itself in case one of the posse should chance
going to the top of the small peak. He was beginning to feel a panic
urgency and stepped up his pace, skirting around the bulge of the
mountain.

They could make it down the rock chimney in a couple
of hours, the two of them, and be gone before Thurston and his pack
even woke to begin the hunt again. If they pushed, Monday was sure
they could get several hours' head start. If Webb was not hit too
badly. But that was something he could not consider now; he would
deal with it when it came.

The horses were picketed down by the cairn. They
could make it while Thurston and the gang were still looking for them
on the mountain, with a little luck. Monday grinned to himself.
Somebody in the posse was going to have to ride double going back.
Since Thurston's beautiful bay was the handsomest animal of the lot,
that's the one they would take. Too bad, my suspicious friend, Monday
thought. Won't there be a hooraw then!

There was a grove of firs standing downslope from the
ridge itself, starting just below the crest. Monday rounded the last
hump and stood looking up at it black and somber in the bright moon,
the deep foliage sucking in the light, like an emptiness. After a
moment he started up toward it.

And then? After?

After—they could choose their trail as they liked.
Down coast maybe, down into Killamook country, or even farther. Or
upriver and back to the mountains. Hell, it didn't matter, it would
all work out in time. It would take care of itself. But right now
they had to get out of here as best they could.

Under cover of the fir grove the light of the moon
was sharply diminished, and he had to slow a little. The thicket was
much more brushy than the open rock slopes he had been traversing,
and he cursed his own clumsiness as he stumbled through.

A little downslope from him in the brush, a doe
wakened, startled, and spread her nostrils in the cool night air. She
froze, head up and silent, listening to the passage of the great
animal only a few yards from her. Her great dark eyes caught the
moonlight like pools of deep water. When the crashing had diminished,
she dropped her head to nuzzle the softly spotted fawn that slept
beside her undisturbed. She licked at its ears, and it rustled up
into wakefulness and looked around. Softly she pressed it with her
muzzle, nudging it gently to its feet. She began to move through the
brush silently, away from the crashing sounds that had wakened her,
away from the unknown menace of the great night-running creature. The
fawn followed, still blinking with sleep, and they sought shelter in
the lower part of the thicket.

When Monday emerged at the edge of the grove, the
moon was far over in the west, and dropping fast. The eastern sky was
already lightening, though it would be more than an hour before true
dawn. He had almost forgotten how early the light came this high on a
mountain. With the growing brightness they would not have much time.
The main thing was to get to the rock chimney without being seen. Not
knowing exactly where they were, the posse would be hesitant about
traversing the ridge, and that would give them a little advantage.
Once down the chimney, they had won; the whole posse would have to go
all the way back down the other peak, as they had come up, and it
would take hours longer.

He scanned the opposite slope carefully for several
minutes, trying to guess where the old man might have gone to ground.
The slope was littered with boulders and rocky rubble, and he might
have holed up anywhere; it was impossible to tell. He spotted a pile
that looked as though it had been stacked deliberately, and thought
for a moment that was it. But then he saw that there were others, and
there was no way to tell if one of them was any different from the
others.

He left the edge of the grove and started down into
the depression of the saddle, staying a little down from the crest.
It was all rocky again, out in the clear, and boulders studded this
slope too. Shortly he reached the lowest point, about thirty yards
below the middle of the razorback itself. He stopped again to look,
but even in the increasing light of pre-dawn, he saw no more than he
had seen before.

"Damn," he breathed.

Well, it didn't matter. He would find him all right,
one way or the other. And then it would be all over, the whole
seven-year nighunare. Back to the mountains, free, as if it had never
happened. In a year it would all be wiped out of his mind, Oregon
City, the things he had done, the indecision, the compromises. One
year would do it; he could change it all. One year of watching the
sun rise out of Sioux country and pass midday with the Absaroka, and
afternoon with the Nez Percé, and end the day sinking into the sea
while the coast people watched, Clatsops and Killamooks.

And Oregon City would be just a distant name, out of
a long past dream that was slightly unreal now. One year. It would be
easy to change things, if he could just get away. He could cut it off
clean, everything he had done in the past seven years, cut it off
sharply and start a new life. The old one would not cast its shadow
into the future, he was sure of it. A clean break.

The thought of being free of it all excited him and
added pressure to the sense of urgency. "Well, we got to get out
of here first, " he said.

He started up the slope, almost running now. The
whole eastern sky was a pale and coppery green. The sun was coming
fast. He gave up all attempt to move inconspicuously, and the tiny
cascades of rock rolled down from his feet as he scrambled across the
slope, heading for the top. They could not possibly hear him at this
distance, anyway The first shot exploded in the ground next to his
feet, scattering rock fragments. Instinctively he dived headlong into
the shelter of a boulder, hunching himself behind. He was panting
hard, half from the effort of scrabbling up the slope, half from the
frightening suddenness of the shot.

He grinned to himself. "Crazy ol' coon," he
said. Shoot at anything that moves. It hadn't occurred to him that
Webb might mistake him in the dim light for one of the posse. He was
sorely tempted not to call out, just for a little while, and let the
old man think the others were after him. Serve him right, give him a
little scare. But the thundering echo of the shot was too much in the
silence of the coming dawn, and they'd be coming. There wasn't enough
time for jokes, and the inevitably growing light in the east was
cutting their chances every second.

"
Hooraw, Webb
."
he hollered.
"It's me, Jaybird. I'm
comin' up!
"

He stood up and started around the boulder. The
second shot crashed into the top of the rock next to him and whined
off over the slope. Monday stood paralyzed and still for a moment,
looking at the puff of smoke that rose into the still air from the
pile of rocks fifty yards uphill. He saw the barrel of the rifle tilt
in the air and disappear behind the little wall, to be reloaded.

"
WEBB! IT'S ME!
"
he screamed again.

The gun barrel appeared again and lowered to the rock
wall. This time Monday saw the top of the old man's limp hat, and
knew there was no mistake. He could see. He darted behind the boulder
again, just as the third shot roared in the morning stillness and
slivers of rock sprayed into the air where he had been standing.

2

She's too late for that, Jaybird, the old man thought
sadly. She's just too goddamn late.

The heavy recoil of the gun was more terrible than he
had expected. As it slammed back in his shoulder, he had felt the
soft, breaking sensation in his side again, and the tickling of the
blood flowing down his belly. Now he rested the barrel of the rifle
on the top of the wall and put his forehead on the stock for a
moment. He looked along the barrel, but the boulder was lying still
and silent.

Three's all y'get, he thought. He couldn't give him
any more than that. Not when each shot tore him up worse inside.
After firing the first time he knew that it was different from ever
before. Every time he fired the big old gun, it killed him a little.
There were only so many shots left; he had enough powder, but he was
short of life. He couldn't afford to waste any more.

He leaned back against the ground and pulled the gun
into his lap. He worked slowly and evenly to reload. He placed the
patch over the muzzle and pushed the ball slightly down to seat it in
the barrel. He shoved it down with the ram and tapped lightly,
without strength. He was sorry about the way it was, he was sorry
about the jaybird. But there was nothing he could do about it.

I'm comin' up, he thought. just like that. It's me,
I'm comin' up. He peered over the top of his little wall, but Monday
had not appeared again.

He caught a brief motion in the sky out of the corner
of his eye, and looked up. A hawk, aroused by the sudden blasts of
thunder in the dawn, wheeled smoothly around the opposite peak in a
wide circle, gliding easily over the razorback ridge, its head
lowered and swinging slowly from side to side, watching.

The old man blinked. He watched the gentle glide,
watched as the sleek bird swept past just above his own level, out
over the ridge.

"
Hello, bird," he said.

He started to cough, spattering blood on the stock of
the rifle and his hands. He turned his head away and waited until the
spasm had passed. Then he spat on the ground, trying to clear his
throat of the blood that seemed to be choking him.

There were tears in his eyes when he raised his head
again, and he blinked to clear his vision. He looked around the sky
but he could not see the hawk, and he could not turn to see behind
him.

He heard a noise on the slope and looked down just in
time to see Monday dart behind another boulder, farther down than the
one he had left.

You best go back t' y'r boys, Webb thought. He didn't
understand, Jaybird, he'd never understood how it was.

I'm comin' up. It made the old man angry to think
about it. Some one o' these days he'd have to understand that there
comes a point when you can't just say "I'm comin' up" any
more. A point when you've made up your mind, whether you know it or
not.

The hawk had swept in a wide circle behind the old
man, and now it came into sight again to his right, sweeping silently
out of the sky to course above the barren peaks that were its hunting
ground, and see what strangeness there was there.

It passed almost directly over the boulder behind
which Monday now hid, and the old man chuckled. The action brought
more blood into his throat, and he spat it out. But he couldn't stop
the chuckle. He knew what he'd do if he were the hawk.

The hawk swung up over the ridge, paralleling the lay
of the land. It dipped one wing slowly and came around in a great
circle to pass over the crest of the razorback again.

"Shit on 'im, bird," Webb whispered softly.

He wanted it with all the strength that was left in
his torn body. But the hawk swung across the ridge to the other side
of the mountain and out of sight again.

Monday made another dash down the slope. In his
terrible haste he slipped and fell, just short of shelter. The old
man looked at him down the barrel, then lifted his head again.

Get up, y'iggerant bastard, he thought. I could've
had y' slick. It was better to let him go, the old man thought. He'd
known a lot of cowards in his time, and they were always better
alive. It hurt more, it went on and on that way, and never ended. And
all of 'em the same. Look different on top, but all of 'em the same.
Never willin' to go all the way Take a branch trail because it looks
a little easier, always figuring you can come back if it ain't right.
Then another, and another. But it didn't take many of them before you
couldn't go back any more. The choice was made, whether you were
willing or not.