Moontrap - Don Berry Page 12

  "This ain't no kind o' pen," he muttered. He went over each letter twice, thickening the downstrokes carefully.

  "Enfant de garce!" Devaux whispered. "That is really writing!"

  Webb wrote a beautiful, looped hand that cascaded gracefully across the page, looking like the twisting of grasses in the wind. Every once in a while he held the paper up to gauge his work. "That goddamn 'h' ain't right," he grumbled. He sniffed, and put the paper back on the floor. It took a long time, and when he was finished Webb wrote tinily in the corner: Webster W Webster; M. T, scribebat.

  The others were all watching over his shoulder curiously. "Damn, that's pretty, " Monday said. "What's this here scribebat mean?"

  "Means I wrote it out," Webb said. "Don't y' even know that?"

  "Where'd y' learn how to do that, hoss?"

  Webb shrugged negligently. "Learnt it off'n one o' Mackenzie's clerks one winter up to Fort Union. That there scribebats Egyptian, or summat."

  "No, I think she is Latine," Devaux said.

  "Some furrin thing or other," Webb said.

  "Well she's real pretty," Monday said, holding the note up to the light. It read:

  I the undersigned, do hereby bind myself and promise to pay the sum of two dollars fifty cents (2.5o$) in good merchantable beaver furr or the equivelent. Because I lost a hat.

  "I figgered I better put that in about the hat," Webb said. "I don't usually."

  "I ain't sure it ought to say about the beaver, though," Monday said dubiously.

  "Y'iggerant dunghead! That's the way a note reads!"

  Monday shrugged and looked it over again. He shook his head in admiration and handed the paper to Meek. "That's some, now."

  "You got t' sign it, now," Meek said.

  "Sometimes I go back an' fill in all them little holes, like in the o's," Webb said. "But I like t' do that in red or somethin'. If you got any red around, I'll do 'er."

  "Sorry, hoss," Monday said apologetically. "Don't think we have."

  Webb looked a little disappointed but he didn't say anything.

  Monday signed the document and Meek put it in his pocket, carefully buttoning down the flap. just as methodically he unpinned the badge from his shirt and stuffed it back into his pants.

  "Hooraw, boys," he said, "this nigger's half froze f'r meat. Give us a bit, there."

  ***

  "Meek," Monday said, "y'ever hang a man before?"

  "No sir," Meek said definitely. "Never did."

  "Wagh!" Webb growled. "Hangin' ain't no way t'die."

  "Friend of me," Devaux said, "is because you think like Indian. All Indians afraid of hanging. Me, I am a white man, I think hanging as good as anything else."

  Webb shook his head. "Goes against nature t' hang a man," he said. "All that chokin' and all."

  Monday said thoughtfully, "Me, I don't think I'd like t' be the man as pulls that trap. Y' don't figure it'll bother you none, seein' 'em dancin' around there?"

  Meek leaned back, looked at the fire. "Jaybird," he said absently, "y'recollect that Nez Percé woman I used t'have, before Virginia?"

  Monday shrugged. If Meek didn't want to talk about the hanging, that was his business. "I recollect her," he admitted. "Tell y' the plain truth, though, I never did think too much of 'er."

  Meek nodded. "Got 'er just after Mountain Lamb went under from a Bannock arrow."

  Webb began to chuckle, a dry, rasping sound. "Run away from y' slick, that Nez Percé."

  "Wagh!" Meek said, grinning. "She did now. Rendezvous of 'thirty-seven, it was. Powerful drunk them times. I woke up mebbe two, three days after, m' woman was lit out. Went with Ermatinger from HBC 'n' some missionaries. Took me a kettle o' alcohol an' took out after 'em."

  "Did you, now!"

  "Wagh! Hard doin's it was, too, desert an' all that kind o' stuff. Anyways, that bitch wouldn't lead nor foller, so I give 'er up. Next winter I spent up to the Forks o' the Salmon, with old man Kowesote's village. I says to him, 'Look here, Kowesote. That there woman I had run off from me. Now, how about you give me another one.' "

  "Enfant de garce! What he say, that one?"

  "He says, 'No,' flat out. Wagh! he did. He says to me, 'Meek, you already got one Nez Percé woman, 'n' the Bible says you can't have another one.' "

  "Wagh! " Webb snorted. "Here's wet powder 'n' no fire t' dry it!"

  "Was now," Meek said. "Well, I says to him if a man's wife runs off, that was like a divorce, an' he's got a right to get another one. Still the nigger says no. Then I shows him in the Bible that lots of men got plenty o' women all around. Took me 'bout two weeks, explainin' about

  Solomon and David and all them kind o' doin's."

  "Wagh! You did now!"

  "Well, finally the old man comes around t' my way o' thinkin'. An' the Bibles. But that got his back up, right enough. An' he says to me, 'Meek, if all that stuff's in the Bible, how come the jesus-men say I got to give away all my wives except one?' Oh, the nigger was mad, then. 'Well,' I says, 'you better ask them about that.' Wagh! I don't reckon that Spalding, him as was missionaryin', thanked me none."

  "Hooraw, coon!" Webb stamped the butt of his rifle on the floor. "How'd she come out?"

  "Got me the best o' the bargain," Meek said. "Old Kowesote give me Virginia, an' that's the best woman a man ever had."

  "Them's doin's, right enough." Monday laughed. "Say, don't I recollect you had a baby from that Nez Percé woman?"

  "Wagh! I did now," Meek said. "Prettiest little baby girl you ever seen. Named 'er Helen Mar Meek, after that woman in The Scottish Chief's."

  "Reg'lar fireball, that 'un! That Nez Percé woman took off babe an' all. Hooraw."

  "Not exactly," Meek said. "Had the babe myself, little Helen Mar. Give her to Narcissa Whitman t' take care of, when they was coming through the mountains."

  Monday had suddenly frozen still, and the cabin was silent.

  "That's sort of what I was gettin' around to say," Meek said. "Had m' little girl up to the Whitman mission, learnin' t' read an' write an' cipher an' all."

  He looked steadily into the fire, watching the flames flicker and jump. Finally he said thoughtfully, "So I figure it ain't going t' bother me none to pull that trap tomorrow. I expect when Tamahas goes down, I'll just step up and put the heel o' my moccasin on that knot, an'

  tighten 'er up a bit."

  Chapter Eight

  1

  Before the visitors rode off up the trail, Meek had said casually, "Say, Mary. Y' know, Virginia's gettin' one o' her spells again."

  "Something I can do?" Mary said, turning from the fire.

  "Might could be," Meek said thoughtfully. "Me out an' aroun' so much, Virginia gets mighty lonesome. Homesick, like, for somebody to talk to."

  Mary glanced at Monday.

  "Hell," Monday said. "Have 'er stop down any time. She's allus welcome here, y' know that."

  "Well, that ain't exactly what Virginia had in mind," Meek said. "She says she'd like t' have somebody come stay with her awhile."

  Monday frowned. "Well, damn, coon. I don' know——"

  "Be a powerful favor t' me," Meek said. "Anyways, you think about 'er."

  "It's just with the babe comin' and all," Monday explained.

  "Well, if it comes t' that," Meek said patiently, "y' know there ain't anybody better'n a Nez Percé when it comes t' havin' babies. Ain't that right, Rainy?"

  "Is so," Devaux said sadly. "They having them all the time. My Nez Percé wife, sometimes she have babies when I not even been around for a year. They are ver' skillful."

  "I wouldn't be surprised any if Virginia might be quite a help with somethin' like that. Anyways, I thought I'd say."

  Then they had gone, riding up the trail toward the pay ferry, where Meek intended to bluster his official way across without paying. Devaux thought it would be interesting to watch, though he was fairly confident he himself was going to have a long swim, even if Meek had made him a temporary deputy Webb rode along, thinking to look over
the country a bit.

  "Y' know," Monday said to his wife, "writin's a very useful thing. Just write out that little note and it saves me two dollars and a half."

  "Still," Mary said, "you have to pay it sometime."

  "Surely do," Monday agreed. "But I c'n woriy about it then, can't I?"

  "Yes," Mary said.

  "God damn government anyways," Monday muttered. "You'd think bein' as big as they are they wouldn't worry about somethin' like a little blue hat. Send the marshal after me! I don't b'lieve I'll ever pay that."

  "Is better you pay it," Mary said surprisingly.

  "If'n I start givin' in now, where's it goin' t' end?" Monday complained. "What's it goin' t' be like when Oregon's a honest-to-god State, if'n it's this bad just bein' a territory?"

  Mary shrugged. "You say you want to get along here, is not the way to get along."

  Monday sighed. "I know it. I'm just gettin' it out o' my craw is all. I'll pay it sometime when I get some money. But I don't like it."

  "You don't have to like it," Mary said. "Just do it."

  Monday sniffed. "You sound like Thurston."

  "It is like the buffalo hunt, " Mary said absently. "The hunting chiefs make a council, and they say, 'No man to run ahead of camp.' They say, 'No man to fire a gun until all the men are around.' They say. 'All the women, you stay away.' They say, 'No arguing about horses when you get near the buffalo.' Many rules to the buffalo hunt."

  "Hell, yes, but they all make sense."

  "You go by what the hunting chiefs say, and stay with the village, or you go against them and leave the village. Is just the same here."

  "You think I ought to jump when Thurston says 'Frog.' "

  Mary turned to him, then looked down at her hands folded quietly in her lap. "I think nothing," she said finally. "I say, you wish to be Shoshone, you must do what the Shoshone headmen say. You wish to be white, you must do what the white headmen say."

  "Seems like there's a hell of a lot more rules here, though, an' half of 'em you can't even see. Christ, a man can't move without worryin' what somebody's going t' think."

  Mary shrugged. "With the mountain people is maybe more simple. In the mountains some things are forbidden, everything else you can do. Here, some things you can do, everything else is forbidden. Is two different ways to think about laws."

  Monday rubbed his forehead. "Hell, I don't know. It makes me nervous just thinkin' about it."

  It was late afternoon, and the sun was already in the west. Monday realized that Webb and the others had been there talking almost the whole day, and once again he had avoided Oregon City. Mentally he shrugged. Tomorrow he would do it, for sure.

  "Mary," he said finally, "would you like to go stay with Virginia for a little while?"

  "My place is here," Mary said. "You will not eat if I don't remind you."

  "I'll eat," Monday said, annoyed. "Anyways, that wasn't what I ast you. Does it feel like the baby's comin' soon?"

  "Yes," Mary said hesitantly. "More all the time."

  "You ain't scared, are you?"

  "No. But he is coming faster now. Like when stones roll downhill, they move slow at first, but very fast near the end."

  "When do you think? "

  "Doctor Beth, she says maybe two weeks, maybe three. Me I think not one week, maybe."

  Monday stood up suddenly. "Not a week!" He abruptly realized the vastness of his ignorance; he had no faint notion of what was to be done, and a kind of panic grew in him.

  "Very fast, now," Mary said quietly.

  "Well—would you like to go and be with Virginia? Would that be good?"

  Mary looked at him for a long time without answering. At last she said quietly, "Yes, I think."

  2

  Early in the morning Monday rode over to Swensen's and borrowed a horse for Mary. By the time he had returned she was ready to leave, sitting quietly in front of the house in the sun.

  "Where's y'r stuff, Mary?"

  "It is all here." She had a flour sack filled with her belongings, and Monday realized she'd had the sack tucked away somewhere for better than six months, waiting for a use to appear.

  "By god, y' travel light, I'll say that."

  "I need nothing," Mary said.

  He helped her mount and they set off. He wouldn't dare try to bluff his way across the pay ferry, as Meek did, so they had to go by way of Swensen's. It meant an extra two hours, but there was no choice. On the way across Swensen grumblingly tried to engage Monday in a conversation concerning the end of the world, but for once the big man was having none of it.

  He pointed proudly at the swell of Mary's belly and said, "Peter, old hoss, it's just the beginning of the world for some."

  "Is all a terrible waste of time," Peter muttered, but he looked at Mary and they smiled at each other.

  It was well past noon when the two horses plodded into Oregon City. The streets were almost deserted, and for a moment Monday was puzzled.

  "By god," he said suddenly. "It's the trial, ever'body's at the trial."

  Mary nodded. "You want to go, I can go to Virginia's alone, now."

  "No, it don't matter," Monday said. "I ain't that interested."

  Meek's cabin was about fifteen minutes out of the center of town, a small frame building with two rooms, painted white. Virginia came to the door to meet them. Behind her were three small shadows, dark-eyed and curious. Slowly Mary dismounted and walked to the door, carrying her flour sack. The two women greeted each other quietly, without emotion.

  "My husband's lodge is open to you," Virginia said. She was taller and heavier than Mary. Not, Monday thought, a likely woman at all. But she had been a good wife to Meek.

  "Your husband honors me," Mary answered. She shook hands with Virginia. Then, in turn, each of the three children came forward, silent and wide-eyed, to shake hands.

  "How are y', Virginia," Monday said, taking her hand. The children all stepped forward again, and he went down the line, taking each small brown hand in his own gently He grinned as he stood straight again, reminded strongly of the mountains. He'd sometimes spent half a morning shaking hands, coming into a strange village. Men, women, and children lined up for the handshaking, and with a village of seven or eight hundred it could take quite a while and be a hell of a strain on a man's wrist.

  "Joe is at the courthouse," Virginia said. "Many problems today."

  "I expect," Monday said. "Thought maybe I'd drop down myself when we get Mary settled 'n' all."

  Virginia shrugged and smiled at him. "Settled now," she said.

  Monday looked at Mary and she smiled, nodding. For some odd reason Monday felt embarrassed. "Well—" he said hesitantly.

  "You go to the trial now," Mary said. "I am settled."

  "Well, if you're all—I suppose I might as well. I'll come back after an' see how things are going."

  He turned and went back to the horses. "I'll leave Peter's horse here, all right? In case—in case you might need him or something."

  "All right," Virginia said.

  "Well, take care of yourself, Mary."

  Mary nodded and put her sack inside the door. Virginia came over to him and said, "You not worry about anything. We take care of each other."

  Monday nodded. "Thanks, Virginia."

  The Nez Percé woman went back to the porch and she and Mary started inside. The emotionless reserve of the formal meeting was gone now, and Virginia chattered like a kingfisher as they went in the house, her arm around Mary's shoulders.

  Monday grinned as he pulled his horse around and started down toward the center of town and the courthouse. "Damn squaws," he muttered, smiling to himself.

  ***

  There was a mutter of raised voices inside the courthouse as he tied the animal up in front. He pushed open the door, inadvertently shoving several people out of the way. One of the lawyers was orating wildly, but Monday couldn't tell whether it was the defense or prosecution. He was hollering about God and justice and several abstr
act principles that could have applied to either side.

  The room was small, and jammed with spectators, and the sink of humanity was heavy and sour. All the bench seats were taken, and the stairs leading up to the second story were crowded with watching Indians.

  Meek was up in front of the rail, presumably to keep order. Monday spotted Webb against the wall to his right, and started to push his way through the standing crowd.

  "Hooraw, coon," he whispered. "How's she goin'?"

  "Not bad doin's," Webb admitted grudgingly. "Pretty vast lot o' talkin' goin' on."

  Monday let his eyes rove over the center of attraction. Judge Pratt was listening attentively, leaning forward on his elbows. The jury box was more or less indifferent. Puzzled, Monday saw that many of the jurymen had on work clothes, with a variety of tools poking out of one pocket or another. One of them had a tool-box on his knees and was rummaging through it, looking for something.

  "What the hell's that?" Monday whispered to Webb.

  "Them's the carpenters was buildin' the gallows out back," Webb said. "They was makin' a hell of a racket, an' the judge says, 'Marshal, can't you stop them men from that?' Meek, he says, 'Why, shore, Judge. Put 'em on the jury.' So that's what the nigger done." Webb snorted, and the people near him turned to scowl. He scowled back.

  Monday grinned, looking at Meek, who had his legs stretched out in front of him and was idly scraping his fingernails with the point of his butcher knife.

  The man who was orating now had reached a high point. ". . . in the honest, if mistaken, belief," he shouted, "that Doctor Whitman was deliberately poisoning the Coynse people! Gentlemen, I put it to you: these unfortunate Indians acted out of simple human concern for the welfare of their . . ."

  "He better do better'n that," Webb muttered. "He ain't goin' t' ride no fifty head of horse on a speech like that."

  "Fifty head!" Monday said. "That what Tamahas is payin'?"

  "Fifty head, the iggerant nigger, " Webb said.

  Monday let his breath out slowly. "That's a lot o' horse," he said softly. He looked at the five prisoners, huddled together on a bench by themselves, apparently ignoring the trial. Tamahas himself was obviously scornful of the whole proceeding—but then, an implacable scorn was the normal set of his face, so it might be hard to tell, Monday thought.