Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  Mary went back into the cabin, leaving the door open. Monday tightened up the cinch and stood back, looking around. As his glance crossed Webb's "camp" a couple of hundred yards away he thought briefly he'd take the coon into Oregon City and show him what civilized life was like. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes returning to Webb's tiny fire.

  Oh, no, he thought. It can't be.

  He mounted the horse, keeping his eyes on the camp, his depression and anger suddenly flooding away. It was so. Webb's rifle leaned against his saddle on the ground, muzzle to the sky. For a moment he couldn't see the old man; and finally spotted him, a good twenty feet from the fire and from his gun. The old man was turned away from Monday, squatted down in the bushes tending to his morning duties.

  Monday eased the horse into motion, slowly. Please, God, he thought anxiously, don't let him turn around. He kicked the horse into a gallop. The newly turned soil at the field's edge muffled the hoofbeats, and Monday had covered half the short distance in brief seconds.

  A sudden scream ripped from his throat, the yipping war—cry of the Blackfeet. The old man came out of his squatting position like a startled quail, seeming to dart straight up and change direction in midair. He started to run, but his buckskin breeches were down around his ankles and tripped him up. The dash ended in a long, flat dive toward the gun, his angular body stretching across the space like a bony cloud, hands outstretched and clawed.

  Yelling wildly, Monday leaned down off the side of the saddle and thundered through the camp. Just as Webb plowed into the ground a few feet away, Monday's hand closed around the upright barrel of the gun and snatched it away. His yipping cry turned into a howl of pure triumph, and he hauled back on the reins sharply, the horse rearing high and pawing at the air.

  He brought him down and turned back. He stood straight in the stirrups, shaking the long rifle and yelling at the old man. Webb was just unfolding himself from the ground. He stood straight and began to yell back, shaking his fist helplessly, stark naked except for his hat, which had somehow remained fast, and the sad, limp pile of breeches around his feet.

  Still raging, he grabbed up his pants with one hand and snatched a burning fagot from the fire with the other. Waving the torch he began to charge Monday, cursing as he came. He ran awkwardly, clutching his breeches with one hand, but with amazing speed. When he got near enough he heaved the flaming stick. It passed just over Monday's head, frightening the horse. Monday howled again and kicked his heels in. The horse jerked wildly and broke into a gallop, straight down on the old man, who was now only a few yards off, still coming fast.

  Webb dove again, as the horse thundered by like an avalanche, passing over the spot where he had been standing. Monday reined up and doubled forward in the saddle, helpless with laughter.

  "Gimme my gun/" Webb was screaming, over and over like a mad, hysterical bird. "Gimme my gun!"

  "Hey!" Monday hollered back. "Y' damn iggerant dunghead!"

  "I'll have y'r ass f'r breakfast!" Webb shrieked at him.

  Monday walked the horse slowly back, his belly hurting from laughing. Webb darted for him, still holding his breeches up with one hand. Monday lifted the rifle high over his head and out of reach.

  "Never get y'r gun back that way," he cautioned. "Never, never. Be nice, now."

  The old man stopped short, helpless and almost inarticulate with rage. At last, snarling curses, he marched back to his grounded saddle and tied up his breeches with a thong. Angrily he grabbed his floppy hunting shirt and threw it on, belting it as though he were cinching a stubborn horse.

  Monday eased his horse over. The animal side-danced, uncertain about the strange thin monster they approached. Monday still held the gun high. "Y'ain't going t' shoot me if'n I give this back, are y'?"

  "Ain't promisin" nothin'," Webb snapped. "Give 'er back 'n' see."

  "Got to promise or you don't get 'er." Monday told him calmly.

  "All right," Webb said angrily.

  "All right, what?" Monday asked.

  "God damn y'r eyes! Don't y' trust me?" It put the old man half in a rage again, not to be trusted.

  "Not an inch; you pulled that stuff before. Y' got t' say it straight out."

  "Y' damn iggerant—"

  "Be nice, now," Monday warned him.

  "A1l right. I ain't going to shoot y'," Webb said quickly. "Now give it me!"

  "Now that's real kind," Monday said. He lowered the gun.

  "Leastways not right this minute," Webb muttered, snatching the rifle. Having it in his hands, he seemed to reconsider, and Monday had to remind him a promise was a promise. Silently the old man finished his dressing while Monday leaned forward on the saddle horn and watched.

  "You got into some bad habits, hoss. Leavin' y'r gun out like that."

  "Ain't going t' talk to no nigger that done something like that,"

  Webb said. "Takin' a man's gun—it ain't right. It ain't now. "

  "Thought you was gone beaver f'r a minute there, didn't you?"

  "Wagh!" Webb grinned faintly turning away so Monday couldn't see. "They's more'n one nigger gone under with his pants down, 'n' thats truth."

  "Hell of a way to meet y'r Maker, " Monday observed. "No dignity"

  "He made y'r ass too, y'iggerant dunghead. Y' ain't going t' surprise Him none."

  Monday leaned farther forward in the saddle. "Say, coon," he said seriously, "tell me somethin'."

  Webb muttered something that might have been assent, pulling on a moccasin.

  "Y' ullux use poison oak t' wipe y'r ass with, or is it somethin' new you're tryin' out?"

  Webb stopped short, the moccasin half on. He looked up at Monday with an expression of utter horror growing on his face. He gasped, and it was too much for Monday. He couldn't keep his face straight, and started laughing again.

  Muttering viciously, Vebb turned his attention back to the moccasin and jerked it on. "Y're some, y'are now. Y' smart bastard."

  Monday sat up straight in the saddle and took a deep breath of the morning air. The sun was rising rapidly now and it was hot on the back of his shoulders. The sky was pale blue and cloudless, and the deep black-green of the firs stood out sharply. It was too beautiful a day to

  waste.

  "Tell y' what, hoss," he said. "I got some stuff t' do in Oregon City, but it c'n wait. What do y' say we go take a swim down to the river? Them kind o' doin's shine with y'?"

  Webb stood, flexing his shoulders under the buckskin shirt and looking around at the countryside lying peaceful and green in the warmth of the morning.

  "Wouldn't hurt none, I expect. Ain't such a bad day, f'r the kind o' day it is."

  Monday grinned down at him.

  Webb mounted up and the two turned back toward the cabin and the trail that led down to the sandy beach at the point of the river's turning.

  "By god, " Monday said, thinking about it. "You looked like a bird, sure enough."

  Webb muttered under his breath.

  Monday leaned over and clapped the old man on the shoulder. "Just like old times, hoss. Don't get y'r back up."

  Webb's mouth twitched. "Was, now," he admitted grudgingly.

  Just the way it used to be, Monday thought. Been a hell of a while since he'd had any real horseplay. Seemed like it was getting grim around. He never seemed to have any plain fun any more, that was the trouble.

  "Just like old times," he repeated softly.

  Chapter Seven

  1

  Mary was bringing a chair out into the sun, and she looked up in surprise when they passed the cabin. Monday hollered at her that they were going for a swim first, and she smiled. The two horses eased down the small rise by the house and made their way to the bluff where Monday had sat the night before.

  There they turned left to follow the bank down to the sandy beach. Monday was beginning to feel good.

  "Say, hoss," he said to Webb. "When'd that animal o' yours die, anyways?"

  "She ain't dead, this 'un," Webb said contemptuous
ly.

  "Sure can't tell it t' look at 'er." Monday shook his head in wonderment. "Looks like wolf-meat sure enough."

  He glanced sideways at the old man and saw the muscles in the lean jaw work as Webb clenched his teeth in anger. They rode on a few yards in silence. Then Webb jerked harshly on the reins, twisting his animal's head back with the suddenness of it. Monday reined up too.

  Webb looked at him silently for a moment, leaning forward on the horn. Finally he spat on the ground between the two animals.

  "Dollar says you got shit f' r brains."

  "Done and done," Monday said. He eased his horse back even with Webb's, relaxing his grip on the reins to give himself plenty of surplus.

  He shrugged his shoulders, loosening his muscles under the hunting shirt.

  A red-tailed hawk swirled past overhead and gracefully glided to a perch in a tree fifty yards ahead of them, toward the beach. Webb pointed at the bird. "When she flies," he said.

  They sat quietly watching the hawk. Monday held the long ends of the reins out to the side, ready to whip. Webb sat comfortably relaxed, only raising his hands a little from the saddle horn. The hawk surveyed the field, watching for the scurry of some small animal. Its head turned slowly, scanning with care. It raised one wing, and Monday's breath stopped. The hawk tucked its head under the wing, searching out an annoying mite. Monday relaxed.

  He was beginning to think the damn bird was going to build a nest in the tree. Suddenly and simultaneously the hawk's talons released the branch and Webb shouted "Hya!."' kicking his heels into the horse's flanks.

  Monday's animal jerked, then bolted as he slapped the reins to him.

  Webb had taken the start in a furious explosion of hoofs. Monday's horse took two jerky steps, then fell into pace and thundered after. The hawk's slow glide faltered, and it veered off startled as the two great animals charged past beneath.

  Webb began to howl. "Hoo—o—o-ohya! Hya! Hya! Hya!"

  Monday heard himself begin to shout, too, as he drew abreast of the other animal. The horses were stretched forward now and the drumming of their hoofs was like a cascade of thunder rolling down from the hills. On Monday's right the trees bordering the river whipped past in a blur of motion, the wall of trees toward which they charged came up at them like an ocean roller.

  Beneath Monday's knees the muscles of the animal throbbed with a rhythm of pure power and he howled his delight in it as he pulled ahead.

  Then, suddenly, it was over and the trees were upon him and he reined up, the horse rearing and pawing at the air to avoid charging headlong into the near-solid wall of foliage. Webb was just behind, and in the twisting suddenness of the finish the two animals collided in air, fighting for balance. At last they came with all four hoofs on the ground again, dancing away from each other suspiciously while the men hauled on the reins to bring order back. When they were finally at rest, their heads hanging from the effort of the sprint, Monday swung down out of the saddle.

  He whacked Webb on the back. "Hooraw, coon! Y' owe me a dollar!"

  Webb rubbed the muzzle of his horse. "Y' done good," he said. "Y' done all right."

  "Gimme my dollar!" Monday demanded triumphantly.

  Webb turned to him slowly, lifting his hands in disappointment.

  "Now where the hell would I get a dollar?" he asked reasonably. "You know I ain't got a dollar."

  "Y' bet me a dollar, y' owe me a dollar," Monday said gleefully.

  "Ain't built for the short haul," Webb said speculatively, looking at his horse. "Little sprint like that don't mean nothin'. This child'll race y' from here t' Wind River, 'n' then we'll see."

  Monday laughed. "Let's get that swim, coon." They started down the trail to the beach. Monday knew he was a dollar richer. Maybe not this year, maybe not in the next ten. But someday he'd have a dollar because of that little sprint. Someday, maybe, an old Absaroka woman would come riding up to his door, a thousand miles from home, and hand him a dollar and he'd know what it was for.

  The river spread before them, glossy in the morning sun. The surface was almost smooth, with long swelling ripples moving slowly in the direction of the current. To their left was the tiny island where Webb had made his first camp, and directly across the wide flow was the tall cliff where he had stood to look on Monday's field for the first time.

  The sun flooded over the sandy beach, and already it was warm to the touch. Monday hastily kicked off his moccasins and scrambled out of his breeches and shirt. He loped down the short sloping beach and into the water; a long flat dive split the surface cleanly. He came up gasping and hollering. "Hooraw, boys, shes colder'n a dead man's balls! C'mon in, hoss!"

  Webb sniffed suspiciously. "This nigger's goin' to have a pipe first, " he said. Remorselessly he went over to the pile of Monday's clothes and rummaged around for his tobacco pouch.

  "Get the hell out o' there!" Monday shouted, treading water. " Smoke y'r own damn tobacco!"

  "May need m'own later, y'iggerant dunghead," Webb explained calmly. He tamped the pipe full of Monday's tobacco and went back to sit on his haunches, high up on the beach. Monday dived under and came up spouting water like a whale. He swam on his back for a while and turned a backward somersault in the water, his feet scrabbling in the air as he turned over.

  "Y're damn fancy." Webb snorted when the other man surfaced. Monday grinned at him and went on playing in the water.

  Webb continued to smoke, regarding the river through half-closed eyes. After a little while Monday came out, shaking his shaggy head like a dog. He stretched himself out on the sand, feeling the warmth and the digging of the sharp particles into the skin of his back and buttocks.

  "God damn/" he said. "That feels good, hoss."

  Webb grunted.

  "You best get in afore I use up all the water," Monday said.

  "This child'll go in when he's damn good an' ready," Webb told him.

  "You a pretty good swimmer, hoss? Never recollect seein' you swim."

  "Wagh!" Webb snorted. "This child's the best swimmer you ever seen. When he's a mind to."

  "Tell you what, then. I'll give y' a chancet t' get y'r dollar back. Race y' acrost the river an' back. That shine with y'?"

  Webb looked at the riverbank on the other side and estimated it at a hundred and fifty yards. As he watched, the trees on the other side receded and the river widened to what he guessed must be damned close to a mile and a half.

  "Hell," he said. "Y're a fine one, y'are now. You used to the water already, ain't no wonder y're ready to race me."

  "But I'm already plumb tired," Monday said. "Listen, I'll give y' a leetle head start, on account you're so old an' feeble."

  "Old an' feeble, my ass!" Webb snapped. He looked down at the bowl of the pipe and turned it around in his hands. After a moment he said, "Anyways, I got t' have a leetle run at it."

  "Take all y'want, hoss," Monday said amiably enough. "Y' c'n take the whole beach, for all I care."

  Webb sniffed again angrily and put the pipe down on the ground. He stood up casually and walked back up the slope to the edge of the trees. Monday stood and watched him, ready to follow.

  "You don't get no run,"' Webb said threateningly.

  Monday shrugged.

  Webb rubbed the side of his nose with one finger and looked at the river. Absently he licked his lips, and stuck one hand inside the hunting shirt to scratch himself.

  Then he clenched his fists and his body inclined forward tensely. "Hey, listen, hoss," Monday said, puzzled. "Ain't you going to take your clothes off?"

  Webb stood straight, grunting something Monday could not make out. Slowly he took off his clothes and made a neatly folded pile of them. As he worked, he occasionally glanced out of the corners of his eyes at the river, as though to make certain it was not creeping up on

  him,

  Once naked he danced around a little to loosen his muscles. Then he took a half-sideways stance toward the river, his fists clenched, his arms held slightly out at
the sides. He squinted his eyes narrowly and blinked rapidly a few times. Then, with a great bellow of rage, he was

  off.

  He bounded down the beach completely out of control, his bony arms flapping like the plucked wings of a monstrous chicken.

  Monday watched with the fascination of pure awe, as the flashing brown-and-white skeleton careened past and plunged for the water like the blind charging of a wounded buffalo.

  Webb hit the water at terrifying speed, churning the shallows into wild commotion. His legs plunged up and down powerfully, driving him deeper until the beach suddenly shelved off and he plunged into the hole.

  His bead bobbed up after a second, roaring and sputtering, and he began to pound the water viciously with both arms. He was still perfectly vertical and he slashed wildly at the water while great circles of splashing confusion began to foam around him. Spasmodically he sank straight down, disappearing briefly from Monday's sight, while the bony arms continued their systematic punishment of the surface. He would come up again choking and hollering, but whatever else happened, the arms thrashed independently, working a terrible havoc on the peaceful river.

  "Oh, sweet jesus," Monday whispered. He was held motionless in shock for a long moment. Then he raced to the edge and dived in. The momentum of his dive carried him to Webb, and he surfaced just behind the old man. He grabbed his chin and began to stroke the few feet back into the shallows. It was hard going, because Webb's arms continued to flail around him, sometimes clouting Monday at the side of his head. Shortly Monday's feet felt solid ground. He stood up and, with one last powerful heave, threw the light body of the old man into shallow water. Webb sank, horizontal at last in the shallows, and sat up, sputtering and raging. Monday grabbed him under the armpits and hoisted him to his feet, turning him to face the beach.

  Webb shook him off angrily and stalked up the beach to his pile of clothes. Wheeling around suddenly, he crouched forward, his mouth set in a vicious snarl. He tensed himself, dripping puddles of water all around, and suddenly began to gallop toward the water again like a giant bony duck. Monday threw himself at the old man's legs and Webb went tumbling across the sand. Monday scrambled up and dived for the old man, pinned his thin shoulders to the ground.