Moontrap - Don Berry Page 19

  Deliberately he calmed himself and waited a few minutes after he heard the slight creak of the bed and the soft sounds of the covers moving. The fire was dying, and normally he would have let it go, but tonight he wanted light, he wanted to be able to see his woman. He went to the woodbox and got other small log, putting it carefully in the center of the coals that still glowed bright orange and red. He watched until the tongues of yellow flame began to lick up the sides of the wood, then turned and went to the bed.

  Mary was lying on her side, her face toward the wall, as she had slept since the birth of little Webb. As Monday took off his shirt he let his eyes caress the gentle curve of her hip beneath the blanket, a soft hill raised from the plain. Always now, she slept with her face turned from him; it was part of it. Before the baby she had always been turned toward him, watching him undress, lifting the covers to welcome him to the sight and comfort of her body. He had issed the welcome, but tonight he was almost grateful that she did not watch him.

  His throat was tight with anticipation, but he consciously kept himself in control. As he sat on the edge of the bed to remove the heavy boots, he felt her stir slightly, still awake. He lifted the covers and slid under, moving far over so the length of his side rested gently against her back. He lay still for a long moment, letting the peace of sensation seep into him, savoring the light, tantalizing touch of her skin. He must not hurry. He must be gentle, as gentle as though he had never known this woman before.

  The wood had fully caught now, and long shadows danced against the walls and ceiling. Watching the shadows, he let his hand rest on her full thigh, almost absently.

  After a moment he turned to her, dropping his arm over her naked body. He felt the softness of her flesh stiffen as he moved, and then relax again. He waited.

  His hand rested just below her breasts, and slowly he began to caress the taut muscles of her stomach, soothing her gently, letting her feel the love in his fingers. He pressed harder against her, feeling the urgency of his own rigid organ pressing between her thighs. He kissed the back of her neck softly, and stroked the length of her body from the full rich breasts to the crisp triangle of hair between her thighs that seemed electric to his touch.

  She moved slightly, and he stopped again, waiting for her to turn to him. But she remained facing the wall, and her tension did not ease. He ran the tips of his fingers along the inside of her thigh, gently, questioningly, feeling the softness of flesh warmed against flesh, the tiny mound that lay beneath the masking mystery of the dark matted hair that curled against his palm.

  He probed gently, hoping to feel the warm curving thighs open to welcome him, to feel the pressure as she thrust against his palm with desire. After a moment he took his hand away and gently clasped her shoulder.

  "Mary," he breathed in her ear, gently pressing her shoulder toward him. She did not answer.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then tightened his grip firmly on her shoulder and pulled her toward him. Unresisting, she turned on her back, but her eyes remained closed.

  With a sudden motion he swept off the blanket and threw it to the floor. He raised himself on one elbow and leaned forward to kiss the deep warm valley between her breasts. He stroked the inside of her thighs gently, and at last felt the release of her tension, and her legs

  parted slightly as she relaxed.

  He slid one leg over her body; deliberately he let his weight swing over to rest between her thighs, moving gently. He searched with stiff anxiety in the tangled hair, and suddenly felt the moist warmth of her opening to receive him. He penetrated her body slowly, letting himself enter gently, long, until at last the flesh of their groins touched, and he leaned forward to rest the weight of his chest on her soft breasts.

  "Mary," he whispered.

  He began to move his hips slowly, rhythmically, and with a sense of terrible relief heard her gasp, with the old and loved sound of wakened passion. He raised his head, wanting to see again the love in her eyes. The flames were high, and the firelight cascaded across her cheek. His own breath caught sharply in his throat.

  Her face was twisted and disfigured in a mask of loathing and revulsion that struck him like a physical blow. He recoiled suddenly, his eyes wide with shock, and in the suddenness of the motion twisted back to the side of the bed.

  Instantly Mary turned back to the wall. Monday lay still for a moment, staring terrified at the ceiling, where the same shadows spun and danced.

  He felt the sudden shaking at his side as Mary's body began to jerk in the rhythm of silent sobbing.

  He turned to her again, instinctively putting his hand on her shoulder. As he touched her she stiffened again, and he jerked his hand away as from a fire.

  "Mary," he said desperately, "Mary, I didn't know—"

  When she could control herself enough to speak, he could barely make out the words. "Don't hate me," she said, her voice strangled with anguish. "Don't hate me."

  "Mary, my god—" He closed his eyes. What have I done? he thought desperately. What have I done?

  "Mary," he said aloud. "It's all right, Mary. It's all right. "

  But he knew it was not all right, and even as he tried to think of some way to soothe her, even as he murmured things that had no meaning, he sensed the black shapes of guilt dancing along the wall, and the fire twisted his shadow into something he could not recognize.

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  Nothing was ever said about it. Monday could not find words to ask the questions that were in his mind, and Mary could offer nothing. Their daily life went on as though it had never happened; the incident existed in a vacuum, with no relation to what had come before, and no effect on what came after.

  Monday did not know why it had happened, and could not ask; the shock and pain of that remembered mask of loathing were too much for him to bear. He did not know who was at fault, if there was a fault, and could not ask. In the end, he supposed, it was his own stupidity—and yet, the only thing Mary had said was, "Don't hate me." And what did that mean? That she took the responsibility, that the failure was hers? He didn't know, because there was no way to ask.

  Finally, the only thing he could see to do was to ignore it. As far as possible, pretend it had never happened. There was no use hashing it over and over in his mind; torment with no end, anguish without result. Deliberately, in the days that followed, he put it away from his mind and turned to things more tangible, things he was capable of dealing with.

  If this—distance that existed between them was not to be bridged so easily as he thought, there remained the other problem, of bringing Mary into the world he was making for them. There at least, there was something he could do. There, he was not helpless and confused. As he thought about it, it became more and more clear that the first steps would have to be made inconspicuously. The first breach in the great wall would have to be made without drawing too much attention, without causing a lot of talk and raised eyebrows. Something perfectly natural.

  And a few days later it occurred to him; it was obvious. There was one occasion everybody would be out for, and Mary's presence would not be at all remarkable; it would even be expected. The one truly exceptional day of the year, Independence Day, the Glorious Fourth.

  ***

  The morning of the Fourth dawned brilliant and clear, and Monday was at once nervous and excited. He paced restlessly on the porch, waiting for Mary and Little Webb. For the third time he stuck his head in the door and said, "Mary, you just about ready?"

  "Almost," she said. "You wait."

  "I been waiting an hour," Monday complained.

  "Not ten minutes," Mary said.

  Restlessly Monday went out to the borrowed wagon and ran his hand along the top of the wheel. The already harnessed horse looked at him curiously, and Monday patted him absently on the muzzle. The sun was just over the horizon. The service in Oregon City wasn't scheduled to start until ten o'clock, but Monday was already afraid of being late. He wanted today to go just
right, and it would be a bad sign to be late right at the beginning.

  Finally Mary came out, carrying Little Webb. She was dressed in her best calico, red and white. Monday had seen it a dozen times before, but somehow he stood speechless when she came out of the cabin into the sun, and was standing on the porch.

  "My god!" he said, staring at her.

  "There is something wrong?" Mary asked hesitantly.

  "Wrong! No, my god, you're beautiful! It's perfect."

  She had carefully brushed her long black hair until it shone in the sun with the gleam of charred wood. The smooth, tan skin of her face was like satin, and Monday thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful before.

  "It is all right? " she said anxiously

  The old longing leaped up in him again. He swallowed heavily and went over to touch her on the shoulder. "It's—f1ne," he said softly. "It's wonderful."

  From her arms the baby looked up at him silently, great dark eyes without expression. Monday gave him a finger, and Little Webb grasped it tightly.

  "Come on, Webb," Monday said, smiling. "Your first Independence Day. Few more years you'll realize what it means, Independence Day. Somethin' pretty important for the Big People."

  He helped Mary up on the high wagon step and went around to the other side. He climbed up, shook the reins and the horse started off. The wagon was an extravagance, and he knew it. It was going to cost him a dollar extra at the Oregon City ferry, but what the hell. He'd had to borrow the money from Swensen anyway, so it didn't make much difference if it was two dollars or four. And today he wanted to be respectable. He had a feeling it was going to go well. He wanted it to be perfect.

  The sun already warm. They lost it when they passed beyond the cleared space of his field and into the fir-canopied trail that led north over Peter's Mountain, and the early-morning air was cool. Mary shivered a little and hugged Little Webb closer to her breast.

  "Mary," Monday said quietly, "you scared?"

  She shook her head, looking down at the floorboards.

  "No reason to be," Monday said. "It's going to be all right. On the Fourth nobody's going to be—I mean, all the little things don't matter. The Fourth's too big for people to be mean."

  "Yes, I hope."

  Monday grinned. "By god, I'll bet you don't even know what Independence Day is for, do you?"

  Mary shook her head, still looking down. "In the mountains, it was for liquor, mostly."

  The big man laughed. "Wagh! It was now! We always did 'er up brown, an' that's truth. But what it means is, it's a celebration of when the United States got her freedom from England. It was about seventy-five years ago. They had a war. When I was just a boy there used to be some Revolutionary soldiers around, an' then there was really doin's. It ain't so patriotic as it used t' be, with all the parades and speech-makin' and what all."

  They reached the turning point where the trail down to Monday's point joined the main road, and swung off to the right. Absently, Monday talked on about the Revolution and why it was important, trying to cheer Mary a little, trying to interest her in the celebration as something more than an ordeal. Much of it, he knew, was meaningless to her. She had heard the names, Washington, Jefferson, Adams, but she didn't connect them with anything. And he was completely beyond his own depth when he tried to explain why the colonies had been established in the first place.

  "The point is," he finished helplessly "it's sort of a celebration of freedom. The big day for the United States. That's why there's always big doin's. You understand?"

  Mary nodded silently. After a moment she said, "History—it is very long here. Much longer than in the mountains."

  Monday laughed. "Longer than either of us got any idea. And listen, Mary this afternoon we'll go aboard a real ship, would you like that? The government sent a ship, just in honor of the Oregon Territory. It ain't much, just a sloop-of-war, the Portsmouth, I think. But she's lyin' in the river, an' there'll be a reception this afternoon, prob'ly. Would you like that?"

  Mary stroked Little Webb's head, and the baby wriggled restlessly in her arms.

  "Anyway," Monday said, "there's a surprise for you."

  ***

  Two surprises, in fact, in order that she would not feel so much alone. Monday waved as they neared the little frame church, and Joe Meek waved back. With him was Virginia, and the three children stood silently to one side. As Monday helped Mary down, they all came forward solemnly to shake hands and peer curiously at the baby she held. Mary crouched down and pulled the blanket away from the tiny face for the wide-eyed appreciation of the Meek children.

  "How y' feelin', hoss?" Monday said.

  "Right lively," Meek admitted.

  Monday drew him off a little to the side. "Say Meek, listen. Did y' get ahold o' Webb?"

  "Wagh! I did. He's comin'."

  "Good," Monday said with satisfaction. "More familiar faces around, better it'll be."

  "The coon says he ain't missed a Fourth o' July in sixty years or better, an' he ain't fixin' t'start now. "

  Monday laughed. "He's goin' to find 'er a bit dry after the mountains."

  "Well, now, far as that goes," Meek said, "after the hollerin's done here, I figured I might go about a bit o' marshalin'."

  "Hell, Meek, on the Fourth?"

  "Happens there's a still over to Linn that the marshal must've overlooked. Can't have them kind o" doin's."

  "Wagh! Might could be you'd need a bit o' help t' break 'er up?"

  "Just might could be," Meek admitted. "Y'know, them shine merchants get a bit riled when the marshal shows up with his ax."

  Monday clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, Marshal, I see my duty plain enough. I'll just give you a hand."

  Mary and Wrginia had been talking, their voices low and inaudible.

  When the men came back, they fell silent and looked up.

  "Soon's Webb gets here we'll go on in," Monday said.

  Other settlers were arriving all the time, some of them men Monday had talked to in the mill or in the Oregon City stores. He waved as they pulled up, stopping the wagons around the perimeter of the little square in front of the church. They waved back, cheerfully enough, and it gave Monday a good feeling.

  "The old man," Mary said. "He is coming too?"

  "He's comin'."

  She looked up into his face, and after a moment said quietly, "Thank you for my surprise."

  Monday grinned at her.

  Webb came in about ten minutes later, slouching in the saddle and peering around suspiciously. Beside him, to Monday's surprise, rode René Devaux, looking chipper and happy

  "Hey, Rainy, what the hell're you doin' here? You ain't even American."

  "Is true," Devaux admitted. "But me, I am a great celebrator anyway "

  Webb looked down at Little Webb and wrinkled his forehead. Very carefully he said, "What're y' feelin' like, hoss?" Little Webb didn't answer, and Webb straightened up. "Ain't very bright, is he?"

  "Let's go on in," Monday said.

  The little group moved over to the church and began filing up the steps. Thurston stood just at the door, shaking hands with everybody who passed.

  "Well, Monday," he said. "Seems to me this is the first time we've had the honor of your presence here."

  Monday extended his hand. "Well, you know, I'm not too much on church-goin'."

  "In time, in time," Thurston said. "Marshal, how are you?"

  "Rollin' along, " Meek said.

  Thurston pointedly ignored all the others, the women, Webb and Devaux.

  Inside, the church was dark. After the brilliance of the summer-morning sun, it seemed cavern-like. Webb sidled over to Monday and said, "What's that nigger doin' shakin' hands out there? He ain't the preacher, is he?"

  Monday frowned. "No, but—hell, I don't know, coon. That 'un shakes hands ever' chance he gets."

  Meek said, "I hear tell when Thurston left Iowa he swore he'd either be in hell or Congress in two years."

  "That's fou
r years ago," Monday said. "Don't look like he's going to make 'er."

  "No, but he's still got his eyes on Congress."

  "Hell's closer," Webb muttered.

  "Let's move up an' sit down," Monday said. People were coming in the door, and the little group of ex-mountain men was forming a bottleneck.

  "This child's goin' t' stay back here," Webb said. "These here places make me nervous."

  "Don't you go duckin' out, now," Monday said.

  The two families moved down the aisle and took a pew about halfway toward the pulpit on the right side of the aisle. The seven of them, not counting little Webb, took up nearly the whole thing. Mary went in first with the baby followed by Monday and the Meek children and Virginia. Joe sat on the outside, stretching his legs comfortably in the aisle. There was a steady drone of conversation and laughter, and Monday wondered if it was this way for regular religious services.

  Finally Thurston closed the door at the rear, cutting off even the little light that came in. Now the two windows behind the pulpit were the only source, and dust-defined sunbeams poured through, unfathomably bright against the comparative obscurity of the rest of the room.

  The pulpit itself was on a low platform that ran all the way across the end of the church. Behind it was arranged a row of chairs, the places of honor. The little building was used for all public meetings, and it was arranged now for its non-religious functions, except for the

  pulpit itself.

  Thurston and a few others came along the side aisle from the back, mounted the low step to the platform and took the chairs. They were all members of the Mission Party, Monday noticed. He wondered what kind of politicking had insured that none of the more liberal American Party got places on the platform. He shrugged to himself. If there was one thing that didn't interest him it was the political quarrel that split the Oregon Territory in two.

  Somebody started to applaud as Thurston reached the platform, but he frowned, and the applauder stopped suddenly. There was a nervous scraping of the chairs as the dignitaries took their seats. Then silence. They were all dressed in black, very dignified. They sat with their hands folded in their laps with an attempt at calm and succeeded only in looking very ill at ease.