Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  It was just after the middle of the day when he began to think he had crossed the crest. It was a difficult thing to tell. Hills towered ahead and behind, cutting off his view, but he thought the trail was going down more often than up, now. It was a strange thing, this mountain he was searching for, strange that the highest peak should be so far from the spine of the range itself. He shrugged, indifferently. Each range was unique, and this one no less than the others he had known. He came out on a clear slope, inexplicably free of heavy timber, solid-packed with brush chest high. He looked across the little valley at the hills on the opposite side. While the sides of the ravine were steep, there was something soft about the peaks. They were rounded and somehow gentle. Like the flesh of the earth, as the mountains of his home were like the bones themselves.

  Squaw tits, he thought absently, looking at the rounded hills across the valley. Les Tétons, old Pierre would've called 'em. But old Pierre called everything tétons that had any faint likeness to a woman's breasts. And since all mountains are somewhat like, Pierre was a happy man; the world was full of tétons for his appreciation.

  The thought made the old man obscurely unhappy, reminding him of the only téton he gave a damn for, the range between Pierre's Hole and Jackson's Hole; standing tall and awesome. He had tried to climb the tallest of them, too, to stand on top and look around; but he could not do it. He had tried three times and had never found the right way to do it. It was one of the great defeats of his life, and he had never forgotten it. But he was secretly a little proud of the mountain for having resisted him.

  "Wagh! That's a mountain, now," he said to the horse.

  He glared across at the wooded slope of the opposite hill defiantly, suddenly ashamed of the softness of its contours, the gentleness of the peak.

  "Squaw mountains." He leaned over to the side and spat deliberately on the trail. Roughly he jerked the reins and started off again. As he passed beneath the trees, his vision of the other hill was cut off.

  "Goddamn bad country to go under in," he muttered. "Soft, wagh! Men soft, mountain soft." In some strange way he was humiliated for the softness of the land, as though it were himself. Old Pierre was dead now, damn his eyes. Never could trust a Iroquois, anyway.

  Will gone under now," he said, chuckling to himself. "Ever'one o' the dungheads." Damn good riddance. He suddenly reined up, the abruptness of the gesture making the scalp locks swing across his chest.

  "Hya!" He wheeled the bony horse around and drummed his heels into its ribs viciously, startling it into a gallop. Reaching the open spot on the trail again, he reined back and slid off the saddle while the mouth-sore animal was still rearing.

  "Damn soft squaw mountains," he muttered, throwing the reins on the ground. He walked to the very edge of the trail and stood facing the hills with his hands on his hips.

  "TEVANITAGON!" he shouted across. He waited for a moment, but only the faintest of echoes came rippling back, "Tevanitagon . . ."

  "KAYENQUARETCHA! "

  It was unsatisfactory; the echo was so small he could hardly hear the names. He wanted the mountain to shout back at him, but it was too soft.

  "MIAQUIN!

  "KARAHOUTON!

  "SAWENREGOl"

  One by one he screamed the names of every Iroquois trapper he could remember. When he had finished, he stood silent for a moment, watching the waves of light roll over the peaks, molding them in shadow and sun. All around him was a smothering silence, all other living creatures frightened by his rasping, harsh voice.

  "They was men, by God," he said softly.

  His horse had stood quietly through the whole of it, accustomed through the long years to the inexplicable insanities of the man. He picked up the reins and mounted again.

  "We best move on right smart," he told the horse. He wanted to have time to look for a decent campsite tonight; he had not liked the blank anonymity of last night's camp. lt gave nothing to remember. It was good to hear their names again, though, he thought. He was glad he'd done it. Maybe he'd give this squaw country somethin' to think on, hear the names of men like that. Damn their dirty brownskin souls.

  "All gone under now," he said to himself.

  Worthless dungheads all, but he missed them. And there'd be nobody to shout his name for him, nobody left at all. He threw back his head and screamed into the sun.

  "WEBB! ME, WEBB!"

  Then he let his head drop forward in silence. He rode on, hunched over the saddle horn, letting the horse go on its own toward the mountain where he would make his stand. He didn't care about it any more, one way or the other.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1

  The breakers rumbled in Monday's ear, and he thought he could feel the vibration of them through the sand of the beach itself. He shifted his position in the blanket cocoon, digging a little hole for his hip in the sand. He glanced at the watch fire, with its two lonely guards, and snorted. Right in the middle of Clatsop Plains and they mount a guard, he thought. When daylight came they'd be able to see two, three cabins around the little bay; and in any case the Clatsops hadn't made any trouble for anybody for twenty years or better, and then not much. They were good and tame.

  He shrugged to himself and shifted again. He couldn't seem to get comfortable, couldn't get to sleep. Around the fire, dimly lit by the flames, were the blanket rolls of the other members of the posse. They looked like the droppings of some monstrous dog that had come out of the sea to foul the land.

  God damn, he thought, that's somethin' Webb'd say. He was even beginning to think like the old coon.

  They were scared, all of them. Always scared. They huddled around the fire, staying close together for comfort and security, sleeping peacefully under the eye of the guards. He wondered vaguely what the hell they'd do if something actually happened. He was obscurely tempted to give a wild whoop or fire off his gun or something, just to watch 'em run. Scared of the dark, scared of the mystery in it.

  And the trip down on the steamboat had been a farce, more like a children's picnic outing to the beach than anything else; a children's game he soon grew bored with watching. They weren't really interested in chasing down Webb. For many of them he supposed it was just a sort of holiday. Somebody told them they had to do it, so they did it.

  But they didn't care about Webb, they weren't interested. They weren't interested in anything except standing around the mill and predicting doom and disaster for the coming year.

  It had been so easy to take the lead away from Thurston in the morning. As long as you were one jump ahead, the crowd was with you; always on the side of the man who could humiliate somebody else. It was the one skill truly worthy of admiration, because it was the one they all envied.

  But there was no permanence to any of it, no real malice. They shifted back and forth like seaweed swinging in the tide, they drifted with the prevailing wind, soft, pliable. Because. at root, they did not care. They simply needed somebody to follow. like any other herd. As long as they did not have to be responsible for their own actions they were content.

  All that he could understand. What he did not really understand was how there could be strength. How combining ten soft men could make something hard. And yet he knew it was true. At some point the herd, only contemptible, became the avalanche, which was irresistible in its power. It was this transformation he could not comprehend, could not visualize. The power of combination that made it possible for the avalanche to swallow up a man like Webb, worth a dozen of them.

  And if it had been easy for him to take the lead from Thurston, it was no less easy for Thurston to take it back, on the way down. It was he who had given the long river passage its air of holiday, digging up whisky some place, passing it around to the eagerly outstretched cups, smiling, winking, conspiratorial. Monday wondered vaguely how it came about in Thurston's mind that whisky ceased to be Sinful when it became Useful.

  He had watched with disgust, depressed and unwilling to make the effort to do anything. He was
n't interested in a battle of authority with Thurston, and in the end it was probably his own indifference that would settle it. He had even taken his own pitiful dollop of whisky, thanking the little man automatically, cursing himself when he saw the faint grin of triumph on Thurston's face. In the long run it didn 't matter. He had stopped Thurston from rolling over him in the morning, and that was all he wanted. He was here. There could be no backhanded rumors about the murderousness of mountain men. He was here, playing the citizen, and the fact was enough.

  The rollers swept across the face of the ocean, driven by the power of a thousand rollers that followed. They touched bottom near the coast, reared up and arched, fell smashing against the sand with the rumble of distant thunder. Foam and spray scattered in the night winds like a thousand filmy spider webs wrenched loose from the deep green mass. One after another they followed, endlessly the same, and the bursts of thunder were lost in one another, tangled and muted and transformed into the steady rumble that shook the sand.

  He was here, and that was enough. He was not guilty

  ***

  The sky was light long before the sun appeared. Blocked off by the humped peaks of the Coast Range, the sun never came to the coast itself until an hour or more past real dawn.

  The assorted farmers stirred around the fire with first light, blinked and sat up, wondering why they were here. Some of them had never seen the ocean, and it was a bewildering sort of thing, a thousand flat miles and nothing in sight, like the plains of the Midwest they had crossed to reach the promised land of Oregon.

  "What the hell do y' suppose is on the other side?" one of them said.

  "Japan, they say."

  "Must be one hell of a long way," said the first man, staring fascinated at the endless expanse of nothingness.

  " 'Bout as far as the moon, I expect."

  "Hell, it's farther than that. I c'n see the moon."

  Monday saddled his horse and rode over to where Thurston was giving orders about the preparation of the morning meal.

  "I'm goin' t' ride over t' Solomon Smith's," Monday said. "Get a idee from him about the lay o' the land."

  Thurston looked up at him suspiciously. "Thought you'd been down here before."

  "I have," Monday said.

  "All right," Thurston said after a moment.

  Monday turned his horse away and started walking him down the beach. He had gone only a few yards when he heard Thurston's voice behind him call, "Monday!"

  He reined up and turned in the saddle to look back.

  "I expect you'll be coming back?" Thurston said.

  "I'll be back."

  The men gathered around the fire were all looking at him, and Monday realized Thurston was starting his day's campaign early. It was just a gibe, something to put a little doubt in the minds of the men who overheard. He started off again. shaking his head.

  Monday cut across the long sand spit to the half-moon bay that was the outlet of some river or other. The tide was in. and the bay a shining circle of water, perhaps a quarter of a mile across. the surface lightly rippled in the breeze that came gently off the sea. He skirted the edge, a row of low sand bluffs at his left, and in half an hour was within sight of Solomon Smith's cabin.

  There were three Indian women sitting against the wall of the cabin, sunning themselves as they worked at some task Monday could not see. As he approached one of them got up and scuttled inside the cabin. The other two moved away.

  Solomon appeared at the door, his long figure seeming to stoop as he came out, the ever-present pipe clenched in his teeth. Monday rode up, greeting him, and dismounted.

  "What're y' feelin' like, Solomon?" he said, extending his hand.

  "Pretty fair, Jaybird. How's y'rself?"

  "Good enough."

  "Have a pipe?" Solomon said. He handed over his tobacco pouch and Monday lowered himself against the wall in the sun.

  "What the hell's goin' on, Jaybird?" Smith said curiously. "What's all the hooraw about?"

  Monday looked up, a little surprised. "How'd you know there was a hooraw at all?"

  Smith laughed, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Hell, y' can't unload twenty armed men an' a barge full o' animals without somebody gettin' a bit curious about it. Where'd y' sleep?"

  "Up the beach a little ways. It was nearin' dark when we got to the landing, so we just come down a bit an' settled in."

  "Looks like a war," Smith observed.

  "Approximating" Monday said. "Posse. Y' remember old Webb?"

  Smith nodded. "Been up t' the valley for a month or so, him."

  "He killed a man couple o' nights ago."

  Solomon looked down at the ground. "Allus was sort o' wild, Webb."

  After a moment he added, "What makes y' think he's comin' down here?"

  "Told me so," Monday said.

  Smith looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. Monday asked him about trails in to Saddle Mountain.

  "No problem," Smith said. He picked up a stick and began to draw in the dirt. "There's the big trail that goes across the mountains into the valley," he said. "Running east and west. 'Bout ten miles inland it gets cut by a north-south trail. South branch runs all the way down to Killamook country. North winds around a bit and ends up at Saddle Mountain, more or less. Clatsops used to think it was a sacred mountain, had ceremonies o' one kind and another. Highest peak around."

  "No more."

  "No more," Smith said. "Not for years. Y' can't miss the branch. There's a big cairn o' rocks where the Killamooks leave trading stuff sometimes."

  "Thought this was all Clatsop country around here."

  "It is. Sort of unofficial agreement. Long as the Killamooks stay to the trail, nobody'll bother 'em up to the crossroads. Sometimes when they get bored they bring a batch of junk up and leave it at the cairn. Clatsops go take what they c'n use, leave junk o' their own."

  "Don't seem reasonable."

  Smith shrugged. "Both of 'em convinced they get the best of the bargain. It's just a way of passin' the time anyway. If you turn off north at the cairn you'll get there sooner or later." Monday stood. "All right, Solomon. I thank y'."

  "Any time. Wish y' could stay for a bite t' eat," Solomon said.

  "Maybe I'll stop by when all this is over," Monday said. "I been meanin' to get down an' see you an' Trask an' what not, but I never get around to it. How's things goin'?"

  "Good and bad. The gold strike in California left me without any men up here, but they're driftin' back, poorer than when they left."

  "Same in the valley, pretty much. How's Trask?"

  "He's figurin' to leave, settle down in Killamook country."

  "Thought he was satisfied here," Monday said.

  "Bridge is never satisfied," Smith said. "But he got swamped by the gold strike, too. Can't do much with a depopulated country."

  " 'Spect not," Monday said. "Well, too bad t' lose a good man up here."

  Smith nodded. "Though in a way," he said, "it's prob'ly better this way. Bridge is kind of hard t' live with. Hes pretty independent."

  Monday looked at the other man curiously. "You too?" he said after a moment.

  "Me too, what?" Smith said, puzzled.

  "Nothing," Monday said. "It ain't important. I best get back."

  He mounted again and leaned down from the saddle to shake hands with Smith.

  "Say, Jaybird," Solomon said. "What'd Webb kill that man for?"

  Monday heard himself answer automatically, as though it were someone else speaking. "For me." It was not what he had intended to say.

  2

  The second night out the old man was lucky. Just about the time he began thinking of a campsite, the trail crossed a small river. It was the only stream of considerable size he had passed since he left the flat country, and he was grateful for it.

  There was a wide meadow on the other side, rich with ferns and grass, held between the arms of the river's curve. At the very edge of the water was a running border of cottonwoods.
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  The stream ran swift and shallow, boiling white water over the rocky bottom, churning the air-clear water into milky froth that swirled away down the current. At its deepest the stream did not reach his horse's belly. They forded easily, and the horse scrabbled up the tiny bank on the other side, into the cottonwood thicket. The old man dismounted and worked through the narrow barrier to the clear meadow, three or four hundred yards across at its widest point. He left the shelter of the trees and stood looking around him.

  The sun was below the hills to the west now, and the sky was turning bright with the glow of the reddening dusk. There was a quietness settling on the land, and he stood motionless for a long time, savoring the sensation of change that came each day. The day creatures were searching their homes, going into silence; the night-runners had not yet come into voice.

  He breathed deeply, listening. At last he returned to the grove and brought out the animal that waited patiently for him. It was probably not too smart, but he wanted to sleep in the clear. He didn't like the brush of this country, the matted wall that hindered and hobbled you and forced you to follow trails where someone else had passed. He wanted space and light around him, it was how he felt free.

  He let the horse wander over the meadow, searching out that perfect mouthful of grass that was always promised, and always a few steps farther on. He spent a few minutes gathering branches for his fire, then settled himself down a few yards from the thicket, lying on his side with his head supported on one hand, just looking.

  The silence grew deeper with the dusk, and he followed it with his mind, trying to guess the exact center point between the night and the day, the precise moment when the day sounds were completely gone. Like a stone thrown in the air; there had to be a moment of perfect rest before it began to come down. He was convinced that between the night and the day there must be an instant of perfect rest, when all life ceased. A hundred times he had tried to discover it in the dusk, and always failed.