Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  "How you know it was me?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

  " 'Cause you gargle instead o' talk," Monday said. "You say y'r r's and stuff funny."

  "Is not the case," Devaux said firmly. "I speak perfect, there is fourteen years. Wi'out any accent. Moreover, I have a powerful thirst. I give you a little money?"

  Monday handed him the bottle. "On the prairie, Rainy" Absently he swept one open palm over the other in the mountain sign for a free gift.

  Devaux choked and coughed. He handed the bottle back, blinking. "Is ver' bad wiskey, that."

  Monday shrugged. "Don't drink it."

  "Not so bad as that," Devaux said in a hurt tone. "Listen. How you think of the army life, hah?"

  Monday snorted.

  "Ah, but friend of me, I think you understand wrong. One gives you food, one gives you a blanket, one tells you 'do this, do that.' Ver' simple, the army. Problems do not exist. I am ver' militaire, me. La bouteille? "

  Monday handed the bottle back. He let his hands hang limply over his knees and looked at the ground while the Frenchman drank. When the bottle came back to him he studied the level and swished it a bit, then lifted it.

  "Wagh!" Whyn't y' join up the regular army, then?" he said.

  Devaux shrugged. "Me, I have no problems."

  Monday laughed. Devaux, in common with all other former employees of the Hudson's Bay Company, was living on borrowed time and knew it. The recent influx of Americans—and the implacable hatred they brought for anything that suggested the monolithic British company—made Devaux's position hard. Oregon had been officially a territory for only a year, but the pressure was growing every day to "run the damn furriners out." After ten days every new settler from the states talked as though fifteen generations of his people had been born on Oregon soil.

  "Moreover," Devaux said, glancing at the big man, "is a problem, I go live with the—what you call, the father of my woman?"

  "Father-in-law. "

  "C'est ca. Exactly "

  Monday laughed again. "Which one, Rainy? How the hell you choose?"

  Devaux shrugged. "Is all equal to me."

  "How many wives you got?" .

  "Is bad luck to count," Devaux said seriously "Me, I never count. Numerous."

  Monday grinned and began to tick them off on his lingers. "Well, let's see. There's that Clackamas, and a Calapuya, and that one down to the Rogue River, what do they call themselves?"

  "Kelawatset."

  "But she's just a girl, anyway she don't count."

  Devaux was indignant. "She is big enough to make babies. But is bad luck to count, friend of me. No more counting."'

  "What the hell you do it for, Rainy? All those relatives." Monday shook his head. The worst thing about having an Indian wife was the relatives, all of whom instantly became members of your immediate family down to second and third cousins.

  Devaux grinned happily "No problems, me." He paused, and glanced slyly at Monday. "And you know, René Devaux, he goes—everywhere." He swept his arm in a circle. "And no problems. Friends, everywhere. Family everywhere. Not so bad, moreover."

  Monday grinned, never having thought of it in just that way. But it was quite true. Of all the men he knew, old Rainy was safer in the hills than any of them. No matter where he went he had a wife and family and a tribe, and could settle down for a week or a year.

  "In any case," Devaux said, and his face grew solemn, "is a promise I make to my pére, just when I leave Montreal. He say to me, 'René, my son, you go off and you make beaucoup beaucoup money, yes. But where you go, you don't leave one single'—métis—what you call it?"

  "Half-breed."

  " '—behind you. You make that promise." Devaux shrugged. "Alors, one promises, no? I had fifteen years then, but was already wearing long pants. You understand."

  Monday stared at his friend in disbelief. "Rainy, you—for christ's sakes, man, you must have thirty kids or better scattered around here. And if they ain't half-breed, what the hell are they? "

  Devaux reached out and touched Monday on the shoulder, his expression troubled. "Is my problem, you understand? Me, I travel—everywhere! The whole world over. And for what I do this? For one only thing!" He lifted his finger, to show the solitariness of his purpose.

  "To find one woman—one only woman—what is sterile. Because, you know, one has promised." Devaux leaned back discouragedly and shrugged, lifting his hands helplessly. "Is my tragedy. Nowhere is sterile woman. Nowhere."

  Monday leaned back against the rock, choking and gasping for breath. At last he said. wiping his tear-filled eyes, "Well, by god, Rainy. Nobody can say you hayen't worked at it."

  Devaux cocked his head. "One cannot know unless one tries, no? Me, I try them young, I try them old, fat and thin. Nowhere is a sterile woman, she n'existe pas. And now I am sad for thinking on my tragedy. La bouteille?"

  "It's yours, Rainy. Finish it. You're better'n whisky t' cheer me up."

  "Allors, Nest go. Pretty soon we go, ah? Le Colonel, he is ver' militaire. "

  "All right." Monday stood up, still grinning. "We'll go back and play sojer for a while."

  Devaux slammed the cork into the bottle with the palm of his hand, and stood. "Moreover," he said, "you drink the bottle too much when you are low in your mind, friend of me. Me, I have no problems. I do not let it derange me, not the militaire or anything."

  They walked back to their horses and mounted. The dusk had come full while they talked, and under the shelter of the trees the growing darkness made the small trail indistinct. Monday could barely make out Devaux's features. The Frenchman was still musing on his philosophy as he picked up the reins and swung into the saddle.

  "No problems. Because, you know. When René Devaux has a wife, you know what he is doing with her?"

  "I sure god do," Monday said, laughing again.

  "No," Devaux said. "You do not." He sat his horse quietly in the darkness, and Monday could see no expression on the smaller man's face. His voice had changed. He spoke quietly but coldly all the lilt gone.

  "When René Devaux has a wife, he is leaving her in the tribe, with her own people. Is the difference between us, friend of me."

  Devaux jerked sharply on the reins, wheeling his horse up the path to intersect the main road. After a moment, Monday gently heeled his own horse, following slowly "Hya," he said softly.

  "Move."

  2

  Monday and Devaux caught up with the creeping column a mile or so farther on. They let their horses plod along at the slow walk dictated by the screaming wagon ahead. Monday wished to christ somebody had seen to the wagon on the way down, but nobody was interested enough. In the desert country they had come through up the Columbia, all the moving parts had shrunk from the dryness, and nothing fitted properly any more. Every turn of the wheel raised a grating shriek that pierced his ears like the shrill screams of a butchered pig. He wondered if he was the only one in the column bothered by it; nobody else seemed to pay any attention. He gritted his teeth.

  It was dark now, but there was a full moon so bright it cast sharply defined shadows, illuminating the column with a pale blue luminescence. The line of riders ahead was a processional of the damned under the ghostly light, and the wagon shrieked incessantly like a soul tortured for eternity. Monday shook his head, trying to rid himself of the eerie thoughts. Devaux turned slightly in the saddle to look at him, then looked away again.

  One of the soldiers came riding down the line, checking on the mounted Indians, giving gratuitous instruction, keeping them organized, as if it mattered. As he passed, Devaux said to Monday loud enough for the soldier to hear, "The militaire, he are in control, no? Is a comfort to me."

  The soldier passed on. Monday looked at the straggling group of Indians, perhaps thirty of them, who had paid no attention whatever to the organizational instincts of the military.

  "They make me nervous," he said to Devaux.

  "Womens and childrens?" Devaux said.

  "The
y didn't have to come. Why'n hell couldn't they of stayed home?"

  Devaux shrugged. "C'est normal ca. WhenI am hanged, all my friends and relatives come to see also."

  Monday shifted his position in the saddle, stretching his shoulders.

  "You also will come to my hanging," Devaux said. "I think maybe is a ver' interesting thing to see, a friend of you who dance in the air, no?" The Frenchman suddenly reached over and grabbed the blue military cap from Monday's head. With a broad swing of his arm he sailed it off into the bushes.

  "Rainy, god damn—"

  "I think is too tight for you, the chapeau. It makes a pression on the brain, no?"

  Monday grinned at him. "Might could be you're right."

  Devaux shrugged. "Me, I wear it ver' well."

  ***

  It was nearly nine o'clock when they reached the outskirts of Oregon City, their entrance heralded long before by the squeaking wagon wheels. The manacled prisoners in the wagon were awake now, and sitting up. Monday saw the lean, bony face of Tamahas turning to look contemptuously at his surroundings. Then, not caring, he lay back down in the wagon bed.

  Monday shook his head. It had been Tamahass hatchet that had destroyed the beauty of Narcissa Whitman, slashing away at that gentle, pale face until nothing remained but an unrecognizable pulp of blood, flesh, and splinters of bone. He was a bad one, Monday thought, the kind of man you could never reach and always made you wonder what God had in mind.

  A crowd of sorts had gathered to watch their triumphal entry into the town. They lined the street in thin, scattered bunches. Children scampered around the groups, shouting and playing incomprehensible games. For them it was a holiday, a mysterious hour's reprieve from bedtime, and they profited.

  "Murderin' red bastards! Hang 'em!"

  Monday heard the shout ahead, and picked out the group from which it came: half a dozen men, standing around nervously. One of them, small and wiry, shook his fist indiscriminately at everyone who passed—Indians, military and militia alike—while he shouted curses. Monday leaned over in the saddle and spat on the ground.

  The man continued, raising himself to a peak of obscenity as the wagonload of prisoners passed. Around him the other men were muttering and shuffling their feet in the dusty street. Occasionally the man would glance at them slyly, with a half-grin, looking for their approval. It was absurd. But it could get worse.

  Monday looked over at Devaux, tilted his head toward the frenzied shouter ahead. Devaux nodded and they kicked up their horses and rode ahead along the line to the little group, and reined up in front of them. Devaux leaned out of the saddle.

  "Eh, my friend," he said, his voice lilting, a wide smile on his face. "Not so loud wi' the noise, eh? You waking up the bébé "

  The man scowled at him, his fists clenched. "Dirty murderin' red swine!" he snarled, looking at the line. "Kill 'em, the murderers!"

  "Eh, but my friend. Do not derange yourself—"

  "Hangin's nothin', they ought t' be drawn and quartered," the man said to Devaux. He raised his voice to a shout again, shaking his fist in the air. "Hang 'em, hang 'em."

  Monday eased his horse up between Devaux and the standing man, so the animal's shoulder was almost pressing against the other's chest, making him step back. The man looked angrily up at Monday Monday said coldly, "Just what the hell do you think we're going t' do with 'em?"

  The man looked down at the ground, muttering, then turned to his friends for support. They were mostly interested in something else. A voice said vaguely "Ah, hell. It's gettin' late .... "

  Monday and Devaux set their horses into a walk again, moving up the line. When they had gone fifty feet they heard the man's voice raised again behind them.

  "An' you goddam mountain men are no better! Bunch o' dirty Indians your own selves! Hang the lot o' you an' be done with it! "

  Neither of them turned.

  A sergeant riding down the line wheeled his horse and came alongside. "Where's your cap, mister?"

  "I lost it," Monday told him.

  "Mister, that's United States property. You'll have to pay for that cap."

  Monday closed his eyes and his fists tightened on the reins. "See my lawyer."

  "Real funny," the sergeant said. "Don't get—"

  Devaux took off his cap and placed it on Monday's head. "Voila," he said. "The chapeau, he is found. Ver' simple." He smiled ingratiatingly

  "All right, you smart bastard. Where's yours?"

  Devaux reached over again and took the cap from Monday and put it on his own dark head. He spread his hands. "Le voila."

  The sergeant was genuinely angry now. "Both of you wise bastards better come with—"

  Through clenched teeth Monday said, "Move on, sojer. just move on is all." His eyes were still closed.

  The sergeant looked at the sharp ridges of muscle standing out on Monday's jaw, and the white-knuckled fists clutching the reins. He frowned, puzzled by the violence. "Mister, you're going to pay for that cap, I'll guarantee you," he said, but he turned his horse and rode down the line.

  Slowly Monday relaxed, letting out his breath in a long ragged sigh.

  "I'm goin' home, Rainy," he said finally. "I got a bellyful o' this shit. I can't take any more."

  Devaux shrugged. "Is ver' late, you arrive," he said.

  "I want to see Mary."

  He yanked viciously on the reins, turning the animal back down the street. The horse had been broken Indian-style and had only two gaits, walk and full gallop. Monday kicked him up into a thundering gallop, tearing past the last of the slow-moving line and maintaining the frantic pace until he had passed out of the end of town and was once again on the moonlit road.

  Devaux watched him go, then turned back to follow the procession up to the jail, where he was interested in watching the prisoners come down.

  "Is all equal to me," he said absently.

  3

  Late afternoon, the eastern sky slowly dulling down to blackness. The forests of the Willamette Valley lying still and vast, touched with warmth from the lowering western sun.

  The old man glided swiftly and silently along the trail, his moccasins skimming the surface of packed, spongy needles. The long buckskin hunting shirt reached halfway to his knees, belted tightly about his thin waist, and the skirt of it slid stiffly around his thighs as he ran. An ancient, heavy flintlock swung easily in his hand, the barrel darting forward and back with his pace.

  He whispered softly to himself as his moccasins whispered on the trail, fighting over a battle long since lost. "Antoine Godin, him as was Thierry's boy, wagh!—half froze f'r hair, him, and his pa kilt the fall before up to the Salmon . . ."

  The old man's eyes flickered quickly right and left, drifting like a soft wind over the brush and the trees and the little valley that fell off to his left. He ran smoothly and without effort, watching everything, understanding everything, never seeming to look at anything. His eyes glided across a light patch on the bark of a giant fir by the trail. "Wagh!' Big 'un, him," he whispered as he ran, mentally gauging the weight of the buck whose spikes had rubbed the bark. But the sign was days old. He did not slow, slipping tirelessly through the forest. "Big Bellies they was, but the same as Bug's Boys t'my thinkin'. Out goes Antoine t'meet the headman, wagh! . . ."

  He stopped; suddenly, silently, as the wind stops. He dropped to squat on his haunches in the middle of the trail, peering at the faint marks where several tiny patches of needles showed their dark moistness against the lighter color of the dry surface. Silent now, he glanced around him. The light was beginning to dim quickly, and he nodded to himself with satisfaction. "This child make 'em come. He will, now," he muttered softly.

  He found the cross trail weaving behind a clump of brush. The hill slope above him, to his right, was webbed with an intricate pattern of dark against dark, meandering lines that began and disappeared and started anew a hundred yards away almost invisible. The old man traced the cross trail among these, following it with hi
s eyes surely and without doubt.

  Satisfied that what he sought was not above him, he turned and slipped into the solid wall of brush on the downhill side, disappearing from the main trail with only the whisper of a moving branch. The almost-trail he followed wound randomly down the side of the hill, and he followed it more by feel than by vision. The brush was well above his head on either side, dimming off what little light was left of the day. A few minutes later the trail was cut by another, equally faint, and the old man unhesitatingly switched off to his right, following an instinct that made conscious decision unnecessary.

  Before the light had completely gone he found what he expected: a dark room, carved out of the forest itself. Overhead the twining, tangled branches of firs made a lacy canopy, a finely fretted net that was almost solid. The lowest branches were all bare of needles. There was no brush here; beneath the netted roof was a broad. clear floor of matted needles, perhaps twenty feet long and ten wide.

  The old man spread his nostrils, taking in the wind, then moved quickly across the tiny clearing to the opposite side. He squatted by the trunk of a giant fir, pulling the plug from his powder horn with his teeth. He did not measure the load, but poured with perfect accuracy, and rammed the ball and patch home with sharp, quick strokes. He turned the flint in its vise to a new edge and snapped it once. Then he primed the pan and laid the gun across his lap on full-cock.

  Now he fell into a still somnolence, motionless, silent, breathing soundlessly through his open mouth. He closed his eyes and waited. His mind rested, placid and calm as a still lake in summer. The old battles and old dreams did not intrude. There was only the sense of waiting calm, the functions of life suspended in the sweet and perfect gentleness of waiting. Around him the clear space was still and darkening.

  He could not have said how long he waited. He was still, hovering somewhere between two worlds where there was no time, but only the eternal contentment of suspension. A fir bough creaked in the dark whisper of wind, but he did not open his eyes. An animal snuffed suddenly nearby, but he knew it was not his, and did not break the tenuous web of passive calm in which he existed. At last she came, silently down the trail as he had come, pausing sometimes along the way to browse in the brush, nibbling off the soft new growth, but always