Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  He wriggled his arms through the pack straps again, and waded into the river, walking carefully on the rocky, slippery bottom. At the other side he glanced back at his dam, the mud and sticks now nearly washed away leaving things as they had been before he came.

  He turned and started up the brushy slope. Beside him the great boulder, thick with cascading ferns and moss, was a silent, massive sanctuary for small creatures that live in eternal dampness.

  ***

  Today he was alive again, and he was glad to be himself once more, without the callous layer that came from rubbing too much against human beings. As he moved upward toward the mountain's foot the damp-stiffness worked out of his muscles quickly. The brilliant newness of the day was strong in his belly. He was raw and open again, letting the world come into him and taking pleasure in the deep invasion. His eyes saw more, his ears heard more, his mind collected and arranged and patterned the information his senses brought him precisely, sharply.

  Details of almost invisible fineness engraved themselves on his mind without effort; the myriad infinity of textures and shapes and sounds that were the forest. The saw-toothed edge of a sunlit leaf against a shadow-somber fern, the crook of a branch at his elbow, the hushed breath of a fir limb sweeping the air, gently. And with the increased sensitivity there came the eerie, almost forgotten sense of lightness, as though he had thrown down a fifty-pound pack. lt always happened when he was fully himself. It was how he liked to live, sharply, and how he liked to see, clearly.

  He was climbing steadily now, though the ground was not yet rising steeply. Occasionally, through breaks in the screen of trees ahead, he could see the outlines of Saddle Mountain's double hump. He was approaching from the southwest, and part of his view of the mountain itself was obscured by a minor peak. The little peak rose perhaps a hundred and fifty feet above the surrounding ground. It reached well above the level of the trees, standing absurdly naked and compact like a dungheap in short grass. From the top he thought he would be able to get a fair look at the countryside, and the mountain itself, less than half a mile from the flat-topped little pinnacle.

  ***

  The animal trails thinned out, disappeared, started again. The brush was heavy on the uphill slope, and going was slower than he had hoped. When he finally reached the top of the little promontory the day was far along, near noon. The sun was full on the face of the mountain now, picking out the folds and crevices of the peaks sharply.

  He put his pack and gun on the ground and sat down to empty his moccasins of the rocks and gravel they had accumulated on the walk up from the river valley. He poured out two miniature waterfalls and banged the soles together to dislodge the last fragments.

  He was well above the tree level here, but looking to his left he was unable to see the ocean, fifteen miles away, and it disappointed him. The western horizon was blurred and indistinct in the gray-blue sea mist. In fact, he was not certain he could have seen the sea itself, even granting the day were clear enough. He looked up toward the mountain face that rose abruptly a half-mile distant from him. If he could see it at all, it would be from up there.

  Absently he tamped his pipe full while letting his eyes rove over the slope leading to the minor peak, looking for trails. From here the brush looked almost like a tufted meadow, but there was not a sign of a trail anywhere, and he knew the undergrowth was probably over head height. He finished stuffing his pipe and lit up. He sat then for nearly half an hour, still as a rock, with his hands clasped in front of his knees, studying the configuration of the mountain.

  Finally he knocked out his pipe and stuck it in the broad flap of his hunting shirt, where it rested hot against his ribs. He stood up and stretched, spreading his arms wide against the sky. He picked up his gun and began to climb down from the small peak, swinging around the base and starting up the first gentle slope of the mountain itself. After an hour and a half the terrain grew more and more rocky, a litter of stones, gravel and reddish-brown dust. The trees began to thin noticeably, leaving occasional tiny meadows.

  When at last he reached the edge of the timber the trail he was following was running almost horizontal along the mountain flank, heading west. just beyond the trees was the widest meadow he had yet seen, slanting down the mountainside to his left. Outcroppings of rock studded the slope, and on the other side was a long, straight rib of rock extending downslope. Above and to the right the small peak rose, rocky and bare of trees.

  He squatted at the edge of the meadow and considered the long rock wall, absently plaiting one of the long black braids that hung beneath his hat.

  He picked up a stone and tossed it from hand to hand for a moment, while he studied the meadow and the wall and the peak above. Finally he shrugged and stood up. He heaved the rock out toward the wall. It fell far short, clanked against another stone in the meadow, and everything was silent again.

  It was worth keeping in mind, if he didn't find anything better. The wall would make a nice little fort, but he wanted to get higher. He moved out around the edge of the trees and started up the small peak. Beyond the trees the terrain was a tumbled mass of rocky debris; loose gravel, occasional large boulders. The loose rock slid out from under his feet and scattered down the slope, the stones bruised his feet through the thin leather of the moccasins.

  He had to rest once before he reached the top. He squatted, his bony wrists dangling over his knees, facing downslope. The sun was dropping more quickly now, and taking on a reddish tinge. This side was nearly all in shadow now, but farther off to the east the sun still caught the tops of other ridges. picking out the peaks like tiny match flames in the shade.

  Finally he started up again, and shortly afterward reached the big boulder that seemed to be the peak. He looked around, checking the ground from the point of view of cover. The little peak sloped down to the razorback ridge, tumbled rock again. The opposite peak, a quarter of a mile away, was somewhat higher, and more flat-topped. He thought it would probably be a better place to make his stand. Satisfied, he sat down with his back against the boulder to look around for the pleasure of it, and watch the day die.

  He had almost forgotten how sweet it was to be on a mountain, isolated and above the land. Below him and on all sides the thick, matted forests stretched away along slowly undulating ridges. A few miles south of him was the sudden sharp hump of the ridge he had been on the evening before. It was the only real break in the land worth noticing. All the other ridges, harsh and tiring in reality, were flattened by distance and his height, seeming inconsequential.

  It was an odd thing, and one that always delighted him, the way the land flattened out when you saw it from a mountain peak. On the trail the next ridge always seemed to tower over you, hovering like the breaking crest of a wave, an ordeal. a challenge. But from here it was obvious that these little ripples couldn't bother anybody; they made the difficulties of the trail seem minor. It was just a different way of seeing.

  His one real disappointment was that there was only a blurred transition from sea to sky; off to the west. He couldn't really be certain of the horizon; it was not the sharp, clean dividing line he had pictured in his mind. Maybe it would be clearer in the morning.

  He thought he heard the faint sound of falling rock on the other side, the side he had come up. A deer, browsing high the lateness of the afternoon, searching out the last of the sun. If he could get some fresh meat the day would be just about perfect.

  He stood up and walked around the side of the boulder to look.

  2

  An hour and a half after they had heard the shot, the column came to the point where the trail crossed the dry creekbed, and found the old horse. The animal lay with its legs pointed stiffly out to the side, and flies were buzzing around the pool of blood that collected below its head.

  "Kilt his horse, by god!" one of them said wonderingly.

  "Wonderful," Monday said. "You're a real genius, now."

  "Don't get smart, Monday," Thurston said.


  One of the farmers was kneeling beside the animal in fascination. Finally he stood up again, unconsciously wiping his hand across his trouser leg. "Don't seem t' be hurt or nothin'," he said. "What do you suppose he done that for?"

  "Same reason we left ours at the crossroads," Monday said. "He's got t' be movin' faster."

  "Well, hell, he di'n't have to shoot 'im."

  Monday said nothing aloud. Ain't figurin' t' leave no way out, he thought miserably. There would be no loose ends of Webb's life hanging around. Bit by bit everything the old man had was being left behind.

  Thurston was looking apprehensively at the trail where it continued into the heavy forest, disappearing in a few yards. "It wouldn't be difficult to ambush the party in there," he said thoughtfully.

  Monday snorted. "What's wrong with right here?" he said.

  The men looked around them. Except for the creekhed, the forest was dense and impenetrable all around them. There was any amount of cover available, just for the taking. They looked at one another, grouped in a tight bunch around the animal, guns unloaded.

  Thurston turned angrily to Monday. "Why did you let us make targets of ourselves? Are you leading us into some kind of trap?"

  "You're alive, ain't you?" Monday said. "I figure he's headin' for the mountain, an' he won't make a stand before he gets there."

  "Why? How can you be sure?"

  "I can't," Monday said. "That's what I figure. That's the way he is."

  "Damned little to go on," Thurston said.

  "Huntin' men ain't a sure trade," Monday said. "My opinion's all you got. Take it or leave it."

  In the end Thurston turned away. Monday looked at the western sky. "He's still got better'n an hour on us," he said. "We best push on till dark, make camp, and get an early start in the morning. If you approve, of course," he added to Thurston.

  Thurston shrugged, his insouciance returning. "Whatever you say, my friend. I get the impression we're more or less in your hands."

  "Monday looked down at the blackening wound in the horse's head. "That's funny," he said absently. "I get the same impression." He looked up at the mountain peaks, barely visible above the screen of trees. The others followed his glance, from the dead horse to the heights. There was a low conversation between four or {ive of the men standing around the horse.

  Finally one of them laughed nervously. He shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position and walked hesitantly over to Monday and Thurston.

  "Mr. Thurston—" he started politely.

  "What is it?"

  "Ah—there's a couple of us—well, we decided to go home."

  "Go home!"

  Monday grinned a little and looked down at the ground.

  "Yeah," the man said hesitantly. "Me, I mean I didn't want to come along here anyhow, you know?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Thurston snapped. "You can't just go home. That kind of talk does nothing but make trouble. You men are on a posse, not a picnic outing."

  "Well, that's what we thought we'd do, though," the other said. The four other men came up to stand sullenly behind their spokesman, looking neither at Monday nor at Thurston.

  "Look, Mr. Thurston," the first man said reasonably. "Me, I got a wife and kids, you know? I got to think about them. And I got wheat to get in."

  "The last resort of cowards," Thurston said contemptuously, "Wife and children. Do you think your wife and children are safe while that maniac is loose?"

  "Mr. Thurston," the other said doggedly, "I ain't fixin' to argue with you. I know you c'n come over me slick." He glanced down at the dead horse. "I don't care whether you call it coward or whatever. But I figure to go home." The little group behind him muttered a sort of wordless agreement. The first man was standing his ground, embarrassed but adamant.

  "Let me tell you something, my friend," Thurston said. "If you back out now, you will regret it the rest of your life."

  "Yeah," said somebody in the crowd. "But it's like t' be a longer life."

  There was a little laughter, and Thurston wheeled to survey the main group angrily. "All right," he said finally. "How many other cowards are there here? If you leave this posse, you'd better start packing when you reach home."

  Slowly they began to divide, a few more coming to stand with the original deserters, looking embarrassedly at the ground.

  "Just let me look at your faces," Thurston said coldly. "I want to remember you."

  "Me, Iwas figurin' to go take a look at that California gold anyways," somebody said, but it had gone too far now. There was no answering laughter.

  Through the exchange Monday had said nothing. He looked at the ten men who had decided to stay, and figured it was a question of fear either way. Some were more scared of Thurston than of Webb, that was all. He shrugged.

  "I say let 'em go," he said finally. "This here army's a sight too big for comfort anyways."

  "No one asked your opinion," Thurston said.

  Monday grinned at the ground and rubbed the back of his neck. There was nothing Thurston could do about it. He was losing half his men, and that was that.

  After having stared at the deserters, Thurston suddenly turned and picked up the pack he had put on the ground. Witlaout a word he started down the trail again.

  Slowly, and with relief, the group of deserters turned back the other way. A few of the remaining members looked enviously after them.

  "Now's the time, boys," Monday said, watching them.

  "Well, hell—" One of them shrugged, looked at the ground for a moment. "I s'pose we might as well see 'er through," he said. He picked up his pack and started after Thurston. One by one the others reluctantly followed.

  Monday came at the end of the line, shaking his head in wonder at the ways of men.

  ***

  It seemed almost lonesome in the morning, with only a dozen men; and silent ones, for the most part. On a few faces there was obvious regret that they had not gone off with the others; but it was too late now. Thurston had improved the evening by delivering, in a companionable way, his opinions of the deserters and his predictions for their future. By the time he had finished, the talons were well dug in, and Monday thought there would be no more to take the back trail.

  The longer he ran with this bunch the more baffled he became, watching them sway back and forth before the wind, watching Thurston politick them unceasingly. The establishment of his authority was as natural as breathing for the small man; he did it automatically, without thinking about it. And always a chance comment dropped here, an observation there, to fertilize the suspicion of the others for Monday.

  Thinking back on it, Monday thought he had probably made a mistake on the first morning. Thurston saw him as a threat now. And slice by slice he was cutting him back to size. A mistake—but what the hell else could Monday have done? Let himself be cut out without fighting? ln the end it didn't matter. No matter what he did, it was wrong.

  Bill the carpenter had been one who stayed. In the early light he came over and sat down beside Monday, rolling a cigarette casually.

  "Nice morning," he said, looking up at the sky.

  "So," Monday said.

  After a moment, Bill said, "Say, that old man, now."

  "What about him?"

  The cigarette paper tore across, and the carpenter cursed it. Holding the ruined cigarette carefully so as not to spill the tobacco, he reached in the pocket of his denim jacket for the book of papers.

  "I expect he's a pretty good shot," Bill said. Others of the group had begun to drift over to listen.

  "Expect he is," Monday said. "Thing is, he won't get a shot at all until we're out o' the timber. Chances are we can make it up t' the rock without him knowing. If you walk soft."

  "Y'really think so?"

  "Listen," Monday said, gesturing to the wood around them. It was full of sounds, rustlings of animals, scraping of limbs, a steady murmur of life and movement.

  "If we got a trail it shouldn't be too hard," Monday said. "After we get o
ut into the open, that's a different story. He's got his eyes, then."

  "All right, you men," Thurston said. "Pack up and let's get moving."

  The men started to drift off to their bedrolls.

  "Think you'd best charge y'r guns this morning," Monday said quietly. He pulled the plug from his powder horn and poured. "From here on in all bets are off."

  The others looked at one another, then silently went to get their gear together and load their rifles.

  ***

  They wound down into the little river valley silently. Monday was amused at how quiet a dozen men could be if they got scared enough. The morning wore on, the sun rose above the trees, and the heat increased.

  Just after noon they were filing along the flank of a tiny ravine and could see the mountains plainly. Monday was leading, with Thurston just behind. He was setting a good pace, hoping to make up a little more time, and the others followed silently without complaint.

  Suddenly Monday stopped, looking over toward the rising ground. He gestured with his hand and squatted on his heels. Thurston sat down beside him, pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket to wipe his forehead. Monday peered out at the little promontory, and finally pointed.

  "See that little butte?" he said quietly to Thurston.

  "Yes, what about it?"

  "Y'see them three big rocks up there? One by the edge, the other two close together in the middle?"

  "Yes, yes," Thurston said impatiently.

  Monday brought his finger down and rested his wrists on his knees.

  "One of 'em ain't a rock," he said.

  Even as they watched a tiny figure stood up beside a boulder and stretched his arms wide. It was like watching a theater show from a great distance. The figure disappeared for a moment behind the rock, then reappeared, starting to descend from the little humped peak. Almost immediately they lost sight of him, as he merged with the rock face in the distance.

  Monday turned to Thurston, his face without expression. Thurston met his glance for a moment.

  "Well, let's go," Monday said. "We picked up another half-hour."

  Old coon's getting careless, he thought. Then he remembered that Webb would be figuring on having a good start over them. He would not have been able to guess they could make up so much time by taking a steamboat downriver. He didn't know the country, and it was costing him dear. Monday shook his head. They would catch him now, before he had any time to fort up.