Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  There was good grass growing beneath the ferns. He unsaddled and picketed the animal there, murmuring reassurances. The rest of the way he would make on foot. He had been skirting the edge of a hill, and near the bottom at his left would be a stream, in the summer probably almost dry, but for now it would give cool clean water that the deer would prefer to that of the main river. Good cover, easy water, and good forage. Paradise.

  When the horse had begun to browse without tension, Monday slipped into the brush on the downhill side, working toward the base of the valley. When he had gone a few hundred yards, he stopped abruptly, lifting his face to the breeze. He caught a faint, acrid smell of burning. Involuntarily he wheeled, starting back to his animal with the instinctive panic fear of fire in the forest. Then, angry at his own fear, he calmed himself and looked around. The smoke was so faint that he missed it entirely at first. Then he saw it, a misty thread some distance up the tiny ravine, swinging toward him in the breeze. It was almost invisible, appearing and disappearing like a spider web twisting in the beam of sunlight. Had he not been directly downwind he never would have caught it at all.

  He frowned, puzzled. A smoldering log would surely give off more smoke than that; and an open fire would cover more ground. It looked like nothing so much as a small campfire, but who would be making camp in the hills in the middle of the day? The tame Indians around Oregon City never hunted, and the others didn't like to come so close in.

  Suddenly he remembered Thurston's talk about the solitary roaming around out here. Wild Man himself. By god, that's him, he thought, grinning to himself. l'll just have a look at that 'un.

  If it was Wild Alan, Monday thought, then he'd be like to have Younger Wild Woman some place about. She'd keep y'r lodge warm, wagh! And while you were still on top of her she'd start eating you up and spitting out the pieces. It was a serious fault in the Younger Wild

  Woman.

  He was content as he began working his way down to the stream, his mind roving over the old, familiar stories. It felt almost as if he were in the mountains again, tracking, moving along the almost imperceptible animal trails to see who else was about.

  Reaching the base of the valley, he stepped into the little stream, feeling the chill water grip his ankles. He began to plod upstream, the gurgle and sputter of the water covering the sound of his approach. As he rounded a bend he caught sight of the fire, and of a bony old horse picketed on the point of the next curve. He moved slowly to the side ofthe stream and studied what he could see before going on. The camp seemed to be deserted. He thought he could see nearly the whole extent of the clear area, and no one was in sight.

  He moved back into the stream carefully, glad he was downwind from the strange horse. As it was, the animal did not catch his scent until the last minute, then whickered nervously and crab-sidled away from him as far as the picket rope would permit.

  "Just take it easy, easy now," he said. The clearing was deserted. A bloody skin, tied up into a bag, lay not far from the fire. He suddenly realized the fire was far too fresh, and a piece of meat lay beside it as though dropped. He jerked his head up. knowing it was too late.

  A muffled, animal snort in the brush made him swing around, just in time to see the flash of an igniting powder pan. A ball whirred past him, ripping into the brush behind, to the sound of thunder.

  Monday fell flat, lifting his own gun as the old man came stooping out of the underbrush, his hat flopping limply around his ears, two long plaits of hair swinging. He carried his long rifle, still smoking, loosely in one hand. He muttered angrily as he crossed the clearing toward the prone Monday.

  "Took y' f'r a Injun, I did. Wagh! Come near t' throwing down on y', god damn y'r eyes."

  "Webb! Jesus god, Webb!" Monday stared up from the ground in astonishment, his rifle barrel falling to the ground. The old man walked past him to the fire, grabbing the hunk of dropped meat and drawing his butcher knife, still grumbling.

  "Y'almost kilt me, Webb," Monday said, sitting up and staring at the old man.

  Webb snorted and cut himselfa piece of meat. "Learn y' somethin', y' damned pork-eater. Come a plunderin' into a man's camp thataway. Y'allus was a turrible dunghead. How be y'anyway, hoss?"

  Chapter Five

  1

  Damn me, Webb! I plain can't get over it, seein' you here. What do y' feel like, y'old coon?"

  "Wagh! Half froze f'r 'baccy, this child is. Got any about y'?"

  "Wel, I have."

  Monday fumbled out his tobacco pouch and handed it to the old man. From the recesses of his voluminous hunting shirt Webb produced the red sandstone pipe bowl and the long wooden stem, fitting them carefully together. He lit up and closed his eyes luxuriously letting puffs of white smoke curl out of his nostrils.

  Monday watched him curiously, full of an obscure restlessness. He felt just as he had when he sat around a mountain fire for the first time, at the age of nineteen, and watched this same man smoke and talk and drink and curse and lie. Webb had looked then exactly as he did now, except for the long plaits of black hair that now dangled beneath the limp felt hat. To the young mangeur-de-lard on his first trip, Webb had been the personification of mountain wisdom; infinitely old, infinitely experienced, infinitely wise.

  Thirteen goddam years, Monday thought, the spring of '37. He suddenly realized he had been down here in civilization longer than he had spent in the mountains, a full year longer. It was a depressing thought. Nothing had happened here worth mentioning, except anger and humiliation and failure. But the mountain years had been full, as a man's life should be full.

  Even the winters, holed up with the Crows on Wind River with the snow packed around the lodges—there'd always been something going on, and Webb was always in the middle of it. The old hoss could read and write, for one thing. Had, in fact, taught Monday himself to read, sitting around the Absaroka fires through the long, cold nights, whiling away their time until the spring thaw allowed them out for the hunt. The Rocky Mountain College they called it, and more than one grizzled mountain man had cut his literary teeth there, puzzling over the strange printed sign with the same intensity he gave Indian sign or beaver sign.

  Monday grinned to himself, thinking about it. Shakespeare, the Bible, and above all, The Scottish Chief. The Shakespeare and the Bible were carried about with the camp goods, but Webb had his own private copy of the long novel, four tiny leather-bound volumes no bigger than the palm of your hand. He could remember the old man's utter rage when Monday, the green student, couldn't follow the sense of Miss Porter's long, periodic sentences. (Y' goddamned danghead, wagh! Fit f'r nothin' but wolfmeat. that is a fact.' Well, this niggers had a craw full o'y' .... —snatching the book out of Monday's hand and stalking off.)

  For some reason he'd taken Monday under his wing those first years, easing him through the intricacies of mountain life with a sure, if occasionally rough, hand. Not once, Monday thought, but a dozen times, he owed his life to the old man. Though at times he wasn't sure his life was worth the price; there was always the cussing out later. (If'n this child had as much money as you got stupids, why, he'd ae a-puff'in' on a big cigar an 'struttin' in Saint Looy alongside Chouteau .... )

  He looked just the same, smoking his pipe with all his attention and ignoring a friend he hadn't seen in seven years. Webster W Webster, M.T That was how he signed himself, the M.T standing for the only education he admitted to straight out: Master Trapper. And it was no more than truth.

  "Well, coon," Monday said. "How's it come for your stick t' be floatin' out this direction?"

  "Damn y'r eyes," Webb snapped. "Ain't you learned yet t' leave a man in peace when he's a—smokin'? Wagh!" But at the same time he spoke he made a V with two lingers and moved it upward from his forehead in a spiral, sign-talk for "medicine."

  Monday nodded. If Webb's being here had something to do with his medicine, Monday would just have to wait until the old man said what he had to say; or perhaps he would never know. It wasn't something you a
sked about.

  "Roll out y'r doin's, Jaybird," Webb said contemptuously. "Seems like y' got y'r mouth all set f'r talkin'."

  Monday looked down at the ground for a moment. "Not much to tell, hoss," he said at last. "Left the mountains same year as Bridger built his fort down to the Green, 'forty-three it was—"

  "Wagh!" Webb deliberately leaned over and spat into the fire. "That's what killed the trade, Bridger 'n' his goddamn fort."

  "—come down here to the valley to settle. That's it." And little enough, Monday thought. Try to put the mountain years into one sentence.

  Webb nodded, his eyes roving absently over the opposite slope.

  "Well," he said at last, "leastways y'ain't gone to percussion guns like ever'body else."

  "Nor you neither," Monday said, grinning.

  "Wagh!' Hell's full o' percussion guns all rilled inside. This child never saw a nigger could charge a percussion gun on horseback runnin' bufiler. Nor make a fire with a percussion cap 'stead of a flint. Y' ever try t' ram a ball down a barrel with all them little grooves inside?"

  "They say she shoots straighter like that," Monday said reasonably.

  Webb snorted. "This child make 'em come without no goddamn little grooves in his gun. Goes against nature t' have them little grooves in there."

  Monday shrugged. There was no use saying anything; Webb could easily prove that if God meant guns to be rifled He'd of made wiping sticks with ridges to fit. "Where the hell's ever'body got to, coon? Where's Bill Williams?"

  "See that child in hell, wagh! He's cached up snug down to Taos."

  "Taos! Never thought I'd see old Bill in a town!"

  "Got to. Took hisself a Ute wife or three, 'n' living with a pack o' the dirty red bastards up to Bayou Salade. Well, now! Come a couple o' summers ago, 'forty-seven I think it was, he takes the whole year's catch o' the band down to Taos to sell."

  "Nothin' wrong with that," Monday said.

  "Shut y'r damn mouth," Webb said. "The nigger sells the furs, goes on a spree. He did now. Two, mebbe so three weeks. Had a turrible dry, I expect. Wakes up still dry, 'n' all his people's money gone. Hires out f'r a guide to the Army, 'n' takes a party o' them pretty Blue Boys right plumb back t' his own lodge. Well, wa'nt there whoopin'! Seven Utes from his band went under that spree. They ain't forgettin' he led them sojers, nor the furs neither. Old Bill don't want to get nowheres near the mountains if'n he feels like keepin' his ha'r."

  Monday looked at the ground. He picked up a twig and drew a circle in the dirt. "Hard times when it comes t' that," he said quietly.

  "Must've been a real turrible dry he had," Webb agreed. "But them Utes'll raise him one day, wagh!' they will. They'll make him come, then. He may of lost his topknot already, f'r all this nigger knows."

  The old man spat contemptuously in the fire. "I ain't been followin' Bill's doin's lately."

  "What's beaver in Taos?"

  "Dollar."

  "Saint Louis?"

  "Same."

  Monday cleared his throat. ".—Ain't gettin' any better."

  Webb turned on him angrily. "Beaver's bound t' rise," he snapped.

  "Goes against nature t' sell beaver a dollar a plew. She'll rise."

  Monday looked at the old man in surprise, then turned away. He wondered if Webb could really believe it. The refrain had been going around since '37, and it hadn't risen yet.

  "Hard t' live," he said. "Dollar a plew."

  "Wagh!"

  After a moment Monday said absently, "Trask and Tibbets and Solomon Smith're settled down to the coast. Meek and Doc Newell and me and a few others here in the valley."

  Webb spat into the fire again. "Farmers."

  "Approximately. "

  Webb turned to squint suspiciously at him, one eye closed. "That dirt-cloddin' shine with y', boy?"

  Monday looked at the twig in his hand. He put it down on the ground where he had found it. "Not so much," he said.

  Webb nodded. "Goes against nature, rip up the ground with a plow. It does, now."

  "No help for it," Monday said.

  "Wagh!" Webb spat again. "Man was made t' run buffler, not poke around makin' holes in the ground."

  "Webb," Monday said hesitantly, "listen, coon. That's all over. The hunters are dyin' out and the farmers takin' over. That's how it is."

  "Y' goddamn dunghead!"

  Monday shrugged, frowning. "How it is," he repeated. "Sometimes you got to swim with the current, hoss. She's too strong."

  "This nigger'll swim how he pleases," Webb said angrily. "Current, wagh! Y're a farmer right enough. Current!"

  "Ain't no need to get y'r back up, hoss. I'm just sayin' is all."

  "Never thought t' hear the old Jaybird a-talkin' like that. You sure god turned out bad, boy, y' hear?"

  Monday shrugged. "Times change, coon. A man goes along or goes under."

  Webb thought about it for a long time. "This nigger's out o' baccy," he said sharply.

  Monday handed him the pouch again and watched while the old man filled up. Webb tamped the tobacco carefully into the bowl, watching it suspiciously all the time. "How d'the honest-to-jesus farmers take on t' old mountain men," Webb said uninterestedly.

  "Well—different, I expect. Meek gets along good enough," Monday said.

  "Heerd he was marshal or summat," Webb said.

  "So."

  Webb snorted. "Some marshal, that 'un."

  "He ain't too bad," Monday said. "Anyways, what the hell they going t' do with a man like Meek? It's make him marshal 'r have half a dozen marshals t' handle him."

  "Leastways he ain't diggin' up the ground."

  "He tried it for a couple years, but it didn't work out too good."

  "Good enough f'r you, though," Webb said, looking at him through a plume of smoke.

  "Good as a man c'n expect, " Monday said. "It ain 't easy. There's more t' this kind of doin's than you'd think. A man's got—responsibilities."

  He wished for a moment he could tell Webb how hard it was, find some way to make the old man understand. But there was nothing he could say but what Webb would just call him dunghead again. He raised his hands and let them fall. "It ain't so easy, " he repeated.

  Webb puffed contentedly on the new tobacco, staring out at the hillside as though unaware Monday was there.

  "Anyways," Monday said, anxious to get to some other subject, "what're you doin' nowadays, hoss?"

  The old man made a fluttering, winglike motion with his hand.

  "Livin' with the Crows," he said.

  "W'hat band?"

  "Kicked-in-their-Bellies. We winter up to Wind River."

  "When you figure t' get back?"

  "Don't figure t' get back," the old man said calmly. "This child's a-fixin' t' die."

  2

  Mary was scouring the plank table when she heard the sound of a horse coming down the trail from the north, and knew it was not her husband's. She put aside the pumice stone and went to the corner where the old rifle now stood. Dusk had fallen, and she knew the light of the candles would be visible from outside.

  She took the gun and went to sit in the chair at the back corner of the cabin, away from the door. The flickering light of the candles cast long darting shadows in the room. She put the rifle across her lap and sat still, making herself small. She watched the door, motionless, listening to the sound of the rider dismounting, the sound of the reins being thrown over the rail, the firm footsteps on the porch.

  She did not move when the knocking came. but sat still as a doe with her hands folded on the stock of the gun. It came again, and the candles fluttered and the dark shadows danced.

  Then there was a voice, a woman's voice, but firm and strong. "It's me, child. Doctor Beth."

  Mary stood and went to the door. She opened it and stepped back to let the woman pass in. Dr. Beth was a big woman, built square and stocky, but she moved lightly, like a girl.

  "I was just passing by, child, and I thought I'd drop in if I'm not bein' a tro
uble to you."

  "No," Mary said. "You come in, please."

  Dr. Beth glanced at the rifle Mary still held, but said nothing. She came into the room and sat down at the table, facing the fire, while Mary returned to the corner and stood the rifle up. Beth watched her carefully, the slow, measured movement, the size of the swelling belly. She was awful young, Beth thought, not more than twenty or twenty-one. Monday must have taken her to wife at fourteen or so. A third of her life spent this way. No wonder she was so hard to reach. Beth shook her head and turned back to the tire.

  "There is—no tea," Mary said apologetically. "And the coffee is for the man."

  "Makes no difference, child," Beth said. "I can't stay long. I just wanted to get off that animal for a minute."

  The white woman watched the fire for a moment in silence. "Well, Mary," she said at last. "How's it coming along?"

  "He is coming pretty soon, I think," Mary said.

  Beth nodded. "A few weeks, I'd guess. You're sure you can't remember the last time you mens—the last time you had the moon sickness?"

  Mary shook her head silently.

  It wouldn't be so bad, Beth thought, if the girl had stayed with her people long enough to learn from the other women what to expect from birthing. As it was, she had no way of knowing except what she could remember seeing as a child. She simply waited, alone, and with no one to ask.

  "He's moving around a lot now," Beth said.

  "Yes."

  "You know, child, sometimes there are—troubles, when the baby comes."

  Mary said nothing.

  "Sometimes they come wrong end to, and it can be hard."

  "Yes. Woman die sometimes."

  "If there is someone else around, sometimes they can help," Beth said. "Sometimes there are ways to turn the baby around, if that happens."