Moontrap - Don Berry Page 13

  Webb leaned over to him. "This'n here ain't the best," he said. "They had some military up there a-rantin' and a-ravin', an' he busted two glasses o' water 'fore he wore hisself out."

  "Pretty good speech?"

  Webb snorted. "Di'n't know any more law'n the Injuns. But he was real excitable."

  ". . . dying of measles and dysentery, sometimes as many as live a day. Is it any wonder, gentlemen——"

  Suddenly from the stairs at the back there came a terrible wail of anguish. On the stairs one of the Indian women had stood and begun to tear her clothing, screaming wildly.

  Pratt pounded heavily with his gavel. "Marshal, Marshal, order!"

  Meek stood and pushed through the swinging gate of the center aisle, and Monday lost sight of him for a moment. The aisle was jammed with people, and Meek was a short man. Monday soon found he could follow the Marshal's progress by the turmoil as he plowed his way through the crowd.

  Several other Indian women on the stairs began to howl a death chant for their people already dead and about to die. The keening wail was uncanny in the crowded room. There was a general shifting and muttering as the wail grated across the cars of the spectators.

  "Shut that up!" somebody hollered.

  "God damn it, I'm tryin'!" Meek shouted back. Most of the seated spectators had risen to their feet now, shifting and pushing to see, and a babble of talk filled the room under the high wail of the death song.

  As Meek reached the end of the aisle, the squaw who had begun the chant saw him coming. She turned and started to run up the stairs, screaming. Meek plunged after her, knocking aside several of the other Indians who had moved in the way. Halfway up the stairs he dived after the woman, catching her by the ankle.

  "Hooraw, coon!" Webb shouted across the room. "Go it, hoss, go it!"

  The courtroom was in complete turmoil now as people jostled each other in the eagerness to see better, cursing and shouting. Judge Pratt banged steadily with his gavel. Two of the lawyers were arguing loudly in front of the bench. The only still persons in the room were the five prisoners, who watched impassively.

  Webb started to pound the butt of his rifle on the floor rhythmically, adding to the gavel-pounding of the judge. He laughed and howled with rage alternately, shouting encouragement to Meek.

  The squaw had fallen face forward on the steps when Meek grabbed her ankle, and was clawing wildly at the wood, still screaming. Meek hauled at the leg, dragging the woman down the steps one by one. Suddenly someone shouted, "Hang the damn squaw too! Hang 'em all!"

  Meek stopped suddenly, almost at the base of the stairs. He looked up with shock. It had all been great fun up to that point, but now the tone of the crowd changed.

  Webb stopped laughing. With an abrupt gesture he swung his arms to both sides, crashing into the people beside him, who recoiled from the violence, leaving him room. He flicked open the pan of his rifle and knelt quickly, yanking the stopper from his powder horn with his teeth. Monday had started into the crowd, heading for the first voice of hate that had arisen. He threw himself forward as though breaking his way through heavy brush, but the thickness and immovability of the mass of people made it almost impossible to get through.

  He was not halfway there when the enormous roar of the discharging gun filled the courtroom with thunder. There was a sudden gasping silence as the crowd turned in shock. Monday's ears rang loudly with the explosion, but there was no other sound. Almost rigid with the paralysis of fear and startlement, the crowd turned.

  Webb stood by the wall in a small clear circle, the muzzle of his rifle still pointed at the ceiling. Above his head the great mushroom of white smoke piled and rolled against the raw boards of the ceiling. Webb lowered the gun slowly to the floor and leaned on the smoking barrel. He calmly surveyed the hundreds of eyes turned toward him. Deliberately he leaned forward and spat on the floor. He looked up at them again, closing one eye.

  "Y're a damn noisy pack o' niggers. Y'are now," he said contemptuously.

  Judge Pratt sat back down, tiny globes of sweat at his hairline. He looked thoughtfully at Webb. Into the utter stillness of the room he said quietly, "Marshal, when you've finished with the woman, eject that man from the courtroom. He will be fined. He ought to know better than to fire a rifle in a court of law."

  The crowd began to seat itself again, frightened and silent. Meek looked across their heads at Webb. "Sorry, Judge," he said. "Just a iggerant friend o' mine." He grinned at Webb. "And of mine," Pratt said absently, looking at the top of his gavel. Then he slammed it down abruptly and said, "Does the defense wish to continue?"

  3

  Webb was waiting for Monday outside when the trial was over, having permitted himself to be thrown out without objecting. He squatted on his haunches against the wall to the right of the door, watching the people file out. Occasionally one would glance at him quickly, then turn away. There was something about Webb's impassive scrutiny that suggested a man hunting, and it was not a comfortable sensation.

  Monday made his way out. "Hooraw, coon," he said, "she's all over."

  He sat down heavily beside Webb, sighing. "Going to be a bit of a wait for the hangin' though. Account o' havin' them carpenters on the jury, they didn't get the gallows done. An' they won't work tomorrow account it's the Sabbath."

  "Wagh!" Webb snorted. "Give th' preachers a chancet t' pray f'r them Injuns' black souls. Expect they'll like that."

  "Ain't goin' to make no difference at th' end o' the rope."

  "Y'iggerant dunghead! Meant the preachers. Make 'em feel right godlike. Forgivin' an' all."

  "That's fact. Y'know, coon, there's times I ain't real proud to be people."

  "How'd the boys take it?"

  "Mixed. Tamahas an' old man Kiami took it good. Others looked scared. That Tamahas is one mean son of a bitch, he is now. Meek give'm a glass o' water, an' he knocks it square out o' his hand and busted it on the floor. Looks at Meek an' says, 'What kind of man are you? Give water to me whose hands are still red with the blood of your people.' "

  "Wagh! Pretty heavy run on water glasses, what with that lawyer an' all besides."

  "Was, now. Kiami stopped 'em for a minute, though. Judge asks 'em one by one if'n they got anythin' to say, 'n' Kiami gets up and says, 'Kiami has done nothing.' Judge says, 'Then why are you here, Kiami? Why'd you give y'rself up?'

  "Kiami says, 'You tell us Christ died to save his people. So we die, to save our people.' Ever'body laughed, naturally, but it made 'em a wee bit nervous."

  "Wagh!"' Webb spat between his feet. "Iggerant dunghead, him. Ain't goin' to do his people no more good'n Christ done his, either."

  The last of the spectators were still filing out of the building, murmuring excitedly at the prospect of the hanging. Webb stared at them. "Look at 'em," he said thoughtfully. "Walkin' shitheaps, ever' one of 'em, still warm an' steamy, walkin' around makin' b'lieve they's alive."

  Toward the end of the crowd, Meek and Judge Pratt appeared. Meek looked a little worried. The judge, now divested of his robes, walked over to Webb and extended his hand. "Webster, your name is? Allow me to shake your hand, my friend. You wouldn't have twenty dollars about you, I suppose?"

  Webb took his hand gingerly. "Hell, no. What would I be doin' with twenty dollars?"

  Pratt sighed. "That's what I was afraid of," he said.

  Meek stepped forward. "Judge has t' fine y' twenty dollars for shootin' off the gun, hoss."

  "Must have discipline in court, Mr. Webster. Even," the judge said unhappily, "if I have to pay it myself. "

  Meek brightened and smiled broadly. "Well, now. That bein' the case, here's the marshal right here, judge, an' he's just the proper collectin' officer. I'll take the twenty dollars now."

  Judge Pratt blinked at him. "Meek, if I gave you that twenty dollars the court would never see it. You and your friends would drink it up in an hour."

  "Nothin' t' drink in this country, Judge, you know that. 'Gainst the law, 'n' the marshal's closed
down all the stills."

  Pratt shook his head slowly. Finally he said in a reasonable tone,

  "Meek, what would I be doing with twenty dollars?" With a last nod to Webb and Monday he strolled off up the street. Watching him go, Meek said, "Y' know, he ain't the worst nigger ever put on them black robes."

  ***

  Monday talked Webb into coming with him down to the McLoughlin house to see about the seed wheat he was going to try to borrow. Secretly he felt a little comforted to have the old coon with him, though he knew it wasn't going to make any real difference.

  Reluctantly Monday tied up in front of the doctor's house. "Listen, hoss," he said to Webb, "leave y'r rifle here, will y'?"

  Webb muttered, but he left the gun sheathed along the horse's shoulder. They walked up the short path to the door, past a neatly painted fence and a well-kept lawn. The house itself was two stories high, white and boxlike, with shutters at the windows.

  Monday rapped on the door and stood nervously shifting his feet. In a moment the door was thrown suddenly open and the two men were faced with the great apparition that was John McLoughlin. The man was huge, six feet four and heavy in proportion. His hair was a great mane of white, so light that in his constant movement it seemed almost to float about his head. His eyes were wide with apparent surprise and disturbance, and one hand absently rubbed quick little circles on his stomach.

  "Mr. Monday, Mr. Monday," he said excitedly "Come in, come in. Sir?" He launched his hand at Webb.

  "This is—Mr. Webster, Doctor McLoughlin," Monday said nervously. It sounded like a lie, but if you wanted to look at it that way, old Webb was Mr. Webster.

  "Mr. Webster, " McLoughlin said. He pumped Webb's hand quickly and whirled around, his coattails flying. "Come in, come in, gentlemen," his retreating voice said, and they had to scurry to keep up with him.

  McLoughlin charged up to the second floor, and Monday and Webb had just time to see him disappear into a room at the end of the hall.

  "Damn sight too much misterin' goin' on," Webb muttered.

  "Now you stop," Monday whispered.

  When they entered McLoughlin's study the giant white-haired man was standing behind a great oak desk, frantically shuffling through a stack of papers with one hand while the other continued the habitual rubbing of his stomach. There were several leather-covered chairs before the desk and McLoughlin gestured vaguely at them. Monday and Webb sat down, uncomfortably.

  "Mr. Monday, Mr. Monday," McLoughlin said. He sat down suddenly, sweeping one hand across his white mane. "You have no idea. I am so pressed, so pressed."

  Monday cleared his throat. "Well, if some other time—"

  "No, no no no," McLoughlin said, raising one huge hand. "Quite all right. Webster," he muttered, suddenly pausing for a brief instant to stare at his desk top. "Webster, yes, Webster. You know some of my people, I believe."

  "Don't expect I do," Webb said uneasily.

  McLoughlin paused, his eyes wide. "No? No? But—were you not with Mr. Gardner's brigade in the spring of 'twenty-five? And with Mr. Smith in 'twenty-eight?"

  "Well, yes, I—"

  "Good, good," McLoughlin said, relieved. "I was afraid for a moment—you know, the mind, with age—But you ye met Peter—Mr. Ogden, and Mr. Ermatinger, and I believe Mr. Panbrun at Walla Walla?" McLoughlin ticked them off on his fingers.

  Webb blinked at him, startled. "That was twenty-five years-"

  "Yes, yes," McLoughlin said, rubbing his stomach nervously. "Tempus fugit. And each new year brings new problems. Mr. Monday you have no idea. Lawsuits, problems, storage . . ."

  "I heard there was some trouble about the land," Monday said, embarrassed. The trouble was simply that the Americans, Thurston most prominently, were methodically stripping McLoughlin of all his holdings in the Oregon Country, their only legal weapon a campaign of hate against the "damned Jesuitical rascal of a Hudson's Bay man."

  "Yes, yes, quite. But it has all been turned over to intermediaries for settlement, now, and I am a bit hopeful. I am expecting them momentarily with the papers. But now—" McLoughlin suddenly swept his arms up in a great despairing gesture to heaven. "Now, Mr. Monday."

  "Sorry to hear about it," Monday mumbled, looking at his hands. He wished he'd picked a less worrisome day to come begging.

  "The devil! Mr. Monday, if you'll pardon the expression. The devil!"

  "What—ah, what's come up now?"

  McLoughlin leaned forward on the desk, his hands lacing and unlacing in front of him. "It is minor, quite minor, I suppose. But just as an example of—in any event. Mr. Monday, I confess to you that I have a terrible fear of rats."

  "Rats?" Monday said, beginning to lose his tenuous hold on the conversation. He was not entirely certain whether McLoughlin referred to Thurston or the other kind, and he thought he'd best not ask.

  "Rats, Mr. Monday, rats. You perhaps know that in the warehouse at my mill—or, I should say, what used to be my mill—I have a large store of seed wheat. Yes, large stores. Normally it is gone by now, but by hazard I have quite some left. And the rats, Mr. Monday, the rats have gotten into it."

  "Well, I'm sorry to hear—As a matter of fact—"

  "They are attracted to the wheat, and now, Mr. Monday, they threaten all my stores. The devil, Mr. Monday, the devil!" McLoughlin rubbed his stomach worriedly and frowned down at his desk. "I am unable to find anyone to take it off my hands, and it is driving me frantic with worry. The rats, you have no idea—" Suddenly he stopped, caught by an idea. He leaned forward again intently.

  "Mr. Monday, I do not mean to pry, but—have you considered putting your fields in wheat this year?"

  "I was figuring to do that," Monday said. "But—"

  McLoughlin sat back, disappointed. "But you have your seed already, like everyone else." He raised his hands in a discouraged gesture. "There is no one who can take this doubly cursed rat-candy from me. And I am terrified even to set foot in my own warehouse."

  "No, I don't have it," Monday said. "But the trouble is, I got no money either. "

  "Who has money at the beginning of a season?" McLoughlin said.

  "Mr. Monday, are you aware that writing was invented, not to communicate ideas of literary worth, but to keep the accounts of some Phoenician brewers?"

  "No," Monday said doubtfully, "can't say I was."

  "And that is still its principal use, keeping accounts. If you could consider taking some of this wheat I could make a very attractive price, because of the rats. But it is a matter of urgence; you understand I could not possibly wait until you raised the money"

  "If you'd be willin' to carry me another year—" Monday said.

  McLoughlin pulled open the drawer of his desk, rummaging around for an account book. "Yes, yes, quite," he muttered nervously. "No question."

  When it had all been entered properly, McLoughlin entered the customary "Interest at 8%," which through carelessness he marked as "4% ." "Mr. Monday, you have no idea what a relief this is to me. I feel like a free man again." He sat back in his chair, breathing a deep sigh.

  "Tell me something, Doctor," Monday said.

  "Yes, yes, of course."

  "Has Joe Meek been around talking to you?"

  "Yes, yes," McLoughlin said hastily. "I see Mr. Joe frequently. Frequently, several times a week. I paid him twenty-five cents yesterday evening, in fact, tax on a cow."

  "I thought you'd quit running cattle," Monday said curiously, "Yes, yes, this was for one I loaned some years ago to a gentleman in the valley."

  There was a quiet knock on the door of the study and McLoughlin called, "Come in, sir, come in."

  A neatly dressed gentleman opened the door and stepped into the room. McLoughlin stood and charged over to him, taking his hand in both his own.

  "James, James," he said. "Good to see you. Come in, come in. Monday, you know Mr. Douglas, do you not?" James Douglas was the present factor of the Hudson's Bay Company, having taken over when McLoughlin was forced to resign. Th
ere was talk he was due to be knighted, which drove many of the Americans almost mad. Bad enough without a "sir" around.

  "Yes," Monday said. "This is Webb—Mr. Webster."

  "Nice to see you gentlemen," Douglas said. He gazed speculatively at Webb for a moment, then said, "Webster . . . You were with——"

  Webb nodded discouragedly. "Gardner in 'twenty-five, Smith in 'twenty-eight, know a pack o' your boys."

  Douglas laughed and turned to McLoughlin. "Well, John, we've settled the mission claim, I think."

  "Good, good," McLoughlin said. "These gentlemen were just leaving."

  With a great bustle McLoughlin showed them to the door, profuse with thanks and farewells. "And Mr. Webster," he said, shaking his finger at Webb, "I hope no more tricks like that in the spring of 'twenty-six, eh? " He laughed, suddenly frowned and rubbed his stomach rapidly. "Yes, yes, must tend to other affairs."

  As the door closed behind them Webb closed his eyes and lifted his face to the ceiling. "Spring o' 'twenty—six," he muttered. "Wagh! There's the time I busted a bottle over one of them half-breed Iroquois workin' for Nor'west."

  "Hush," Monday said. He was standing near the door, trying to hear the conversation inside. There was a shuffle of papers, and then McLoughlin's voice came strong. It was entirely changed from the frantic anxiety of a moment before, calm and angry.

  "James," he said, "this paper obliges me to give Thurston five acres and five hundred dollars, and donate fourteen lots to the Methodist Mission. In addition to which, I must buy back portions of my own land at exorbitant prices. Is that not what it amounts to?"

  "Yes, John," came Douglas's quiet voice. "That is substantially correct."

  "This is Thurston's doing, at the base."

  "No, John," Douglas said. "It is mine."

  "You have bound me."

  "John, I thought it better to give you one good fever and have done with it," Douglas said quietly "You are eating yourself to death with worry over these American claims. Let us put an end to it."

  After a moment McLoughlin said softly, his yoice sounding suddenly tired, "James, the only thing that will put an end to it is my death. But give me my pen."