Moontrap - Don Berry Page 33

  "Who's that?" The man's voice was shaky, and it was impossible to distinguish fear from anger in the tone.

  "It's just me," Monday said quietly

  "Jesus, you scared me. You shouldn't do something like that."

  "Sorry," Monday said.

  "What the hell are you doin' up anyways?"

  "I'm goin' t' take a piss, if it ain't against the rules."

  The guard laughed. "Well, I don't know," he said.

  Monday laughed with him and moved into the brush on the other side. He started down the slope, heading for the trail that led to the open meadow he had avoided so carefully.

  Behind him the guard carefully estimated ten minutes. Then he sighed and stood up. He made his way hesitantly over to the blanket roll that was Thurston's. He squatted beside it and shook the small man's shoulder.

  "Mr. Thurston," he said. "Mr. Thurston, wake up."

  Thurston's head came up quickly, and he whirled to face the other man.

  "What is it?"

  "You were right, Mr. Thurston. He's gone."

  Thurston was silent briefly. "So now there are two wolves on the mountain," he said finally, almost to himself.

  "What'd you say, Mr. Thurston?"

  Thurston sighed. "All right," he said more loudly. "Wake up the others."

  ***

  When he was out of sight of the guard post Monday began to move more quickly downhill, sliding sometimes, almost falling as the rocky litter of the slope slid out from beneath his feet.

  He reached the trail a few hundred yards below in short time. The moonlight was incredibly bright, and he moved fast toward the open meadow lying ghostly and silent in the pale glow. The rock wall that stretched along the opposite side was silver and black. He trotted across the meadow and scaled the wall. He was still out of sight of the main peak, but only because of the slow curve of the hill. He would skirt the side of the razorback ridge if he could, staying off the crest itself in case one of the posse should chance going to the top of the small peak. He was beginning to feel a panic urgency and stepped up his pace, skirting around the bulge of the mountain.

  They could make it down the rock chimney in a couple of hours, the two of them, and be gone before Thurston and his pack even woke to begin the hunt again. If they pushed, Monday was sure they could get several hours' head start. If Webb was not hit too badly. But that was something he could not consider now; he would deal with it when it came.

  The horses were picketed down by the cairn. They could make it while Thurston and the gang were still looking for them on the mountain, with a little luck. Monday grinned to himself. Somebody in the posse was going to have to ride double going back. Since Thurston's beautiful bay was the handsomest animal of the lot, that's the one they would take. Too bad, my suspicious friend, Monday thought. Won't there be a hooraw then!

  There was a grove of firs standing downslope from the ridge itself, starting just below the crest. Monday rounded the last hump and stood looking up at it black and somber in the bright moon, the deep foliage sucking in the light, like an emptiness. After a moment he started up toward it.

  And then? After?

  After—they could choose their trail as they liked. Down coast maybe, down into Killamook country, or even farther. Or upriver and back to the mountains. Hell, it didn't matter, it would all work out in time. It would take care of itself. But right now they had to get out of here as best they could.

  Under cover of the fir grove the light of the moon was sharply diminished, and he had to slow a little. The thicket was much more brushy than the open rock slopes he had been traversing, and he cursed his own clumsiness as he stumbled through.

  A little downslope from him in the brush, a doe wakened, startled, and spread her nostrils in the cool night air. She froze, head up and silent, listening to the passage of the great animal only a few yards from her. Her great dark eyes caught the moonlight like pools of deep water. When the crashing had diminished, she dropped her head to nuzzle the softly spotted fawn that slept beside her undisturbed. She licked at its ears, and it rustled up into wakefulness and looked around. Softly she pressed it with her muzzle, nudging it gently to its feet. She began to move through the brush silently, away from the crashing sounds that had wakened her, away from the unknown menace of the great night-running creature. The fawn followed, still blinking with sleep, and they sought shelter in the lower part of the thicket.

  When Monday emerged at the edge of the grove, the moon was far over in the west, and dropping fast. The eastern sky was already lightening, though it would be more than an hour before true dawn. He had almost forgotten how early the light came this high on a mountain. With the growing brightness they would not have much time. The main thing was to get to the rock chimney without being seen. Not knowing exactly where they were, the posse would be hesitant about traversing the ridge, and that would give them a little advantage. Once down the chimney, they had won; the whole posse would have to go all the way back down the other peak, as they had come up, and it would take hours longer.

  He scanned the opposite slope carefully for several minutes, trying to guess where the old man might have gone to ground. The slope was littered with boulders and rocky rubble, and he might have holed up anywhere; it was impossible to tell. He spotted a pile that looked as though it had been stacked deliberately, and thought for a moment that was it. But then he saw that there were others, and there was no way to tell if one of them was any different from the others.

  He left the edge of the grove and started down into the depression of the saddle, staying a little down from the crest. It was all rocky again, out in the clear, and boulders studded this slope too. Shortly he reached the lowest point, about thirty yards below the middle of the razorback itself. He stopped again to look, but even in the increasing light of pre-dawn, he saw no more than he had seen before.

  "Damn," he breathed.

  Well, it didn't matter. He would find him all right, one way or the other. And then it would be all over, the whole seven-year nighunare. Back to the mountains, free, as if it had never happened. In a year it would all be wiped out of his mind, Oregon City, the things he had done, the indecision, the compromises. One year would do it; he could change it all. One year of watching the sun rise out of Sioux country and pass midday with the Absaroka, and afternoon with the Nez Percé, and end the day sinking into the sea while the coast people watched, Clatsops and Killamooks.

  And Oregon City would be just a distant name, out of a long past dream that was slightly unreal now. One year. It would be easy to change things, if he could just get away. He could cut it off clean, everything he had done in the past seven years, cut it off sharply and start a new life. The old one would not cast its shadow into the future, he was sure of it. A clean break.

  The thought of being free of it all excited him and added pressure to the sense of urgency. "Well, we got to get out of here first, " he said.

  He started up the slope, almost running now. The whole eastern sky was a pale and coppery green. The sun was coming fast. He gave up all attempt to move inconspicuously, and the tiny cascades of rock rolled down from his feet as he scrambled across the slope, heading for the top. They could not possibly hear him at this distance, anyway The first shot exploded in the ground next to his feet, scattering rock fragments. Instinctively he dived headlong into the shelter of a boulder, hunching himself behind. He was panting hard, half from the effort of scrabbling up the slope, half from the frightening suddenness of the shot.

  He grinned to himself. "Crazy ol' coon," he said. Shoot at anything that moves. It hadn't occurred to him that Webb might mistake him in the dim light for one of the posse. He was sorely tempted not to call out, just for a little while, and let the old man think the others were after him. Serve him right, give him a little scare. But the thundering echo of the shot was too much in the silence of the coming dawn, and they'd be coming. There wasn't enough time for jokes, and the inevitably growing light in the east was cutting t
heir chances every second.

  "Hooraw, Webb." he hollered. "It's me, Jaybird. I'm comin' up!"

  He stood up and started around the boulder. The second shot crashed into the top of the rock next to him and whined off over the slope. Monday stood paralyzed and still for a moment, looking at the puff of smoke that rose into the still air from the pile of rocks fifty yards uphill. He saw the barrel of the rifle tilt in the air and disappear behind the little wall, to be reloaded.

  "WEBB! IT'S ME!" he screamed again.

  The gun barrel appeared again and lowered to the rock wall. This time Monday saw the top of the old man's limp hat, and knew there was no mistake. He could see. He darted behind the boulder again, just as the third shot roared in the morning stillness and slivers of rock sprayed into the air where he had been standing.

  2

  She's too late for that, Jaybird, the old man thought sadly. She's just too goddamn late.

  The heavy recoil of the gun was more terrible than he had expected. As it slammed back in his shoulder, he had felt the soft, breaking sensation in his side again, and the tickling of the blood flowing down his belly. Now he rested the barrel of the rifle on the top of the wall and put his forehead on the stock for a moment. He looked along the barrel, but the boulder was lying still and silent.

  Three's all y'get, he thought. He couldn't give him any more than that. Not when each shot tore him up worse inside. After firing the first time he knew that it was different from ever before. Every time he fired the big old gun, it killed him a little. There were only so many shots left; he had enough powder, but he was short of life. He couldn't afford to waste any more.

  He leaned back against the ground and pulled the gun into his lap. He worked slowly and evenly to reload. He placed the patch over the muzzle and pushed the ball slightly down to seat it in the barrel. He shoved it down with the ram and tapped lightly, without strength. He was sorry about the way it was, he was sorry about the jaybird. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  I'm comin' up, he thought. just like that. It's me, I'm comin' up. He peered over the top of his little wall, but Monday had not appeared again.

  He caught a brief motion in the sky out of the corner of his eye, and looked up. A hawk, aroused by the sudden blasts of thunder in the dawn, wheeled smoothly around the opposite peak in a wide circle, gliding easily over the razorback ridge, its head lowered and swinging slowly from side to side, watching.

  The old man blinked. He watched the gentle glide, watched as the sleek bird swept past just above his own level, out over the ridge.

  "Hello, bird," he said.

  He started to cough, spattering blood on the stock of the rifle and his hands. He turned his head away and waited until the spasm had passed. Then he spat on the ground, trying to clear his throat of the blood that seemed to be choking him.

  There were tears in his eyes when he raised his head again, and he blinked to clear his vision. He looked around the sky but he could not see the hawk, and he could not turn to see behind him.

  He heard a noise on the slope and looked down just in time to see Monday dart behind another boulder, farther down than the one he had left.

  You best go back t' y'r boys, Webb thought. He didn't understand, Jaybird, he'd never understood how it was.

  I'm comin' up. It made the old man angry to think about it. Some one o' these days he'd have to understand that there comes a point when you can't just say "I'm comin' up" any more. A point when you've made up your mind, whether you know it or not.

  The hawk had swept in a wide circle behind the old man, and now it came into sight again to his right, sweeping silently out of the sky to course above the barren peaks that were its hunting ground, and see what strangeness there was there.

  It passed almost directly over the boulder behind which Monday now hid, and the old man chuckled. The action brought more blood into his throat, and he spat it out. But he couldn't stop the chuckle. He knew what he'd do if he were the hawk.

  The hawk swung up over the ridge, paralleling the lay of the land. It dipped one wing slowly and came around in a great circle to pass over the crest of the razorback again.

  "Shit on 'im, bird," Webb whispered softly.

  He wanted it with all the strength that was left in his torn body. But the hawk swung across the ridge to the other side of the mountain and out of sight again.

  Monday made another dash down the slope. In his terrible haste he slipped and fell, just short of shelter. The old man looked at him down the barrel, then lifted his head again.

  Get up, y'iggerant bastard, he thought. I could've had y' slick. It was better to let him go, the old man thought. He'd known a lot of cowards in his time, and they were always better alive. It hurt more, it went on and on that way, and never ended. And all of 'em the same. Look different on top, but all of 'em the same. Never willin' to go all the way Take a branch trail because it looks a little easier, always figuring you can come back if it ain't right. Then another, and another. But it didn't take many of them before you couldn't go back any more. The choice was made, whether you were willing or not.

  I 'm comin' up.

  No. No, it's too late for that. It ain't that simple, I 'm comin' up. It's too late to run anymore.

  Monday was now down into the lowest depression of the saddle, a couple of hundred yards below the small grove of trees, He left the shelter of the last boulder and started up the opposite slope to the security ofthe fir thicket.

  The old man watched him climb contemptuously, a tiny figure scrabbling up the rocky slope. Still, he was sorry it had to be this way. They'd run together, he liked the Jaybird when it came to that. But there were times when a man had to choose who was going to be with him. And this was one of the times. He didn't want the Jaybird with him now.

  Sorry, hoss, he thought.

  He was surprised to find tears in his eyes. He blinked and shook his head angrily It don't matter a damn to me, he thought.

  The hawk swirled back, coming this time from the left, a dark, swift arrow in the sky. The old man watched it pass again. He lifted his rifle a little, by way of salute.

  Monday had stopped in the middle of the opposite slope and was looking uphill at the fir grove. The old man followed his glance and saw another figure appear at the edge of the woods. Even at this distance, when the men were tiny, he recognized the small dark-suited man. He had a name, but the old man couldn't remember it. The faint sound of voices came to him, but he could not make out the words.

  "Listen to'm," he muttered. "They're talkin' to each other." He coughed blood again, and this time could not shift his head to the side. It trickled from his mouth after the coughing was finished, and stained the front of the leather shirt, mingling with the blood of animals long since dead. Weakly he pushed the scalp locks over his shoulders, so they wouldn't be spoiled. He wished the hawk would come back. If the hawk came back, he would talk to it.

  Monday half turned on the slope, pointing down toward the base of the ridge, still talking, explaining something. The small dark figure at the edge of the grove slowly raised the rifle, and the old man saw the tongue of white smoke leap out down the slope. The crash echoed between the peaks just after, roaring in his ears. Monday doubled over suddenly and kicked backward, knocked off his feet. He tumbled a few yards down the slope, dislodging a tiny avalanche of rocks beneath him. He rolled up against a small boulder and stopped.

  C'mon, get up, the old man thought. That ain't no way t' die. But the crumpled form did not move any more.

  The old man blinked again.

  The tiny figure at the woods lowered the gun and rested the butt on the ground, looking down at the boulder. After a moment he walk-slid down the slope and bent over the crumpled form. At the edge of the trees the old man saw other figures moving. The man stood up, still looking down at Monday. Then he turned and called something up to the others.

  A whole line of men came out of the dark obscurity of the fir grove and made their way downslop
e. They collected in a tight circle around the boulder, looking down at the dead man. The old man heard the tiny chatter of their voices, like distant birds. He wished he were sure of his load, he wished he could see more clearly. But with every second the number of shots he had grew less. He would have to be sure.

  A wave of redness swept in at the corners of his vision, and he rested his forehead on the rifle butt again. Loosely he spat out the blood that was collected in his throat. His breath was coming raspingly now, he could hardly make his chest work, and a froth of blood formed at his mouth.

  Suddenly he felt warmth on his face, and opened his eyes. The first red crescent of sun had appeared above the horizon. He looked at the flaming brightness, but he could not get his eyes open all the way. He wanted to take it all in his eyes, he wanted to be blinded by the radiance and brilliance of the great flaming disk.

  He looked down the slope again, and the circle of men around the corpse had disappeared. His vision was coming and going in waves of blurriness now, but he could make out the motion. He saw them spread across the slope in a line, seeking out the protection of boulders, frightened, cautious, careful.

  Come on, he thought.

  He blinked again, but he could not clear away the liquid, shifting haze. His head wavered as he watched, and he knew he could not wait. He had not time to wait for cowards. He had never had time for that. He put his head down again, trying to gather up the strength that was in him. He would charge them. If they wouldn't come, he would charge them. The way it used to be. With the shrill defiant shriek keening strongly across the peaks. He would do it, just one last time. To show them what a man was.

  He lifted his left hand to support it against the wall and was surprised to find there was no pain at all from his side. Staggering, he pulled himself up until his chest was resting on the wall. His mouth hung open and loose. With one last brutal thrust, he raised himself erect above the waist-high pile of rocks.

  He opened his eyes. From his left there came the swift shadow that was the hawk, swinging past him and swooping up into the space above the ridge. The terrible cry of hate died in his throat, and he watched the pitiless grace of the great bird of prey as it rolled easily on one wing.