Moontrap - Don Berry (28 page)

Chapter Twelve

1

Nothing was ever said about it. Monday could not find
words to ask the questions that were in his mind, and Mary could
offer nothing. Their daily life went on as though it had never
happened; the incident existed in a vacuum, with no relation to what
had come before, and no effect on what came after.

Monday did not know why it had happened, and could
not ask; the shock and pain of that remembered mask of loathing were
too much for him to bear. He did not know who was at fault, if there
was a fault, and could not ask. In the end, he supposed, it was his
own stupidity—and yet, the only thing Mary had said was, "Don't
hate me." And what did that mean? That she took the
responsibility, that the failure was hers? He didn't know, because
there was no way to ask.

Finally, the only thing he could see to do was to
ignore it. As far as possible, pretend it had never happened. There
was no use hashing it over and over in his mind; torment with no end,
anguish without result. Deliberately, in the days that followed, he
put it away from his mind and turned to things more tangible, things
he was capable of dealing with.

If this—distance that existed between them was not
to be bridged so easily as he thought, there remained the other
problem, of bringing Mary into the world he was making for them.
There at least, there was something he could do. There, he was not
helpless and confused. As he thought about it, it became more and
more clear that the first steps would have to be made
inconspicuously. The first breach in the great wall would have to be
made without drawing too much attention, without causing a lot of
talk and raised eyebrows. Something perfectly natural.

And a few days later it
occurred to him; it was obvious. There was one occasion everybody
would be out for, and Mary's presence would not be at all remarkable;
it would even be expected. The one truly exceptional day of the year,
Independence Day, the Glorious Fourth.

***

The morning of the Fourth dawned brilliant and clear,
and Monday was at once nervous and excited. He paced restlessly on
the porch, waiting for Mary and Little Webb. For the third time he
stuck his head in the door and said, "Mary, you just about
ready?"

"Almost," she said. "You wait."

"I been waiting an hour," Monday
complained.

"Not ten minutes," Mary said.

Restlessly Monday went out to the borrowed wagon and
ran his hand along the top of the wheel. The already harnessed horse
looked at him curiously, and Monday patted him absently on the
muzzle. The sun was just over the horizon. The service in Oregon City
wasn't scheduled to start until ten o'clock, but Monday was already
afraid of being late. He wanted today to go just right, and it would
be a bad sign to be late right at the beginning.

Finally Mary came out, carrying Little Webb. She was
dressed in her best calico, red and white. Monday had seen it a dozen
times before, but somehow he stood speechless when she came out of
the cabin into the sun, and was standing on the porch.

"My god!" he said, staring at her.

"
There is something wrong?" Mary asked
hesitantly.

"Wrong! No, my god, you're beautiful! It's
perfect."

She had carefully brushed her long black hair until
it shone in the sun with the gleam of charred wood. The smooth, tan
skin of her face was like satin, and Monday thought he had never seen
a woman so beautiful before.

"It is all right? " she said anxiously

The old longing leaped up in him again. He swallowed
heavily and went over to touch her on the shoulder. "It's—f1ne,"
he said softly. "It's wonderful."

From her arms the baby looked up at him silently,
great dark eyes without expression. Monday gave him a finger, and
Little Webb grasped it tightly.

"Come on, Webb," Monday said, smiling.
"Your first Independence Day. Few more years you'll realize what
it means, Independence Day. Somethin' pretty important for the Big
People."

He helped Mary up on the high wagon step and went
around to the other side. He climbed up, shook the reins and the
horse started off. The wagon was an extravagance, and he knew it. It
was going to cost him a dollar extra at the Oregon City ferry, but
what the hell. He'd had to borrow the money from Swensen anyway, so
it didn't make much difference if it was two dollars or four. And
today he wanted to be respectable. He had a feeling it was going to
go well. He wanted it to be perfect.
 
The
sun already warm. They lost it when they passed beyond the cleared
space of his field and into the fir-canopied trail that led north
over Peter's Mountain, and the early-morning air was cool. Mary
shivered a little and hugged Little Webb closer to her breast.

"
Mary," Monday said quietly, "you
scared?"

She shook her head, looking down at the floorboards.

"No reason to be," Monday said. "It's
going to be all right. On the Fourth nobody's going to be—I mean,
all the little things don't matter. The Fourth's too big for people
to be mean."

"
Yes, I hope."

Monday grinned. "By god, I'll bet you don't even
know what Independence Day is for, do you?"

Mary shook her head, still looking down. "In the
mountains, it was for liquor, mostly."

The big man laughed. "
Wagh!
It was now! We always did 'er up brown, an' that's truth. But what it
means is, it's a celebration of when the United States got her
freedom from England. It was about seventy-five years ago. They had a
war. When I was just a boy there used to be some Revolutionary
soldiers around, an' then there was
really
doin's. It ain't so patriotic as it used t' be, with all the parades
and speech-makin' and what all."

They reached the turning point where the trail down
to Monday's point joined the main road, and swung off to the right.
Absently, Monday talked on about the Revolution and why it was
important, trying to cheer Mary a little, trying to interest her in
the celebration as something more than an ordeal. Much of it, he
knew, was meaningless to her. She had heard the names, Washington,
Jefferson, Adams, but she didn't connect them with anything. And he
was completely beyond his own depth when he tried to explain why the
colonies had been established in the first place.

"The point is," he finished helplessly
"it's sort of a celebration of freedom. The big day for the
United States. That's why there's always big doin's. You understand?"

Mary nodded silently. After a moment she said,
"History—it is very long here. Much longer than in the
mountains."

Monday laughed. "Longer than either of us got
any idea. And listen, Mary this afternoon we'll go aboard a real
ship, would you like that? The government sent a ship, just in honor
of the Oregon Territory. It ain't much, just a sloop-of-war, the
Portsmouth
, I think.
But she's lyin' in the river, an' there'll be a reception this
afternoon, prob'ly. Would you like that?"

Mary stroked Little Webb's head, and the baby
wriggled restlessly in her arms.

"Anyway," Monday
said, "there's a surprise for you."

***

Two surprises, in fact, in order that she would not
feel so much alone. Monday waved as they neared the little frame
church, and Joe Meek waved back. With him was Virginia, and the three
children stood silently to one side. As Monday helped Mary down, they
all came forward solemnly to shake hands and peer curiously at the
baby she held. Mary crouched down and pulled the blanket away from
the tiny face for the wide-eyed appreciation of the Meek children.

"
How y' feelin', hoss?" Monday said.

"
Right lively," Meek admitted.

Monday drew him off a little to the side. "Say
Meek, listen. Did y' get ahold o' Webb?"

"
Wagh!
I did. He's
comin'."

"Good," Monday said with satisfaction.
"More familiar faces around, better it'll be."

"The coon says he ain't missed a Fourth o' July
in sixty years or better, an' he ain't fixin' t'start now. "

Monday laughed. "He's goin' to find 'er a bit
dry after the mountains."

"Well, now, far as that goes," Meek said,
"after the hollerin's done here, I figured I might go about a
bit o' marshalin'."

"
Hell, Meek, on the Fourth?"

"
Happens there's a still over to Linn that the
marshal must've overlooked. Can't have them kind o" doin's."

"
Wagh!
Might could be
you'd need a bit o' help t' break 'er up?"

"Just might could be," Meek admitted.
"Y'know, them shine merchants get a bit riled when the marshal
shows up with his ax."

Monday clapped him on the shoulder. "Well,
Marshal, I see my duty plain enough. I'll just give you a hand."

Mary and Wrginia had been talking, their voices low
and inaudible.

When the men came back, they fell silent and looked
up.

"Soon's Webb gets here we'll go on in,"
Monday said.

Other settlers were arriving all the time, some of
them men Monday had talked to in the mill or in the Oregon City
stores. He waved as they pulled up, stopping the wagons around the
perimeter of the little square in front of the church. They waved
back, cheerfully enough, and it gave Monday a good feeling.

"
The old man," Mary said. "He is
coming too?"

"
He's comin'."

She looked up into his face, and after a moment said
quietly, "Thank you for my surprise."

Monday grinned at her.

Webb came in about ten minutes later, slouching in
the saddle and peering around suspiciously. Beside him, to Monday's
surprise, rode René Devaux, looking chipper and happy

"Hey, Rainy, what the hell're you doin' here?
You ain't even American."

"
Is true," Devaux admitted. "But me, I
am a great celebrator anyway "

Webb looked down at Little Webb and wrinkled his
forehead. Very carefully he said, "What're y' feelin' like,
hoss?" Little Webb didn't answer, and Webb straightened up.
"Ain't very bright, is he?"

"
Let's go on in," Monday said.

The little group moved over to the church and began
filing up the steps. Thurston stood just at the door, shaking hands
with everybody who passed.

"Well, Monday," he said. "Seems to me
this is the first time we've had the honor of your presence here."

Monday extended his hand. "Well, you know, I'm
not too much on church-goin'."

"
In time, in time," Thurston said.
"Marshal, how are you?"

"Rollin' along, " Meek said.

Thurston pointedly ignored all the others, the women,
Webb and Devaux.

Inside, the church was dark. After the brilliance of
the summer-morning sun, it seemed cavern-like. Webb sidled over to
Monday and said, "What's that nigger doin' shakin' hands out
there? He ain't the preacher, is he?"

Monday frowned. "No, but—hell, I don't know,
coon. That 'un shakes hands ever' chance he gets."

Meek said, "I hear tell when Thurston left Iowa
he swore he'd either be in hell or Congress in two years."

"That's four years ago," Monday said.
"Don't look like he's going to make 'er."

"No, but he's still got his eyes on Congress."

"Hell's closer," Webb muttered.

"Let's move up an' sit down," Monday said.
People were coming in the door, and the little group of ex-mountain
men was forming a bottleneck.

"This child's goin' t' stay back here,"
Webb said. "These here places make me nervous."

"Don't you go duckin' out, now," Monday
said.

The two families moved down the aisle and took a pew
about halfway toward the pulpit on the right side of the aisle. The
seven of them, not counting little Webb, took up nearly the whole
thing. Mary went in first with the baby followed by Monday and the
Meek children and Virginia. Joe sat on the outside, stretching his
legs comfortably in the aisle. There was a steady drone of
conversation and laughter, and Monday wondered if it was this way for
regular religious services.

Finally Thurston closed the door at the rear, cutting
off even the little light that came in. Now the two windows behind
the pulpit were the only source, and dust-defined sunbeams poured
through, unfathomably bright against the comparative obscurity of the
rest of the room.

The pulpit itself was on a low platform that ran all
the way across the end of the church. Behind it was arranged a row of
chairs, the places of honor. The little building was used for all
public meetings, and it was arranged now for its non-religious
functions, except for the
pulpit itself.

Thurston and a few others came along the side aisle
from the back, mounted the low step to the platform and took the
chairs. They were all members of the Mission Party, Monday noticed.
He wondered what kind of politicking had insured that none of the
more liberal American Party got places on the platform. He shrugged
to himself. If there was one thing that didn't interest him it was
the political quarrel that split the Oregon Territory in two.