Moontrap - Don Berry (24 page)

Monday jerked, startled, and lifted his head in time
to see Webb open the door and step out into the early morning light.
He looked around him and said, "Where's Mary?"

"She is still sleeping," Virginia said.
"You not wake her up yet."

Monday cleared his throat and struggled up to a
sitting position.

"That damn Doctor Beth an' her relaxin',"
he said, rubbing his forehead.

"
You were very relaxed," Virginia said.

"Ain't been so relaxed since I left the
mountains," Monday said.

"Sometimes in the mountains," Virginia
said, "there were men relaxing as far as the eye could see."

"
Wagh!
There were now."

Meek sat up and blinked. He stared accusingly at
Monday. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"
Damned if I rightly know, coon," Monday
admitted.

"Poor doin's when a man has to sleep on the
floor in his own house," Meek grumbled. "An' with
strangers, t'boot. Hows that coffee comin'? "

"It comes as it comes," Virginia said
patiently.

"Glad t' hear it," Meek muttered.

There was a rustling of bedclothes from the other
room. Monday glanced quickly at the door, then at Virginia, half
apprehensively. The Indian woman nodded. He scrambled to his feet and
across the room. Behind him Meek grinned widely at his wife.

The back room was somber, shades drawn across the
single window. Mary's dark head turned slowly on the pillow as he
came in. He came over to lower himself carefully on the edge of the
bed. The baby's tiny head was on the pillow next to Mary, his
wrinkled face turned away from her and one small fist clenched
tightly by his forehead.

"Well—" Monday said. "Mary?"

The woman brought one hand out from beneath the
blanket and Monday took it in his own. For a long time they were
still, looking at each other in the half-darkness. Finally Monday
shifted his eyes to the baby, the strangely foreign little object
that was suddenly a part of his life. It was impossible to
understand, somehow. From this day on, his life would be shared by
the shriveled, gnomelike little creature so silently sleeping.

"Well, Mary," he said at last. "What—what
are you feelin' like?"

"
Very tired," Mary said, her voice sounding
from far away. Monday leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

"
He's sort of—funny-lookin', ain't he?"
he said, smiling.

"All babies are that way."

"I never, somehow I never thought of him this
little, you know. I thought of him around two, three years old or
something, I guess."

"Yes," Mary said.

Monday felt a little guilty, because he had no
affection for the baby. The only thing he could think of was
Mary—just as it had always been. As yet the absurd little face
belonged to a stranger, and Monday was very faintly suspicious. He
could not picture having someone else around all the time, even a
baby, and it made him a little uncomfortable.

"Look how flat," Mary said, nodding her
head down at the blanket that covered her.

Monday grinned and bent down to kiss her again. "Just
like Sioux country," he said. "Does it—feel funny?"

"Yes." Mary's voice was so low Monday had
to lean forward to hear what she said. It disturbed him, and her
weakness disturbed him. Her voice was toneless, and there was little
life in her eyes.

"Listen, Mary," he said. "This—this
is the beginning of something new. Things are goin' to be different
from now on."

Mary smiled faintly. "Yes," she said.

"No," Monday said. "It isn't just—just
the baby I mean it is the baby, but not—ah, hell."

Mary waited patiently for him to formulate it all in
his mind. Monday squeezed her hand and leaned forward. "Mary,
it's all goin' to be different. Our life. I been thinkin' about it a
lot. Livin' here in the valley, an' all. I never—exactly fit in,
just right. You know."

Mary nodded.

"But it's different now. The trouble before was,
I didn't have any roots here. I wasn't—part of it, somehow. "

He straightened up a little and let his eyes go to
the baby again.

"
But now I got roots. My boy's born here. Mary,
c'n you see what I mean?"

"
Yes, I think," Mary said quietly,
listening more to the sound of her man's voice than the words.

"We're part of it now, Mary. We'll fit in, and
it's going to be something different. All that other stuff°'—he
waved his free hand—"it's all gone. We got a baby now, born
right here in the colony, an' it gives us—roots, is all I can say.
A tie. We belong here now."

He was silent for a long time, looking at the child.
"He'll grow with this country, Mary. An' so will we. He'll see
it become a state, an' he'll see cities where there's just forest
now. Maybe he'll see the twentieth century come, Mary. Wouldn't that
be somethin'? T' live in two centuries? The first day of a new
century, that's somethin' I'd like t' see. Fifty years ain't old,
he'll see it come." He stopped, a little embarrassed. "I'm
talkin' too much, I guess."

"
No," Mary said. "You talk."

"It's just the beginning, Mary. It's the
beginning of a new life for us. This country's going to be rich, and
we're here right at the beginning. All it took was the baby to make
me feel it, how new it all is. Now we belong, Mary, that's all I can
say. "

"You want it very much."

Monday looked down at her hand, dark against his own.
"Yes. Because—because that's the way it's got to be. And
that's the way it will be. Hell, Mary, in a hundred years we'll be—I
don't know—ancestors or something. People'll be talkin' about us
like we talk about the Revolution. Hell, the Oregon Territory's
bigger'n all of England, for all their kings. It's just starting, and
we'll help to make it."

"Yes," Mary said softly, and closed her
eyes.

"
We belong now, is all I want to say really. And
eve1ything's going to be different."

The door opened and Virginia came in quietly. "You
come now," she said to Monday.

"
Just a minute," Monday said, leaning over.
"Mary, listen. I'd like to name him, if it's all right with you,
I'd like t' name him Webster. Is that all right?"

Mary opened her eyes and looked at him for a long
moment.

"Webster," she said quietly. "Yes.
Yes, is a good name."

"
Webster Monday," he said. "Sounds
like a governor or something."

He laughed self-consciously. "Wel1, hell. Why
not?"

"
You come now," Virginia said again. "Let
her rest."

Monday kissed his wife again, softly, and stood. She
almost seemed to be asleep already. He went quietly to the door,
grinning at Virginia as he passed. She went to the bed and
straightened the covers, then came out into the main room with the
others.

Webb and Meek were sitting out front with their
coffee. Monday came up between them and slammed them both on the
back. "Hooraw, coons!" he said happily. "Beautiful
day!"

Webb choked on his coffee. "Jaybird," he
said, turning, "one o' these days—"

"
I know, I know. One o' these days y'r going t'
have my ass for breakfast. C'mon, cheer up, y' cranky ol' goat. Ain't
no good t' be mean on a day like this 'un."

3

The three rode down toward the center of the town and
the courthouse, basking in the second supernaturally sunny day in a
row. Webb hadn't wanted to come, saying he'd gotten a bellyful of
Oregon City at the hanging. "Too bad, coon," Monday said.
"I had a surprise for y'."

"What kind o' surprise?" Webb said
suspiciously.

Monday shrugged. "If'n y' don't want to know bad
enough t' come . . ."

And in the end Webb's insatiable curiosity had gotten
the best of him and he had reluctantly agreed to come along, though
he wanted it well understood it was just a favor to Monday. Far as
the old man was concerned, he didn't give a damn about surprises.
Hell was full o' surprises.

The countryside had changed incredibly in Monday's
eyes. As they rode, he let his eyes rove over the forests all around,
the dirt road, the first frame buildings at the edge of Oregon City.
They had all been transformed by a new sense of time, and he could
see shadowy shapes all around him. Buildings tall as the firs,
stretching up toward the sky. Paved and cobbled streets, with slickly
groomed horses pulling buggies. Store fronts of brick and marble
instead of raw wood. Transligured by his new vision of time, the
Willamette Valley became the center of civilization, something new on
the face of the earth. And something of which Webster Monday was an
important part. His son would see it, and his son would be somebody
in the scheme of things in thirty years. Growing with civilization,
helping to make a society. Hell, there was no end to it.

"
Surprises 'r no surprises," Webb muttered.
"It's all the same t' me. Y' think I give a damn?"

"No, hoss," Monday said cheerfully. "Hell,
we might as well just f'get about it."

"
Wagh!
"
Webb grunted discontentedly.

Monday had told Meek about his plan to register the
baby as Webster, and he winked at the marshal. He knew it would give
the old coon a hell of a kick, to have a baby named after him, and he
was looking forward with delight to the filling out of the birth
certificate.

They reined up at the courthouse and dismounted.
Inside it was amazingly brilliant, the sunlight pouring through the
big window on one side of the door and reflecting up from the floor.

"
Hooraw!" Meek hollered. "Here's
business!"

There was a noise at the top of the stairs and Judge
Pratt poked his head out of the door to his chambers. "Marshal.
must you shout? There's no one here."

"
We got t' register a birth," Monday said.

"
So? Whose?"

"
Mine," Monday said proudly. "Or
anyways, my son's."

"Well, congratulations! Pratt said. "But
there's nobody here."

"
Ah, Judge," Meek said. "You c'n do
it, can't you? We rode all the way in from my place special. Where's
y'r clerk anyways?"

"
Clearin' stumps," Pratt said. "For a
hundred and fifty dollars a year you can't expect him to spend all
his time around here. All right," he said discouragedly. "But
you should have a doctor, too. Come on up."

The three men tramped up the stairs and into the
judge's chambers. There were a couple of chairs and a kitchen table,
on which his papers were spread out.

"Doctor McLoughlin's promised to loan me a real
desk," Pratt said, "but I haven't gotten around to get it
yet. All right, now what do we need?" He started rummaging
through a stack of printed forms in the corner of the room, newly run
off the press at the Spectator.

"
We haven't been a territory a year yet, and we
already have so much legal paperwork I'm behind schedule," he
muttered.

"Well," Monday said in good spirits,
"that's because we've got so many laws now."

"My friend," Pratt said without looking up,
"there's more truth than humor in what you say. Damn! I can't
find any forms that look appropriate. I'll just write it out."

"
It'll be legal, though?" Monday said
anxiously.

"Oh, certainly But I can't find—well, never
mind."

He took a blank sheet of paper and sat down at the
table. He glanced up and saw Webb for the first time. "You don't
have—"

"
No," Monday said, "he don't have
twenty dollars. He's just the guest of honor, so to speak."

"
Guest of honor?" Pratt said, puzzled.

"
In a kind of way," Monday said slowly
"Y'see, I figured to name the baby—Webster."

He turned, just quickly enough to catch the
expression of terrified astonishment on Webb's face. Monday roared,
doubling over with laughter.

"There's y'r surprise, coon!"

"
Wagh!
"
Webb looked down at the floor, the corners of his mouth twisting.
"
Wagh!
"

"
Worth comin' for?"

"Well, that's some, now." Webb sniffed and
scratched his stomach.

"
Wagh!
it is, now."

Judge Pratt, too, was smiling at Webb's discomfiture.
He turned back to the paper. "Hell," he said, "I don't
know exactly how to go about this. I better just take down the facts
and have my clerk fill out a proper form when he comes in. When was
the baby born?"

"
Last night," Monday said.

"What time?"

Monday turned to Meek. " 'Bout eleven o'clock,"
Meek said.

"
I was sort of asleep," Monday explained to
Pratt.