Moontrap - Don Berry, Page 2

  "Wuthless 'n' iggerant," the old man muttered, swinging up into the saddle. "Hya! Move! "

  Carefully the horse picked her way to the edge and stopped with her forefeet planted in the water, looking across the river. The old man snorted. "That's right," he said angrily. "Drown me. This child knows y'r mind. Y' thinkin' he don't know? Wagh!"

  He jerked on the reins, pointed the horse's head upriver. The animal stepped carefully into the water, feeling the bottom tentatively with each step. When it was deep enough she began to swim methodically, parallel to the bank, directly upstream. Near the bank the current was not too swift, and they gradually made up the distance they had been forced to backtrack. Twice on the upstream journey the horse swung in to the edge of land again, at flat shelves just wide enough to give her feet purchase. There she stood and rested, her breath coming heavy and fast.

  After entering the water the old man had let the reins hang loose in his hands, letting the animal work as it saw fit, trusting perfectly in its judgment. When they returned to the bank to rest, the old man dismounted in the tiny space and squatted silently on his haunches, waiting until the horse was ready to move again.

  It took nearly an hour to make up the lost distance, and the old man was content; they were once again nearly opposite the upper end of the island, two hundred feet below the cliff where he had stood before. All that remained was to cross the river. The horse was tired now and rested a long time before starting across; long enough for the old man to tell himself two stories of things that had happened long ago. He sat with his back against a stone, eyes closed, leaning back without tension. The horse was motionless, head down and silent. Both were passive, without will or desire, waiting, because at that time it was necessary to wait.

  At last the horse raised her head and snuffled. The old man opened his eyes slightly and looked at her. For a long moment they remained that way. Then the old man stood and mounted and they crossed the river.

  3

  He explored the island briefly, not so much for defense as to satisfy his curiosity about the way things were. Then he returned to the spot he had selected near the upper end and picketed the horse. The animal immediately pulled up the picket pin and wandered off, grazing. "iggerant as a man," the old man muttered, watching the horse meandering away into the woods.

  He sat against a tree, wriggling against it to scratch his back. From the voluminous flap of the leather hunting shirt he extracted a redstone pipe bowl, a stem, and a small packet of tobacco. Carefully, pinch by slow pinch, he stuffed the thin shreds into the bowl, not wasting any. He fitted the stem and bowl together, rubbing the stone gently with his thumb and forefmger, turning it around and enjoying the feel and sight of it. Sioux, it was. Only one place on the face of the earth that particular red stone came from. Supposed to be the same stone as the first medicine pipe Wakantanka gave to the People. That was the way he heard it. You couldn't believe anything the lying bastards told you, but that was the way he heard it, and he occasionally let himself believe it for a while.

  "This nigger's a long way from home," he said to the pipe.

  He smoked in silence until it was finished. Then he stretched himself out full length at the base of the tree and went to sleep. In time the horse wandered back and nuzzled the old man's head. She walked to the place she had been picketed and awkwardly lowered herself to the ground.

  They slept for nearly two hours, while the sun passed noon and swung into the west. It was a quiet time, with no sound but the rustlings of small animals in the brush, and no movement but the slow shifting of dappled patches of sunlight through the trees and across the ground.

  The old man woke as suddenly as he had fallen asleep. He walked over to the channel side of the island, kicking the horse in the rump as he passed. He waded in up to his waist, wetting the buckskin trousers and moccasins again. During his nap they had begun to dry, stiffening and shrinking painfully. This time they would dry while he was moving, and it would not be bad.

  He stood there in the water, looking across at the mainland, no more than fifty feet away.

  "This nigger c'd swim that slick," he said contemptuously. For a moment he waited. If he swam he'd just have to walk when he got there, so he decided to take the horse. He had never tried swimming before, but he thought he could probably do it, if it came to that. He knew men that could swim, brown and white both, that weren't half the man he was, so he didn't expect there was any great problem to it. The horse was standing again, waiting patiently, when the old man returned. "Hya! Y' damn boneyard. Us'll see how the Jaybird's stick's a—floatin'."

  ***

  The mainland point that faced the island was a sandy beach, the only one the old man had seen along the river. To reach it they had to swim directly from the upper point of the little island across the mouth of the channel, going diagonally upstream again. The channel mouth was shallow, and the horse's hoofs scraped bottom often; sometimes more walking than swimming. But the same shallowness had its disadvantages, for the swift-running water was clogged with deadfalls and debris that had come sweeping down the Willamette in flood season. Some were visible and easily avoided, but others were submerged, waterlogged and heavy, with networks of hidden branches making traps below the surface. Several times the animal lost its balance, nearly throwing them both into the current.

  But the distance was short, and quickly made. They plodded up the sandy beach a little, and found a well-defined trail leading up through the screen of trees that separated Monday's field from the river. Reaching the top of the trail and emerging from the trees, the old man reined up and looked again at the Jaybird's handiwork. The black-earthed furrows stretched away from him toward the little cabin, and the slow twists of smoke from the moldering stumps were like candles just extinguished. There was still no sign of activity around the cabin itself, and he could see no animals.

  A bright reflection glinted from something metallic near the wall of the building, but he was still too far to make it out. Maybe a plow. He started the horse moving again, skirting the field on the south side and riding parallel to the river. He was past the point now, and the river was running east and west. In a few minutes he reached a point directly between the river and cabin, and stopped again as a flash of color by the house caught his eye. He was only a few hundred feet from the building and he sat the horse very still.

  It was a woman, just come out of the cabin, and the color he had seen was her brightly patterned dress. Calico, gingham, some such. He didn't know about such things. When he was trading everything was silk, and that was good enough.

  He gripped the reins more tightly, as a sudden flash of anger and contempt surged up in him. " 'Pears the Jaybird got hisself a white woman," he muttered to the horse.

  Then he relaxed, and shrugged. It was nothing to him. But Jaybird had had a Shoshone woman in the mountains, by report one of the best, though just a girl. The old man had never met her, but it annoyed him obscurely that a man would switch women when he had a good one. But it was nothing to him what Jaybird did.

  "Damn iggerant dunghead," he said. Though the Shoshone slut might have been killed or something.

  The woman that had come out of the cabin was ungainly. She walked around the corner to the woodpile awkwardly, and the old man was contemptuous of her softness.

  "Lazy slut," he snorted. You'd never catch any squaw of his moving like that, less'n she was . . .

  He leaned forward in the saddle, and saw that his old eyes had been playing him false. The woman wasn't fat, but heavy with pregnancy.

  He kicked the old horse in the ribs and started up toward the cabin. The woman caught the movement and stopped, startled. Then she moved back around the corner with the load of wood, the slow, measured pace taking her out of sight as the old man approached. He heard the door shut.

  He let the horse plod up to the door of the cabin and stopped. He leaned forward on the saddle horn, crossing his bony wrists comfortably before him. She knew he was there. He could
wait. He closed his eyes and was back in Pierre's Hole the year of '32.

  "Powerful drunk," he muttered. "Powerful. Billy Sublette's little brother got off first, him 'n' Gervais, I recollect. 'N' I'm a nigger if he didn't haul along the iceman from Boston 'n' his whole kit, them as hadn't deserted. Name o' Wyeth, him. Wagh! Well, now. They hadn't got but a couple miles out . . ."

  It was eighteen years and a thousand miles from him, but it was all sharp in his mind. How that no-good Nez Percé come roarin' back to camp with his horse all lathered, hollerin', "Piegan, Piegan!" Hadn't been Piegan anyways, but a village o' Gros Ventres coming up from . . .

  The old man opened his eyes slightly and looked at the closed, silent door. He grunted softly, and swung down out of the saddle.

  "Nothin' t'rile a man like bad manners," he grumbled.

  He walked over to the door and shoved it open harshly. It banged back against the wall, the sound echoing loudly in the tiny room. The inside of the cabin was at first completely dark. There was only the light from one small window in the south wall and the low fire on his right. He stood in the doorframe, letting his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom.

  For a moment he thought the woman had gotten out, though he had automatically looked the building over as he approached and seen no other way but the main door. After the reverberating crash of the door against the wall there was no sound.

  At last he made her out. She was sitting in the farthest corner, where the darkness was almost total, her back against the wall. She reminded him oddly ofa doe gone to cover in a thicket; immobile, silent, waiting. As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw that the woman was not white after all. Brownskin, but dressed up funny in white clothes, like that other tame Indian he'd seen. It was curious.

  Across her lap lay a long Hawkens gun, the barrel shining dully. Instinctively his eyes went to the hammer, and he noticed scornfully that it was on half-cock. Her hands lay placid and calm on the rifle, moving no more than the rest of her body.

  She was a likely woman, he thought, her pregnant-heavy body a contrast with the sharp, fine features of her face. Dressed up so damn queer there was no way he could tell her tribe or band. But she was mountain Indian sure god, and he figured probably Shoshone. It pleased him, mildly. So the Jaybird had brought his woman down with him; that was better.

  He moved forward a step. There was a dull, metallic click, and he stopped. The woman still sat calmly and without motion; but the hammer of the Hawkens was now back on full-cock and ready to fire. She seemed to be a part of the wall, so silent, so passive. He had to admit the Jaybird had some eye for beauty. The woman made him think a little of Mountain Lamb, Meek's first woman, that he got from Milton Sublette. Most beautiful damn animal god ever made, they said. She was Shoshone, too. There was something about them. It appeared like this one was a bit skittery, though, what with the Hawkens on full-cock and all.

  For a long time they looked at each other across ten feet of emptiness, both still. The hre reached a pitch pocket in the wood; sizzled and flared yellow. The highlights in the woman's eyes darted, and a shimmering reflection cascaded across her smooth, dark cheek.

  At last the old man raised his right hand slowly, palm forward. He pushed it toward the woman, twisting it slightly back and forth in the mountain sign for "question." The woman did not move, but her eyes followed the movement of his hand.

  He continued, his hand darting rapidly before him, and as he signed he repeated the question in words: "Where's your man?" He signed very carefully, thinking she might have forgotten, holding his index finger in the erect-penis sign for "man" when he had finished. There was no reaction. The woman remained calm and still and did not answer.

  The old man closed his eyes. Finally he looked down at the floor. "Ain't here, that one," he muttered. "Can't come round this nigger. Ain't here. No horse. Nothin'. Wagh!" His throat rumbled with stillborn words while the woman sat impassive and almost invisible, watching.

  He fell silent at last, then raised his head to squint around, as if confirming his conclusion. He returned his attention to the woman almost reluctantly, and leaned forward slightly. "Where's—your—man," he repeated carefully, as to a child. It was almost as though he had forgotten asking before.

  As he spoke again, he moved forward another step. Almost slowly, the glinting barrel of the Hawkens swung around, and there was suddenly no distance between them at all. The half-inch cavern of the muzzle was very close. The woman spoke at last, and her voice was soft and even, without inflection.

  "You go now, old man."

  "Wagh!" he grunted softly. He looked down at his hands, and frowned, considering some problem that was very far away. He seemed to be listening to voices in his mind; answering questions the woman had not asked.

  He turned and walked out the door, without haste. He picked up the reins of his horse and climbed into the saddle. The woman followed him and stood in the doorway, the heavy gun still cradled easily across the crook of her elbow. The old man shook the reins slightly, setting the horse off into a slow walk. He passed her as though he did not see; had forgotten the conversation, his mind elsewhere. About ten yards past, he stopped and swung around in the saddle with his fist on the horse's rump. He stared at her again, frowning, while the two long hanks of hair swung across his chest.

  "Tell the hoss Old Webb was to see'm. You do it."

  Without waiting for acknowledgment he turned away again. He began muttering to himself in a low monotone as he rode away, taking up the story where he had left off.

  The woman watched him go, and gradually the barrel of the long rifle lowered until it pointed toward the ground. She squeezed the trigger and there was a dull snap as the hammer fell on the empty pan. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the doorframe for a second. Then she moved slowly into the house, replaced the gun on its oaken pegs over the fireplace. From a cupboard at the back she took a newly cured skin and stretched it on the floor and began to trace the pattern of a shirt. It was slow. The child was so large now it was difficult for her to stoop.

  Chapter Two

  1

  Johnson Monday was low in his mind as he rode along. It was already nearing dusk, and the long column was still a good ten miles from Oregon City. just across the Willamette, in the shadow of the western hills, straggled the half-dozen shacks that proudly styled themselves Portland, known to everyone but the inhabitants as Little Stumptown. He had been counting on making it home tonight, but it didn't look that way now.

  He pulled lightly on the reins, easing off to the side of the line, and looked up and down. At the head rode Colonel Patterson, sitting his horse stiffly, as befitted his rank. The more fatigued he became the stiffer he sat, until by this time of night he had lost all contact with the animal and slapped up and down painfully in the saddle.

  Monday sighed and stretched his shoulders. "Goddam wooden sojer." Grouped behind Patterson were some regular army in their dusty blue uniforms. Then came the wagon with the Cayuse prisoners, poking along and creaking until Monday thought his ears would tear off. The Indians, all handcuffed together in the back of the wagon, had contemptuously gone to sleep in spite of the unearthly noise.

  The rest of the column was a mixed, straggling mass of the so-called militia—just settlers like Monday, with absurd blue military caps—and Indians. They milled along in the wake of the ramrod colonel like a herd of witless sheep. Everyone was very tired.

  Monday sat and watched part of the line go by, silent and sullen, heads down, half paralyzed with fatigue and—for some—grief. No one spoke, and only a few even glanced at him. He recognized the wife of Tamahas, her fat body jelly-shaking with each step of the horse. She stared blankly at the ground just ahead of her horse's hoofs, and her glazed attention never wandered. Monday wondered what she was thinking about, riding so silently to the hanging of her husband.

  Some war; Monday thought disgustedly. It is, now. Five prisoners and thirty tag-alongs. He wished to christ he'd had sense enoug
h to stay home.

  One of the regular army came riding briskly by, maintaining a laudable illusion of energy. Seeing Monday motionless by the side of the road, he stopped and gestured sharply. "Get back in line, mister."

  Monday looked at him. "Go to hell, sojer," he said uninterestedly.

  The blue uniform, just a boy, surveyed the huge blond figure sitting relaxed before him, hands crossed over the saddle horn. The little blue cap, his only kinship with the giant, perched ridiculously atop a mane of yellow hair. Two hundred pounds of resting mountain cat. The soldier kicked up his horse and rode on.

  "Hell," Monday said under his breath. He swung off the road and down toward the riverbank. He tethered his horse to a tree and got a bottle out of the saddlebag, sitting down against a boulder with a sigh. For a long moment he simply stared vacantly across the river, vaguely conscious of the slowly retreating squeal of the wagon in the distance. Then he yanked the cork out of the bottle and tilted it up. Tears came to his eyes and he gasped as he felt the terrible burn coursing down his throat. Even for moonshine it was foul, but it was better than nothing. He wished he had some molasses to put in and he'd pretend it was rum.

  He sat disconsolate and depressed, occasionally tilting the bottle, until he heard the soft pad of horse's hoofs coming down the slope. Quickly he corked the bottle, tucked it by the side of the rock and pulled a fir bough up to hide it.

  Behind him came a voice, very stern. "Alri', Monday. Give me bouteille. It is the colonel who speak."

  Monday grimaced. Without looking around he knocked the limb away and pulled the bottle out of its hiding place. "Sit y'self down, Rainy." he said.

  The man behind dismounted and tethered his horse beside Mondays. He came around the rock to join the big blond man. René Devaux was a good six inches shorter than Monday's six feet, built light. He was perhaps thirty but had a dark, adolescent handsomeness that made him seem younger. Like Monday, he wore the little blue military cap that signified his militiahood. He looked disappointed as he slid down to sit beside Monday