Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  "Jesus god, Webb, whoa back!"

  "What the hell'd you go an' do that for!" Webb hollered into Monday's face. "I was just gettin' the feel of it!"

  2

  When Webb had calmed enough that Monday felt it was safe to release him, he let the old man up.

  "Y' damn near drawned me!" Webb said, feeling his jaw and throat where Monday's heavy hand had gripped him.

  "Jesus, Webb," Monday said. "Why didn't y' just tell me y' couldn't swim?"

  "This nigger c'n swim slick," Webb snapped. "He just swims a leetle different style than some."

  Monday leaned back on his elbows. "But damn, hoss. Y'r style, seems like it's better for up-and-down than back-and-forth."

  "Ever occur t' that thick skull o' y'rs that maybe that's what I like? " Webb said sarcastically.

  "All right, coon, all right. Whoa back, now."

  Webb sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  "Tell you what, though," Monday said, leaning forward. "Bein' as how you got y'r own style down real smart, maybe you'd like t' learn the other one?"

  "Wouldn't hurt nothin', I expect," Webb admitted grudgingly, after a moment's thought.

  "S'pose we swap, then," Monday said. "You teach me your style, an' I'l1 teach y' mine."

  "Well, hell, boy," Webb said modestly. "There ain't a hell of a lot to 'er. "

  "Now my style," Monday said, "a man's got t' be more or less flat in the water. Y' get y'r head down an' y'r feet up."

  "Y'iggerant dunghead," Webb said. "Don't y'even know that? Y' get y'r head down, y' get drownded. Goes against nature f'r a man t' get his head down in the water."

  "Listen, coon. I'll show you, all right? Is that fair?"

  Webb shrugged, perfectly indifferent to it.

  Monday stood and walked along the river for a bit. Down the beach from them, nearly opposite the mouth of the channel that cut the island off from the mainland, drift logs had piled during the winter floods. Monday picked around them until he found one he thought would serve as a decent float.

  "Hya! coon. Give me a hand here."

  Webb came over and the two of them rolled the log to the water.

  "Now listen, hoss. You grab onto one end, an' keep y'r head up."

  Webb silently did as he was told, and Monday hauled the log out into deeper water. As Webb's feet left the solid footing of the beach, his face tightened into an impassive mask of indifference.

  "Just stick y'r face in the water oncet," Monday said.

  Webb did, and snatched it out again, sputtering.

  "Y' got t' quit breathin' first, " Monday said patiently.

  Webb looked at him suspiciously and tried it again. He stayed under so long this time that Monday had to tap him on the shoulder to make him bring his face up.

  "That's the style!" Monday said. "There's doin's."

  "Hell, there ain't nothin' to that," Webb said. "All y' got to do is quit breathin' when y'r under, is all."

  "That's just the start, hoss," Monday told him.

  They were drifting gently in the current and were now opposite the point of the island. Monday had been clinging to the side of the log. Now he let go and came around the end Webb was holding.

  "All right, hoss, now you watch me. Move over."

  Monday took the log in his hands and began a steady, powerful kick with his legs. Gradually the log began to move upstream.

  "Now—you come in," he said, panting.

  Webb began to kick, and his legs rose to the surface behind him. He glanced apprehensively at the white limbs trailing him.

  "Let 'em come up," Monday said. "They're supposed to."

  "Ever' time they come up m' head wants t' go down," Webb complained bitterly.

  "That don't matter—"

  "Don't matter t' you, maybe. Matters like hell t' me. "

  "Now listen hoss, y' trust me, don't y'?"

  "Hell no."

  Monday sighed. "C'mon hoss. Kick."

  Gradually the awkwardness worked out of Webb's kicking, his natural physical instincts overcoming the tension. He began to kick powerfully, his jaw set, as though he intended to shove the log all the way to the source of the river.

  "Now take it easy, coon," Monday said. "Y' don't want t'—"

  Suddenly the top of the log just ahead of them exploded into shards of flying splinter. Instinctively both men ducked, and Webb came up spluttering.

  Monday dived under and came up on the side of the log toward the beach, his head down behind the float. "Get around here," he snapped.

  The echo of the shot was still reverberating from the cliff. Monday hoisted himself suddenly and scanned the opposite bank. He could just make out the white powder smoke. He ducked his head just as another ball crashed into the top of the log and whined off behind them. Webb had gradually worked his way to the side of the log, beside Monday.

  "Get y'r hands off the top," Monday said.

  "What the hell'm I going to hang on to?" Webb snarled at him.

  "Hang on to the bottom or something."

  Another crash of an exploding charge came from the cliff and the water just in front of the log sprayed high. Webb began to curse.

  "The sonsabitches," he muttered. "The dirty dunghead sonsa-bitches."

  "They's at least two of 'em," Monday said. "One man couldn't reload that fast."

  "They're firin' as fast as they c'n load, if'n there's two," Webb said.

  He had automatically been counting the seconds between shots.

  "We got t' get out of here," Monday said. He looked back over his shoulder at the beach, about thirty feet away.

  A flash of white smoke on the cliff, and the solid thunk as a ball buried itself deep in the log. Both swimming men felt the impact clearly as the shock was carried from the log to their hands.

  "Dungheads," Webb muttered. "Whyn't they shoot under? Get us slick."

  "Ball won't carry in water. Get this thing movin' back t' shore."

  "You'n y'r goddamn swimmin' lessons," Webb growled. But he began to kick, and very slowly the log began to move broadside toward the beach. The next shot whizzed just over the top of the log and sprayed water behind them.

  "Where's y'r gun?" Monday said.

  "Up by the goddamn clothes, same as y'rs." What with walking down the beach to find the log, and being carried farther down by the current, they were a good fifty yards from their weapons. Two shots came simultaneously one shattering against each end of the log, spraying splinters.

  "Had my druthers," Webb said, "I'd ruther be up on that cliff a—shootin'."

  "You 'n' me, hoss."

  At last their feet touched bottom, and they dragged the log back until they were crouched behind it in waist-deep water, not daring to poke their heads over the top. After the two shots at each end of the log, there had been no more firing.

  "Bastards is waitin' for us t' run," Monday said.

  Webb shrugged. "They goin' to wait one hell of a while for me," he said.

  "We can't sit here all day," Monday said. "My ass is gettin' cold."

  "Be a vast lot colder with a half-ounce o' Galena in it."

  Monday looked over his shoulder at the beach again, where the drift logs were piled. "We best cache ourselves ahind them logs," he said.

  "Maybe we c'n work up the bank and back o' the trees to get our guns."

  "Y' figger the boys is just going to let us sashay across? Them logs is a good twenty feet yet."

  "What the hell choice we got?" Monday said.

  "We got t' get one o' the bastards t' discharge," Webb said. "Then break for it. With only one ball left, the other'n c'n only get one of us."

  "Still one too many, t'my thinkin'."

  "Y' got a better idee?"

  Monday shook his head.

  "Get set," Webb said. He poked his head over the top of the log and a crash of gunlire sounded across the river. The ball whined off across the beach, and both men were up and running in a wild zigzag for the shelter of the logs. The secon
d blast came, and a huge gout of sand spurted up between them.

  Then they dived, tumbling behind the biggest log, scrambling close into the lee of it. Monday grinned, huddling close to the wet wood.

  "Made 'er, coon."

  Webb snorted. "If it'd been this nigger a-shootin', one of us'd be lyin' out on that beach."

  Monday scanned the bank behind them, looking for a fast way up into the trees.

  "You 'n' y'r swimmin' lessons," Webb muttered. "You 'n' y'r tame Injuns."

  "God damn, Webb, it's a fact. Hell, I ain't been shot at in years, 'cept when I come into y'r camp. I can't under—"

  Suddenly he stopped short. "God damn," he whispered. He leaned forward and grabbed two sticks of driftwood the size of his wrist and several feet long.

  "Gonna beat 'em to death?" Webb asked curiously.

  "Just going t' try somethin'," Monday said. "Get down."

  With one sudden motion he plunged both sticks vertically into the ground behind the log, so they projected over the top. Quickly he dropped his head again.

  There was a long pause. Then, suddenly, there came the enormous roar of the guns across the river. Both sticks splintered and the pieces showered off behind them. Webb's eyes opened wide in astonishment.

  "Wagh!" he said. "That's some—"

  But Monday was suddenly standing upright, in full view, shaking his fist at the cliff on the other side. Webb heard a deep voice across the river roar with laughter and shout, "Hey, Rainy! Look who's here!"

  "Enfant de garce!" came the echoed reply.

  "You bastards!" Monday hollered. "You sonsabitches!"

  Cautiously Webb poked his head over the top of the log and saw two men standing on the opposite cliff, their rifles butt-grounded, doubled over with laughter.

  "Who the hell's—" Suddenly Webb recognized the stocky figure of Joe Meek. The other man he did not know.

  "Hey, friend of me!" the slighter man shouted. "You wish maybe come hunting with Joe and me?"

  "Hooraw, boys!" hollered Meek. "Us'n caught the trail o' some bare-assed ducks! Ain't seen a couple come flyin' past y'r log, have y'? One of 'em real bony, couldn't miss 'im." Then he doubled over again, holding his rifle for support.

  "God damn y'r eyes, Meek," Webb howled at him. "I'll bare-ass duck you when I get m' hands on y'!"

  "Well, get ready, then," Meek said. "Us'n comin' to pay a leetle social visit."

  Monday set off up the beach to their pile of clothes, and Webb followed. Meek and René Devaux brought their horses out of hiding and mounted, starting along the cliff trail to swing down to Swensen's unofficial ferry. Occasional bursts of laughter came echoing over the river to Monday and Webb.

  Just as they reached the turning point of the trail and were about to enter the trees, Meek shouted, "Hooraw, Webb! Di'n't even say g'morning. What d'y'feel like, y'old boneyard?"

  "Half froze f'r marshal hair," Webb shouted. Meek laughed and led his horse out of sight, followed by Devaux.

  "Bastards," Monday growled as he pulled on his pants.

  "That Meek always did have a hell of a sense o' humor," Webb said. "Wagh! he did now. I recollect one time up to the Roche Jaime . . ."

  3

  Devaux and Meek reached the cabin about two hours later, charging down the trail and whooping. Mary, forewarned, had put a huge pot on the fire to boil, throwing in chunks of meat indiscriminately like a camp pot.

  "C'mon in 'n' have meat," Monday said, standing at the door. Meek and Devaux tumbled off their horses and poured through the door.

  When all four men were in the cabin it seemed full to bursting, with everybody talking at once and laughing and gesticulating.

  Mary moved silently among them, almost invisible, seeing that there was plenty of meat in the pot and that everything was comfortable. She had pulled the table out of the center of the floor and placed it against the opposite wall, leaving a clear space on the floor before the fire.

  Meek leaned over the steaming kettle. "Wagh! Half froze f'r meat, this child."

  "Hey!" Devaux said excitedly, pointing at Webb. "Is you!"

  Webb looked up calmly. "So."

  "I don' hardly recognize you with you clothes on!"

  "By god, Rainy—" Meek said.

  "Hey, friend of me," Devaux said to Monday, "you know, I never have the honor of the bony one."

  "Hell," Monday said. "I figured ever'body— Rainy, this here's Webb. Webb, Rainy Devaux, he's a old Hudson's Bay freeman."

  "What we used t' call Nor'west company in the mountains," Meek said.

  Devaux leaned forward from the waist in a stiff bow, extending his hand. "Enchanté"

  Webb took his hand suspiciously, squinting at him out of one eye.

  "By god, y're a queer one, y'are now. What's this here 'onshontay'?"

  "Means 'I'm glad to meet y',' " Monday said.

  "Then why'n hell don't he just say so?" Webb demanded. "Who you run with?" he asked Devaux.

  "Me, I was with Ogden sometimes. Sometimes out of Fort Vancouver. "

  "Wagh! Was you, now!" Webb said. "You wa'n't with Ogden up to the Snake, winter of 'twenty-four, 'twenty-live, now?"

  "Enfant de garce! I remember him well, that winter!"

  "Damn y'r eyes, now," Webb said with delight. "Listen here, coon, this nigger was with that American brigade come aplunderin' into your camp."

  "No! Incroyable!" Devaux said, his eyes wide in astonishment.

  "By god, there was doin's, sure god," Webb said, chuckling. "I recollect was ol' Johnson Gardner was booshway that trip . . ."

  Webb and Devaux squatted on the floor, turning to face each other, and started a long gesticulatory conversation, completely forgetting the others.

  Monday was calculating rapidly in his head. He turned to Meek.

  "Well, what're y' feelin' like, coon? Y'know, that Rainy, he's a turrible liar. He couldn't of been more'n four, five years old that winter."

  Meek shrugged. "Man wants t' talk, he wants t' talk. Rainy ain't going t' stop 'im just 'cause he was born a few years too late. Rainy ain't so much a liar as he is polite. That's cause he's French, y' know."

  "Hell, he is." Monday laughed. "Listen, hoss. How's y'r stick come to float out here?"

  "Well," Meek said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I'll tell y', now."

  He glanced slyly up at Monday, and his dark eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

  "There's trouble," Monday said apprehensively. "Ever' time you get a look like that a man like to run cache hisself."

  "Figured as how y' might like t' see the trial o' them Cayuse," Meek said. "We'll try 'em t'morrow, an' if'n there's still light, we'll hang 'em afore dinner. Otherwise we'll hang 'em the day after."

  "They got the courthouse finished yet?"

  "Wagh!' They's still workin' on 'er," Meek said. "Didn't figure t' have no business so soon, I expect."

  "Wouldn't mind seein' that," Monday said. "I got to go into Oregon City anyways, sooner or later." He grimaced at the thought of it, then put it out of his mind.

  Meek dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his marshal's badge. Ostentatiously he pinned it to the front of his shirt. Monday watched him suspiciously.

  "Well, Marshal," he said tentatively "What c'n I do f'r y'?"

  Meek leaned forward intently. "Gimme two dollars and a half."

  "Ah, Meek," Monday said. "You know I ain't got a half-dime t' my name. Now what kind o' thing is that? What for?"

  Meek pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and spread it out on the floor, studying it intently.

  "Says here you owe the United States Government two dollars and fifty cents."

  "God damn, hoss. I said from the beginning I wasn't going to pay no taxes, an' it still goes. They got no right t' take a man's money away from 'im."

  "This ain't taxes, this is f'r that cap y' lost."

  "Two dollars and a half! For that goddamn little blue cup? Marshal, damn, that ain't reasonable!"

  " 'Reasonable'
ain't my business," Meek said, shrugging. "Two dollars and a half is what she says, 'n' I come to make 'er straight."

  "Listen, Meek, can't y' pretend I wasn't home 'r something? That's a vast lot o' money."

  "Wagh!" the other said cheerfully. "Done and done. Meek's forgot about the whole thing."

  Monday relaxed.

  "The marshal ain't forgot nothin'," Meek said. "Gimme two dollars and a half."

  Monday turned to where Devaux and Webb were sitting. They had gotten into a terrible argument of some kind and Webb had his hand behind his belt on the hilt of his butcher knife. Devaux was in the process of talking the old man out of whatever it was he had in mind.

  "Rainy," Monday said, 'You lost that cap. You're the one ought to pay for it."

  "What cap is that, friend of me?" Devaux looked up from the conversation.

  "That military cap, you know."

  Devaux shrugged. "I know nothing about a cap. Me, I turn my cap in to that sergeant. You lose your cap? You should have better luck."

  He turned back to Webb, whose knife was still half drawn. "No, friend of me. I say nothing about Absaroka in general. I say only that in every hundred Absaroka, you find ninety-nine sons of bitches."

  "What the hell c'n I do about it?" Monday said to Meek.

  "Y'either got t' give me the money or give me a note f'r it," Meek said.

  "If'n I give y' a note, I don't have to give y' any money?"

  "Not right now, anyways."

  "Well, hell," Monday said. "That's fair enough. I got some paper around. Mary—"

  Mary had already gone to the cupboard and was getting out the ink and pen, and a scrap of paper. It had once been a letter, and had been bleached out for re-use. Traces of the previous message still trailed faintly brown across the surface.

  "It's got somethin' on it, that don't matter, does it?" Monday said.

  "No, that don't matter," Meek said. "Why should that matter?"

  "I don't know," Monday said. "Well this legal kind of stuff."

  Webb stood suddenly and snatched the paper out of Mondays hand.

  "Here, y' damn dunghead, lemme do that. This nigger c'n write out a note slick. He done it a hundred times or better."

  Webb crouched over the paper on the floor, slowly tracing the letters.