Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  "Just a goddamn minute," Monday said. "You was supposed t' row back."

  "We ain't goin' back," Meek explained. "We're still goin' across. Ain't we?"

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "So," Meek said decisively. "Haul away, boys. We're bound for Australia."

  "All I say is, I hope there's a drink in Australia," Monday said gloomily.

  "There is boys, there is," Meek said contentedly. "Pu1l, now."

  4

  Just north of Peter's Mountain the Twality River emptied into the Willamette, coming from the west. It went by various names—Twality, Quality, Tualatin—and at this time of year was so shallow it scarcely merited one. As it neared the Willamette it coursed over a rock-strewn bottom, not more than a few yards wide. In winter it was a dirty brown flood, but by the middle of summer the water was clear and fresh.

  It was a walk of perhaps two miles or more from the point they had left the skiff, just below the Oregon City falls. There was a well-defined foot-trail along the bank for the better part of the way, and the going was fast. When the four men turned in at the Twality, they were abruptly slowed by the thick brush and soon abandoned the bank entirely, to wade up the middle of the stream.

  "Goddamn it, Meek," Monday said. "You sure you know where you're goin'?"

  "Hell yes, I know," Meek said impatiently. "I been savin' it. Don't y' trust me?"

  "Wagh!" Webb snorted. "I recollect one time I follered you up t' the Snake—"

  "That was different. We was lost, then."

  "We sure as hell was, an' you didn't help none, neither. 'Foller me,' y' said, real cheerful. 'I know a shortcut,' y' said. Took us four and a half days t' get a half-mile from where we was."

  Meek shrugged. "Ain't nobody perfect. All I got t' say, you niggers sure don't want a drink very bad."

  "Drinking I am for," Devaux said. "All this walking I am against."

  "Well, she's just a couple hundred yards now," Mek said. "You want to go or not?"

  "Lead on, Marshal," Monday said grimly.

  "An' if'n it ain't there," Webb said calmly, "best take a good holt on y'r topknot, boy."

  Monday stopped suddenly, the water swirling around his calves.

  "Listen," he said. "We oughtn't t' make so much noise, we're like t' get shot."

  "Naw," Meek said. "Nigger as runs it, he's in town. I looked."

  "Politickin', by god!" Webb said admiringly.

  "Oh, I got a hair o' the black bear to me, if it comes t' that," Meek said modestly.

  "Me," Devaux said, "I esteem you both. Can we go now?"

  When they broached the little clearing a few minutes later they were suddenly assailed by the odor of sour mash. The clearing was tiny, not more than fifteen or twenty feet in diameter, and in the center stood the distilling apparatus, the big vat raised above the fire site, the brightly glinting worm of copper tubing.

  "Right pretty," Webb said admiringly. "Right pretty." He began to prowl around the edge of the clearing, poking into the brush with the butt of his rifle, looking for the stored whisky.

  There was a loud, dull clang as he connected with a huge camp kettle, but to everybody's disappointment it was empty. Monday finally found the whisky itself, cached in a burned-out stump on the side opposite the river. "Hooraw, coons!" he said happily, hoisting a bottle. "We're in business."

  Monday clamped his teeth down on the protruding cork and tugged it loose. He took a swallow of the water-clear liquid and gasped.

  "Whoo!"

  When the bottle had gone around the circle once it was half emptied. The pressure of haste gone now, the four men squatted on the ground and contemplated the label-less container.

  "Is not whisky, that," Devaux said. "Is merely alcohol."

  "Well, hell," Monday said contentedly. "We c'n make whisky out of 'er if it comes t' that."

  "Waste o' time an' tobacco," Webb grumbled. "Gimme that there bottle if'n y're so damn particular. Alcohol's good enough f'r this nigger."

  "No, Rainy's right," Meek said. "It ain't fittin' to be drinkin' plain alcohol on Independence Day. We ought t' have honest-t'-christ whisky."

  "This nigger's against the whole thing," Webb said menacingly.

  "Well," Monday said reasonably, "this here's a democracy, ain't it? An' the Fourth o' July t' boot? Let's vote on 'er."

  Webb stood up defiantly. "I ain't votin' on nothin', y'dungheads. One nigger with brains is more like t' be right than three without. Y're just gangin' up on me is all."

  "That's what democracy means," Monday said. He glanced over at Meek, and the marshal gently put the bottle down on the ground.

  "I vote f'r whisky," Meek said, keeping his eyes on Webb.

  "Me too," Monday said.

  Devaux had sneaked the bottle when Meek put it down and said nothing for a moment. When he found his voice he said, "Et moi." He blinked unhappily.

  "Whisky it is," Meek said, and launched himself from his squatting position in a long dive that caught Webb just as he was standing, throwing the old man to the ground. Monday was right after him, grabbing Webb's knife hand and slamming it on the ground. He threw all his two hundred pounds against Webb's shoulder, pinning it to the dirt while Meek struggled with the other. Webb's legs flailed frantically in the air as he struggled, but the weight of the other two held his shoulders pinned tightly. Devaux watched interestedly then drained the last of the bottle and stood up. "Is terrible drinking, that. You will thank us in a minute."

  "Get the hell out o' here," Webb snarled, "I'll kick y'r balls off."

  "Me, I have no envy to be kicked like that. I come around to the other end." Reaching carefully over Webb's immobile shoulders, he probed in the old man's shirt and pulled out his tobacco pouch. "Le voila, " he said.

  Turning quickly he dragged the big kettle out of the brush and emptied the tobacco into it. He got another bottle from the burned-out stump, yanked the cork, and poured the contents ceremonially into the kettle, on the tobacco.

  The act having been accomplished. Webb seemed to lose his energy.

  "You bastards," he said miserably. "You lousy, dunghead. tobacco-stealin'

  bastards!"

  Meek let go Webb's shoulder and jumped back, but the old man did nothing. He sat up, cursing, but made no motion to attack.

  "What d'y'know," Meek said, marveling. "We busted his little spirit."

  "This nigger'll bust y'r little ass one o' these days," Webb muttered, rubbing his shoulder.

  Devaux was methodically opening all the bottles stored in the tree trunk and emptying them into the kettle. Gradually the clear liquid took on a brownish stain from the tobacco.

  Monday came over and looked into the kettle. "Stir it up a little bit," he said.

  "Friend of me," Devaux said patiently, "then the tobacco goes all over."

  Monday shrugged. "Anyways, I think y'ought t' stir it. It ain't darkening up very fast."

  "There is not much tobacco," Devaux said.

  Webb hoisted himself to his feet. "Y'mean you dungheads ain't going t'put nothin' in? Y'call that fair? "

  "Who said anythin' about fair?" Meek asked curiously. "That's just the way it works. It's a free country," he added mysteriously.

  "Free, hell!" Webb spat. "You dungheads stole my tobacco, that ain't free."

  "Free f'r them in the majority." Monday shrugged. "C'mon, Rainy, hurry up. How's it comin'?"

  "Is a mistake to rush a thing like this," Devaux said reprovingly. "Is ver' delicate, whisky-making." He bent down into the kettle and dipped his tongue in the swirling liquor.

  "What we need," he said, frowning, "we need a little molasses. Or maybe pepper."

  "Well, we ain't got any. This'll do," Monday said impatiently.

  "If you are in such a hurry, you should have voted against the whisky," Devaux said. "Now it has to age."

  "Well, hell," Monday explained, "I didn't think it was going t' take so damn long. How'd I know you was going t' get so fancy?"

  Devaux shrugged. "Is all e
qual to me. You want to drink before is made up proper—is your business."

  "Good." Monday grabbed one of the empty bottles and lowered it into the kettle. He brought it out half full, with the suggestion of an amber tint. There were flakes of tobacco floating in it, and if he looked closely he could see the oily little brown streams diffusing into the whisky.

  "You see?" Devaux said. "Now you swished up the tobacco."

  "How's she go, hoss?" Meek said, watching Monday's tentative sip. Monday grimaced, picked something off the tip ofhis tongue. "Ain't too bad, if'n you avoid the pieces."

  "Wagh!" Webb snorted with satisfaction and picked up a bottle.

  "You see, I was right," Devaiut said. "You should not have swished up the tobacco."

  "Still better'n what Billy Sublette used t' sell," Monday said complacently.

  "He used t' cut 'er with water, is why," Meek said. "Three t' one for a starter an' more later, when nobody could see too good."

  "How the hell d'you know?" Webb demanded. "You was allus the first nigger on the ground, come Rendezvous."

  "People used t' tell me later what happened," Meek explained.

  By this time they had all settled down with their respective bottles in a tight circle around the kettle.

  "Was all different in Hudson's Bay," Devaux said. "You know, that Ogden, he never allowed any liquor in camp. Never. He was hard, that one."

  "Was he, now!" Monday said. "Never?"

  "Never," Devaux said. "No cards, either."

  "Hell, I seen cards a many a time in Nor'west camps," Webb said.

  "An' liquor too."

  "Yes," Devaux admitted. "But he did not allow them, is what I am saying."

  Meek got up and went to the still. looking it over carefully. "Real nice job, that," he said absently. He kicked at the vat once, but nothing in particular happened. Finally he reached up and wrenched the coil of copper tubing loose.

  "You boys want t' hear this here worm sing?" he asked.

  While the others looked on interestedly Meek rummaged in his pocket, holding the worm down to drain the fluid from it. "God damn," Monday said morosely. "That's a hell of a waste, what you're doin' there."

  From his pocket Meek brought up a shiny bugle mouthpiece.

  "This here's sort of a loan from the US government," he said. He pounded the mouthpiece into the opening of the copper tubing and raised the improvised bugle to his lips. He blew a long, resonant blast and looked down with a pleased expression.

  "Wagh!" Webb said admiringly. "C'n you play a tune, I mean, c'n y' change 'er any?"

  "No, I don't know how," Meek admitted. "I used t' do this without any mouthpiece, but sometimes I'd cut my lip up on the worm, like that."

  He blew the horn again. "So I sort o' borrowed this here mouthpiece from a bugle that was lyin' around." He blew another long blast.

  "Me," said Devaux, "l like violins. Me, I am amorous of violins." He blinked, getting sad as he thought about violins.

  "I ain't really amorous o' nothin' but women," Monday said. "An' only one o' them." He leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes. "Whoo."

  "Y'know," Meek said, "I hear there's two kinds o' alcohol. If'n y' get holt o' the wrong kind, y' go blind or die or somethin'."

  "Y'iggerant dunghead!" Webb snorted. "Y' believe that?"

  "That's just what I heard is all I'm sayin'."

  "There's a pack o' lies," Webb said. "Them preachers invent that kind of idee, just t' scare y', is all."

  "Might could be," Meek said. "Never scared me too much, though."

  "That's cause y're too dumb. Y're supposed t' be worryin' all the time did y' get the right kind o' alcohol, an' eventually y' quit drinkin' altogether cause o' bein' scared to get the wrong kind. That's why they make up that kind o' stuff, them."

  "Always somebody tryin' t' scare a man," Monday said. "Always somebody that don't allow somethin', like cards or somethin', or try to scare y'."

  "Here," Meek said, grabbing Monday's bottle. "You best fill up again. You're gettin' glum."

  "No, I ain't gettin' glum. But I get tired o' people all the time not allowin' stuff, an' tryin' t' scare a man."

  "Don't pay no mind t' that kind o' stuff," Webb said. "That's all."

  "Sometimes y' got to," Monday said. "They's always somebody on y'r back."

  "Not mine," Webb said complacently.

  "That's 'cause y're alone," Monday said. "It ain't so easy f'r the rest of us." He spat a Heck of tobacco from the tip of his tongue.

  "Don't spit it out," Webb encouraged him. "Chew it. Anyways, ever'body's alone, whether he likes it 'r not. Don't y' even know that? Me, I like it."

  "That's all right," Monday said. "That's all right for you t' say."

  "I ain't just sayin'. That's the way it is. Y' got your choice, y' run alone like a man, or y' run with them sheep." He made a vague gesture in the direction of Oregon City. "Ain't I right? Meek, ain't I right?"

  Meek looked down at the ground. "I don' know," he said.

  "When y' get to the bottom of it, ever' man jack's alone in this world. Y' come in alone, an' you'll go out alone. An' in between times you're alone."

  "What you don't see, hoss," Monday said. "There's times a man got to run with the sheep or go under."

  "I ain't sayin' nothin' about that. I'm just sayin' it's one or the other."

  "Friends of me," Devaux said slowly. "Me, I think you are both wrong."

  "Rainy," Webb said, "if'n there's anythin' that riles me, it's a drunk that contradicts his betters."

  "I excuse myself," Devaux said politely "But you are both wrong. Me, I am not alone, and moreover I do not run with the pack. For me, there is the Conspiration."

  "Conspiration?" Webb said suspiciously "I don't b'lieve that's a real word."

  "Mais si, is a real word, conspiration," Devaux said.

  "That's like when y' get together t' plot somethin', " Meek said.

  "Is like a secret society, but the Conspiration is not secret. Anybody can see it. Me, I go anywhere, an' there are others like me."

  "Where the hell you get a idee like that?" Webb demanded.

  "My pére, he tell me before I leave Montreal, he say, 'René, never forget you are part of a great conspiration. No matter what happen, there are other members of the Conspiration, and you will know them.' An' he was right moreover, him."

  "How d' y' join this here Conspiration?" Meek asked.

  "You do not join it," Devaux said. "It exists. You are part of it or not. There is no joining."

  "So what d' y' do?" Webb said. "Y' plot things, like Meek said?"

  Devaux shrugged. "Do? You do nothing. Maybe help each other once in a while. Mostly nothing."

  "Ain't a hell of a lot o' point to 'er, then," Meek said.

  "Ah!" Devaux said. "But friend of me, when you see the Conspirauon, you know. It is that somewhere in the world—everywhere—there are others like you. And after that, you are never alone. There is always the Conspiration."

  "No!" Webb snapped, suddenly angry. "A man's dead alone, an' the sooner he realizes it the better off he is."

  "Whoa back, boys," Meek said. "Ain't no use arguin' while there's still serious drinkin' to do."

  "No arguing," Devaux said. "Me, I have no envy to argue."

  "Drink up, drink up!" Meek said, swishing his bottle around in the kettle. "Why the hell's ever'body so serious all of a sudden? Rainy I think what happened is your 'pair' or whatever y' call 'im dropped y' on y'r head afore y' left Montreal."

  "That," Devaux said, "is very probable. But it does not change the facts." He shrugged. "The Conspiration, it exists."

  Meek looked at the little Frenchman, who was completely serious. "Rainy," he said, "y're either a lunatic or y' got the answer t' one hell of a lot o' problems with that there Conspiration."

  "Me, I am a lunatic," Devaux admitted cheerfully. "An' moreover, I have no problems, me." He dipped his bottle in the kettle and pulled it out. "Now I wish we have not put the tobacco in," he said
morosely. "And I wish we had some violins. Me, I am amorous of the violin."

  Chapter Fourteen

  1

  Is 'at dunghead goin' t' sleep? "Webb demanded after a while. Meek leaned over and nudged Monday. "Jaybird, you goin' t' sleep? Webb wants t' know."

  Monday opened his eyes and raised his head off the ground. "No, I ain't goin' t' sleep. I'm just restin' my eyes." He put his head back down.

  "You know," Deyaux said, "he don't tolerate whisky, that one."

  "This nigger don't tolerate it neither," Webb muttered. "He plain likes it."

  "Well, you got t' remember," Meek said. "This here is two, three times stronger'n what we got in the mountains. Mebbe four. I don't know. How the hell should I know? Y' shouldn't of ast me!"

  "Wagh!" Webb tipped his bottle up for a long time. When he brought it down he said, "Y'know what I say? I say this is one hell of a Independence Day. I ain't shot off my gun even oncet. Just sittin' here gettin' stupid drunk with a bunch o' sad-ass dungheads."

  "Is not as lively as some," Devaux admitted, looking at the mouth of his bottle.

  "What I mean is, I ain't had any fun," Webb complained. "That's what makes me mad, I ain't had any fun."

  "Me too," Monday muttered, dragging himself up to a sitting position. "Me, I vote it's a hell of a Independence Day."

  "I ain't votin' on nothin'," Webb said. "I'm just sayin'. You niggers is all crazy with y'r votin'. I ain't votin ' it's a hell of a Independence Day, I'm just sayin'. "

  "All right," Monday said. "I'rn just sayin' too, then. The bastards won't let y' have any fun. Makin' speeches t' come over you, won't let y' on their damn little ship."

  "Hey. regard," Devaux said. "You woke up."

  "I was just restin' my eyes," Monday explained.

  "That was a bad thing, that captain and all," Devaux said musingly.

  "An' what's more," Monday said, "I don't b'lieve they got any right t' keep us off'n that ship. We're citizens, ain't we? An' that's a government ship, ain't it? It belongs t' us, sort of. They can't keep us off'n it."

  "Not me," Devaux said. "Me, I am not a citizen."

  "Meek," Monday said. "You know all about law an' things. They got any right t' do that just because we ain't dressed right?"

  "They done it, didn't they?" Meek said.