Moontrap - Don Berry (3 page)

Then he relaxed, and shrugged. It was nothing to him.
But Jaybird had had a Shoshone woman in the mountains, by report one
of the best, though just a girl. The old man had never met her, but
it annoyed him obscurely that a man would switch women when he had a
good one. But it was nothing to him what Jaybird did.

"Damn iggerant dunghead," he said. Though
the Shoshone slut might have been killed or something.

The woman that had come out of the cabin was
ungainly. She walked around the corner to the woodpile awkwardly, and
the old man was contemptuous of her softness.

"Lazy slut," he snorted. You'd never catch
any squaw of his moving like that, less'n she was . . .

He leaned forward in the saddle, and saw that his old
eyes had been playing him false. The woman wasn't fat, but heavy with
pregnancy.

He kicked the old horse in the ribs and started up
toward the cabin. The woman caught the movement and stopped,
startled. Then she moved back around the corner with the load of
wood, the slow, measured pace taking her out of sight as the old man
approached. He heard the door shut.

He let the horse plod up to the door of the cabin and
stopped. He leaned forward on the saddle horn, crossing his bony
wrists comfortably before him. She knew he was there. He could wait.
He closed his eyes and was back in Pierre's Hole the year of '32.

"Powerful drunk," he muttered. "Powerful.
Billy Sublette's little brother got off first, him 'n' Gervais, I
recollect. 'N' I'm a nigger if he didn't haul along the iceman from
Boston 'n' his whole kit, them as hadn't deserted. Name o' Wyeth,
him.
Wagh!
Well, now.
They hadn't got but a couple miles out . . ."

It was eighteen years and a thousand miles from him,
but it was all sharp in his mind. How that no-good Nez Percé come
roarin' back to camp with his horse all lathered, hollerin', "Piegan,
Piegan!" Hadn't been Piegan anyways, but a village o' Gros
Ventres coming up from . . .

The old man opened his eyes slightly and looked at
the closed, silent door. He grunted softly, and swung down out of the
saddle.

"
Nothin' t'rile a man like bad manners," he
grumbled.

He walked over to the door and shoved it open
harshly. It banged back against the wall, the sound echoing loudly in
the tiny room. The inside of the cabin was at first completely dark.
There was only the light from one small window in the south wall and
the low fire on his right. He stood in the doorframe, letting his
eyes accustom themselves to the gloom.

For a moment he thought the woman had gotten out,
though he had automatically looked the building over as he approached
and seen no other way but the main door. After the reverberating
crash of the door against the wall there was no sound.

At last he made her out. She was sitting in the
farthest corner, where the darkness was almost total, her back
against the wall. She reminded him oddly ofa doe gone to cover in a
thicket; immobile, silent, waiting. As his eyes adjusted to the light
he saw that the woman was not white after all. Brownskin, but dressed
up funny in white clothes, like that other tame Indian he'd seen. It
was curious.

Across her lap lay a long Hawkens gun, the barrel
shining dully. Instinctively his eyes went to the hammer, and he
noticed scornfully that it was on half-cock. Her hands lay placid and
calm on the rifle, moving no more than the rest of her body.

She was a likely woman, he thought, her
pregnant-heavy body a contrast with the sharp, fine features of her
face. Dressed up so damn queer there was no way he could tell her
tribe or band. But she was mountain Indian sure god, and he figured
probably Shoshone. It pleased him, mildly. So the Jaybird had brought
his woman down with him; that was better.

He moved forward a step. There was a dull, metallic
click, and he stopped. The woman still sat calmly and without motion;
but the hammer of the Hawkens was now back on full-cock and ready to
fire. She seemed to be a part of the wall, so silent, so passive. He
had to admit the Jaybird had some eye for beauty. The woman made him
think a little of Mountain Lamb, Meek's first woman, that he got from
Milton Sublette. Most beautiful damn animal god ever made, they said.
She was Shoshone, too. There was something about them. It appeared
like this one was a bit skittery, though, what with the Hawkens on
full-cock and all.

For a long time they looked at each other across ten
feet of emptiness, both still. The hre reached a pitch pocket in the
wood; sizzled and flared yellow. The highlights in the woman's eyes
darted, and a shimmering reflection cascaded across her smooth, dark
cheek.

At last the old man raised his right hand slowly,
palm forward. He pushed it toward the woman, twisting it slightly
back and forth in the mountain sign for "question." The
woman did not move, but her eyes followed the movement of his hand.

He continued, his hand darting rapidly before him,
and as he signed he repeated the question in words: "Where's
your man?" He signed very carefully, thinking she might have
forgotten, holding his index finger in the erect-penis sign for "man"
when he had finished. There was no reaction. The woman remained calm
and still and did not answer.

The old man closed his eyes. Finally he looked down
at the floor. "Ain't here, that one," he muttered. "Can't
come round this nigger. Ain't here. No horse. Nothin'.
Wagh!
"
His throat rumbled with stillborn words while the woman sat impassive
and almost invisible, watching.

He fell silent at last, then raised his head to
squint around, as if confirming his conclusion. He returned his
attention to the woman almost reluctantly, and leaned forward
slightly. "Where's—your—man," he repeated carefully, as
to a child. It was almost as though he had forgotten asking before.

As he spoke again, he moved forward another step.
Almost slowly, the glinting barrel of the Hawkens swung around, and
there was suddenly no distance between them at all. The half-inch
cavern of the muzzle was very close. The woman spoke at last, and her
voice was soft and even, without inflection.

"You go now, old man."

"
Wagh!
"
he grunted softly. He looked down at his hands, and frowned,
considering some problem that was very far away. He seemed to be
listening to voices in his mind; answering questions the woman had
not asked.

He turned and walked out the door, without haste. He
picked up the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle. The
woman followed him and stood in the doorway, the heavy gun still
cradled easily across the crook of her elbow. The old man shook the
reins slightly, setting the horse off into a slow walk. He passed her
as though he did not see; had forgotten the conversation, his mind
elsewhere. About ten yards past, he stopped and swung around in the
saddle with his fist on the horse's rump. He stared at her again,
frowning, while the two long hanks of hair swung across his chest.

"
Tell the hoss Old Webb was to see'm. You do
it."

Without waiting for acknowledgment he turned away
again. He began muttering to himself in a low monotone as he rode
away, taking up the story where he had left off.

The woman watched him go, and gradually the barrel of
the long rifle lowered until it pointed toward the ground. She
squeezed the trigger and there was a dull snap as the hammer fell on
the empty pan. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the
doorframe for a second. Then she moved slowly into the house,
replaced the gun on its oaken pegs over the fireplace. From a
cupboard at the back she took a newly cured skin and stretched it on
the floor and began to trace the pattern of a shirt. It was slow. The
child was so large now it was difficult for her to stoop.
 

Chapter Two

1

Johnson Monday was low in his mind as he rode along.
It was already nearing dusk, and the long column was still a good ten
miles from Oregon City. just across the Willamette, in the shadow of
the western hills, straggled the half-dozen shacks that proudly
styled themselves Portland, known to everyone but the inhabitants as
Little Stumptown. He had been counting on making it home tonight, but
it didn't look that way now.

He pulled lightly on the reins, easing off to the
side of the line, and looked up and down. At the head rode Colonel
Patterson, sitting his horse stiffly, as befitted his rank. The more
fatigued he became the stiffer he sat, until by this time of night he
had lost all contact with the animal and slapped up and down
painfully in the saddle.

Monday sighed and stretched his shoulders. "Goddam
wooden sojer." Grouped behind Patterson were some regular army
in their dusty blue uniforms. Then came the wagon with the Cayuse
prisoners, poking along and creaking until Monday thought his ears
would tear off. The Indians, all handcuffed together in the back of
the wagon, had contemptuously gone to sleep in spite of the unearthly
noise.

The rest of the column was a mixed, straggling mass
of the so-called militia—just settlers like Monday, with absurd
blue military caps—and Indians. They milled along in the wake of
the ramrod colonel like a herd of witless sheep. Everyone was very
tired.

Monday sat and watched part of the line go by, silent
and sullen, heads down, half paralyzed with fatigue and—for
some—grief. No one spoke, and only a few even glanced at him. He
recognized the wife of Tamahas, her fat body jelly-shaking with each
step of the horse. She stared blankly at the ground just ahead of her
horse's hoofs, and her glazed attention never wandered. Monday
wondered what she was thinking about, riding so silently to the
hanging of her husband.

Some war
; Monday thought
disgustedly. It is,
now
.
Five prisoners and thirty tag-alongs. He wished to christ he'd had
sense enough to stay home.

One of the regular army came riding briskly by,
maintaining a laudable illusion of energy. Seeing Monday motionless
by the side of the road, he stopped and gestured sharply. "Get
back in line, mister."

Monday looked at him. "Go to hell, sojer,"
he said uninterestedly.

The blue uniform, just a boy, surveyed the huge blond
figure sitting relaxed before him, hands crossed over the saddle
horn. The little blue cap, his only kinship with the giant, perched
ridiculously atop a mane of yellow hair. Two hundred pounds of
resting mountain cat. The soldier kicked up his horse and rode on.

"Hell," Monday said under his breath. He
swung off the road and down toward the riverbank. He tethered his
horse to a tree and got a bottle out of the saddlebag, sitting down
against a boulder with a sigh. For a long moment he simply stared
vacantly across the river, vaguely conscious of the slowly retreating
squeal of the wagon in the distance. Then he yanked the cork out of
the bottle and tilted it up. Tears came to his eyes and he gasped as
he felt the terrible burn coursing down his throat. Even for
moonshine it was foul, but it was better than nothing. He wished he
had some molasses to put in and he'd pretend it was rum.

He sat disconsolate and depressed, occasionally
tilting the bottle, until he heard the soft pad of horse's hoofs
coming down the slope. Quickly he corked the bottle, tucked it by the
side of the rock and pulled a fir bough up to hide it.

Behind him came a voice, very stern. "Alri',
Monday. Give me
bouteille
.
It is the colonel who speak."

Monday grimaced. Without looking around he knocked
the limb away and pulled the bottle out of its hiding place. "Sit
y'self down, Rainy." he said.

The man behind dismounted and tethered his horse
beside Mondays. He came around the rock to join the big blond man.
René Devaux was a good six inches shorter than Monday's six feet,
built light. He was perhaps thirty but had a dark, adolescent
handsomeness that made him seem younger. Like Monday, he wore the
little blue military cap that signified his militiahood. He looked
disappointed as he slid down to sit beside Monday

"
How you know it was me?" he asked in a
puzzled voice.

" 'Cause you gargle instead o' talk,"
Monday said. "You say y'r r's and stuff funny."

"Is not the case," Devaux said firmly. "I
speak perfect, there is fourteen years. Wi'out any accent. Moreover,
I have a powerful thirst. I give you a little money?"

Monday handed him the bottle. "On the prairie,
Rainy" Absently he swept one open palm over the other in the
mountain sign for a free gift.

Devaux choked and coughed. He handed the bottle back,
blinking. "Is ver' bad wiskey, that."

Monday shrugged. "Don't drink it."

"
Not so bad as that," Devaux said in a hurt
tone. "Listen. How you think of the army life, hah?"

Monday snorted.

"Ah, but friend of me, I think you understand
wrong. One gives you food, one gives you a blanket, one tells you 'do
this, do that.' Ver' simple, the army. Problems do not exist. I am
ver'
militaire
, me.
La
bouteille
? "