Moontrap - Don Berry (4 page)

Monday handed the bottle back. He let his hands hang
limply over his knees and looked at the ground while the Frenchman
drank. When the bottle came back to him he studied the level and
swished it a bit, then lifted it.

"
Wagh!
" Whyn't
y' join up the regular army, then?" he said.

Devaux shrugged. "Me, I have no problems."

Monday laughed. Devaux, in common with all other
former employees of the Hudson's Bay Company, was living on borrowed
time and knew it. The recent influx of Americans—and the implacable
hatred they brought for anything that suggested the monolithic
British company—made Devaux's position hard. Oregon had been
officially a territory for only a year, but the pressure was growing
every day to "run the damn furriners out." After ten days
every new settler from the states talked as though fifteen
generations of his people had been born on Oregon soil.

"
Moreover," Devaux said, glancing at the
big man, "is a problem, I go live with the—what you call, the
father of my woman?"

"
Father-in-law. "

"
C'est ca
.
Exactly "

Monday laughed again. "Which one, Rainy? How the
hell you choose?"

Devaux shrugged. "Is all equal to me."

"
How many wives you got?" .

"Is bad luck to count," Devaux said
seriously "Me, I never count. Numerous."

Monday grinned and began to tick them off on his
lingers. "Well, let's see. There's that Clackamas, and a
Calapuya, and that one down to the Rogue River, what do they call
themselves?"

"
Kelawatset."

"But she's just a girl, anyway she don't count."

Devaux was indignant. "She is big enough to make
babies. But is bad luck to count, friend of me. No more counting."'

"
What the hell you do it for, Rainy? All those
relatives." Monday shook his head. The worst thing about having
an Indian wife was the relatives, all of whom instantly became
members of your immediate family down to second and third cousins.

Devaux grinned happily "No problems, me."
He paused, and glanced slyly at Monday. "And you know, René
Devaux, he goes—
everywhere
."
He swept his arm in a circle. "And no problems. Friends,
everywhere. Family everywhere. Not so bad, moreover."

Monday grinned, never having thought of it in just
that way. But it was quite true. Of all the men he knew, old Rainy
was safer in the hills than any of them. No matter where he went he
had a wife and family and a tribe, and could settle down for a week
or a year.

"In any case," Devaux said, and his face
grew solemn, "is a promise I make to my
pére
,
just when I leave Montreal. He say to me, 'René, my son, you go off
and you make
beaucoup beaucoup
money, yes. But where you go, you don't leave one single'—
métis
—what
you call it?"

"
Half-breed."

" '—
behind you. You make that promise."
Devaux shrugged. "Alors, one promises, no? I had fifteen years
then, but was already wearing long pants. You understand."

Monday stared at his friend in disbelief. "Rainy,
you—for christ's sakes, man, you must have thirty kids or better
scattered around here. And if they ain't half-breed, what the hell
are they? "

Devaux reached out and touched Monday on the
shoulder, his expression troubled. "Is my problem, you
understand? Me, I travel—everywhere! The whole world over. And for
what I do this? For one only thing!" He lifted his finger, to
show the solitariness of his purpose.

"To find one woman—
one
only woman
—what is sterile. Because, you
know, one has promised." Devaux leaned back discouragedly and
shrugged, lifting his hands helplessly. "Is my tragedy. Nowhere
is sterile woman. Nowhere."

Monday leaned back against the rock, choking and
gasping for breath. At last he said. wiping his tear-filled eyes,
"Well, by god, Rainy. Nobody can say you hayen't worked at it."

Devaux cocked his head. "One cannot know unless
one tries, no? Me, I try them young, I try them old, fat and thin.
Nowhere is a sterile woman, she n'existe pas. And now I am sad for
thinking on my tragedy.
La bouteille
?"

"
It's yours, Rainy. Finish it. You're better'n
whisky t' cheer me up."

"Allors, Nest go. Pretty soon we go, ah? Le
Colonel, he is ver'
militaire
.
"

"All right." Monday stood up, still
grinning. "We'll go back and play sojer for a while."

Devaux slammed the cork into the bottle with the palm
of his hand, and stood. "Moreover," he said, "you
drink the bottle too much when you are low in your mind, friend of
me. Me, I have no problems. I do not let it derange me, not the
militaire
or
anything."

They walked back to their horses and mounted. The
dusk had come full while they talked, and under the shelter of the
trees the growing darkness made the small trail indistinct. Monday
could barely make out Devaux's features. The Frenchman was still
musing on his philosophy as he picked up the reins and swung into the
saddle.

"
No problems. Because, you know. When René
Devaux has a wife, you know what he is doing with her?"

"I sure god do," Monday said, laughing
again.

"
No," Devaux said. "You do not."
He sat his horse quietly in the darkness, and Monday could see no
expression on the smaller man's face. His voice had changed. He spoke
quietly but coldly all the lilt gone.

"When René Devaux has a wife, he is leaving her
in the tribe, with her own people. Is the difference between us,
friend of me."

Devaux jerked sharply on the reins, wheeling his
horse up the path to intersect the main road. After a moment, Monday
gently heeled his own horse, following slowly "Hya," he
said softly.
"
Move."

2

Monday and Devaux caught up with the creeping column
a mile or so farther on. They let their horses plod along at the slow
walk dictated by the screaming wagon ahead. Monday wished to christ
somebody had seen to the wagon on the way down, but nobody was
interested enough. In the desert country they had come through up the
Columbia, all the moving parts had shrunk from the dryness, and
nothing fitted properly any more. Every turn of the wheel raised a
grating shriek that pierced his ears like the shrill screams of a
butchered pig. He wondered if he was the only one in the column
bothered by it; nobody else seemed to pay any attention. He gritted
his teeth.

It was dark now, but there was a full moon so bright
it cast sharply defined shadows, illuminating the column with a pale
blue luminescence. The line of riders ahead was a processional of the
damned under the ghostly light, and the wagon shrieked incessantly
like a soul tortured for eternity. Monday shook his head, trying to
rid himself of the eerie thoughts. Devaux turned slightly in the
saddle to look at him, then looked away again.

One of the soldiers came riding down the line,
checking on the mounted Indians, giving gratuitous instruction,
keeping them organized, as if it mattered. As he passed, Devaux said
to Monday loud enough for the soldier to hear, "The
militaire
,
he are in control, no? Is a comfort to me."

The soldier passed on. Monday looked at the
straggling group of Indians, perhaps thirty of them, who had paid no
attention whatever to the organizational instincts of the military.

"
They make me nervous," he said to Devaux.

"Womens and childrens?" Devaux said.

"
They didn't have to come. Why'n hell couldn't
they of stayed home?"

Devaux shrugged. "
C'est
normal ca
. WhenI am hanged, all my friends
and relatives come to see also."

Monday shifted his position in the saddle, stretching
his shoulders.

"
You also will come to my hanging," Devaux
said. "I think maybe is a ver' interesting thing to see, a
friend of you who dance in the air, no?" The Frenchman suddenly
reached over and grabbed the blue military cap from Monday's head.
With a broad swing of his arm he sailed it off into the bushes.

"Rainy, god damn—"

"
I think is too tight for you, the
chapeau
.
It makes a pression on the brain, no?"

Monday grinned at him. "Might could be you're
right."

Devaux shrugged. "Me,
I wear it ver' well."

***

It was nearly nine o'clock when they reached the
outskirts of Oregon City, their entrance heralded long before by the
squeaking wagon wheels. The manacled prisoners in the wagon were
awake now, and sitting up. Monday saw the lean, bony face of Tamahas
turning to look contemptuously at his surroundings. Then, not caring,
he lay back down in the wagon bed.

Monday shook his head. It had been Tamahass hatchet
that had destroyed the beauty of Narcissa Whitman, slashing away at
that gentle, pale face until nothing remained but an unrecognizable
pulp of blood, flesh, and splinters of bone. He was a bad one, Monday
thought, the kind of man you could never reach and always made you
wonder what God had in mind.

A crowd of sorts had gathered to watch their
triumphal entry into the town. They lined the street in thin,
scattered bunches. Children scampered around the groups, shouting and
playing incomprehensible games. For them it was a holiday, a
mysterious hour's reprieve from bedtime, and they profited.

"Murderin' red bastards! Hang 'em!"

Monday heard the shout ahead, and picked out the
group from which it came: half a dozen men, standing around
nervously. One of them, small and wiry, shook his fist
indiscriminately at everyone who passed—Indians, military and
militia alike—while he shouted curses. Monday leaned over in the
saddle and spat on the ground.

The man continued, raising himself to a peak of
obscenity as the wagonload of prisoners passed. Around him the other
men were muttering and shuffling their feet in the dusty street.
Occasionally the man would glance at them slyly, with a half-grin,
looking for their approval. It was absurd. But it could get worse.

Monday looked over at Devaux, tilted his head toward
the frenzied shouter ahead. Devaux nodded and they kicked up their
horses and rode ahead along the line to the little group, and reined
up in front of them. Devaux leaned out of the saddle.

"Eh, my friend," he said, his voice
lilting, a wide smile on his face. "Not so loud wi' the noise,
eh? You waking up the
bébé
"

The man scowled at him, his fists clenched. "Dirty
murderin' red swine!" he snarled, looking at the line. "Kill
'em, the murderers!"

"
Eh, but my friend. Do not derange yourself—"

"
Hangin's nothin', they ought t' be drawn and
quartered," the man said to Devaux. He raised his voice to a
shout again, shaking his fist in the air. "Hang 'em, hang 'em."

Monday eased his horse up between Devaux and the
standing man, so the animal's shoulder was almost pressing against
the other's chest, making him step back. The man looked angrily up at
Monday Monday said coldly, "Just what the hell do you
think
we're going t' do with 'em?"

The man looked down at the ground, muttering, then
turned to his friends for support. They were mostly interested in
something else. A voice said vaguely "Ah, hell. It's gettin'
late .... "

Monday and Devaux set their horses into a walk again,
moving up the line. When they had gone fifty feet they heard the
man's voice raised again behind them.

"An' you goddam mountain men are no better!
Bunch o' dirty Indians your own selves! Hang the lot o' you an' be
done with it! "

Neither of them turned.

A sergeant riding down the line wheeled his horse and
came alongside. "Where's your cap, mister?"

"
I lost it," Monday told him.

"Mister, that's United States property. You'll
have to pay for that cap."

Monday closed his eyes and his fists tightened on the
reins. "See my lawyer."

"
Real funny," the sergeant said. "Don't
get—"

Devaux took off his cap and placed it on Monday's
head. "
Voila
,"
he said. "The
chapeau
,
he is found. Ver' simple." He smiled ingratiatingly

"
All right, you smart bastard. Where's yours?"

Devaux reached over again and took the cap from
Monday and put it on his own dark head. He spread his hands. "
Le
voila
."

The sergeant was genuinely angry now. "Both of
you wise bastards better come with—"