Moontrap - Don Berry (30 page)

Meek was standing at the aisle. Calmly, and without a
word, he walked up to the pulpit, where Andrews watched him come in
astonishment. The minister's face had suddenly turned from the
twisted caricature of anger and hatred to surprise. He raised his
hands in front of him in a faint gesture.

Meek grabbed one shoulder and half-twisted him
around. Gripping him by the seat of the pants and the collar, he
dragged the long dark figure down from the platform and up the aisle,
still silent, his face expressionless. At the back, René Devaux
quickly reached out and opened the door. As Meek went through, the
little Frenchman held the door for him, bowing deeply from the waist.
Outside, Meek heaved with all his strength, sending the long figure
of Andrews tumbling in the dust of the little square.

Meek stood on the step with his fists on his hips,
watching. Andrews raised himself to his knees, but went no farther.
Meek spat in the dust, then wheeled and went back into the church.
About half the assembly was standing, staring unbelievingly toward
the door, and all the other faces were turned toward him.

"All right," Meek said. "Show's over.
Get the hell out of here."

On the platform Thurston sat unmoved, watching it all
carefully, while on either side of him the other dignitaries were
agitated, showing shock and consternation. Monday watched Thurston's
face, fascinated by its immobility and calm. Thurston caught his
glance, met it casually, then turned away, dismissing him.

Monday turned to Mary, but she seemed almost not to
have heard or seen any of it. She was looking down at Little Webb,
stroking his still fuzzy head lightly, with love.
 

Chapter Thirteen

1

It was past noon when they reached the cabin again.
Mary strangely, seemed wholly unmoved by Andrews vicious
denunciation. For the first time Monday was almost grateful for her
strange state of lethargy and inertia. Nothing could touch her
deeply, hurt her deeply. She was too involved with subtle interior
currents to be affected by the outside world. There were times. he
thought. when it could be a considerable advantage.

His own strongest feeling was regret that he had not
been the one to throw Andrews out of the church. At first he had told
himself it was because he was so far from the aisle—there was
nothing he could have done. But, in fact, he had not been moved to do
anything. He realized miserably that he would probably have sat
through whatever was to come, head hanging lower and lower, accepting
whatever vileness Andrews chose to dispense without protesting;
allowing himself to be shamed.

The comparative darkness of the cabin was like a
refuge. Mary crossed the dim room and put Little Webb gently on the
bed. The baby had fallen asleep again for the greater part of the
trip, but now he woke and began to squall. It was very rare for him;
Monday thought he was probably the most silent child ever born.
Sometimes he was disconcerted by the baby's quiet regard, so distant
and uncomprehending.

Mary crooned to the child, tucking the blanket
carefully around him. The wailing continued, and at last she picked
him up from the bed, opened her dress and gave him the breast. He
settled down quickly, closing his eyes.

"He was hungry," Mary said, smiling at the
little face.

"
Mary—don't feel bad. You know, about what
Andrews said. It's just one man." But in his mind he saw the
heads turn to stare at their pew, faces full of hostility.

"No," Mary said quietly. "It is not
important, that." She shrugged gently jogging the child's head.
Little Webb opened his eyes briefly, reprimanding, then quietly
clutched the breast again.

"
I'm sorry it turned out that way," Monday
muttered, almost to himself. "I hoped—I don't know, I hoped
things would be sort of new starting today."

"It is nothing," Mary said. After a moment
she repeated absently, "Nothing. It is just the same."

"
Mary, there's one more thing."

"Yes."

"
I have to go back."

"Go back?" she said softly.

"If I don't go back—I mean, if I let the
bastards drive me now, there's no end to it. Can you see that? "

She nodded slowly.

"
If I let 'em run me out like this they'll
figure I'm ashamed or something. Hell, I don't know. But I got to
face 'em down."

Little Webb had fallen asleep again. Gently she
disengaged him from the breast and tucked him back under the blanket.
With her fingertips she lightly caressed the still wrinkled forehead,
and the child did not stir. She stood from the bed and turned to
Monday.

"
Yes," she said, "it will be all
right."

He kissed her lifted forehead. "Thanks, Mary.
We've got to fight this thing through. You understand that."

"
Yes. I understand now, better than before. You
must do what you have to do."

He went outside and unhitched his horse from the
borrowed wagon. Hurriedly he saddled and mounted. Mary had come to
the door and watched silently.

"I'll be back early," he promised.

He sat for a long moment, looking at her framed in
the doorway. Her eyes were glistening, and he was afraid she was
going to cry again, and he couldn't stand to see it. He pulled the
reins suddenly and wheeled the animal off to the trail.

Mary watched until he was out of sight and the dust
had settled back to earth and there was no sign left of his going but
his absence.

She leaned back against the doorframe and let her
eyes rove over the distant ridges lying open and clean under the
summer sky The timbered hills of the horizon were endlessly far,
wavering in the heat like the images of dreams dissolving.

She went back into the
cabin, closing the door behind her. In the dimness, cut off from the
light of the sun, she went to the bed and sat looking down at the
sleeping figure of the child, her hands folded quietly in her lap.
For a long time she remained. Then she stood, shaking her head as
though to clear her mind, and went back to the cupboard.

***

"
Hell," Meek said, rubbing the back of his
neck. "That mouse-holler preacher don't amount to a damn."

"
How'd Virginia take it?" Monday asked him.

Meek shrugged. "Y'know, Virginia, she's pretty
hard about things like that. She's seen 'em come an' go. Long as
she's got the house an' kids an' me, she don't much give a damn."

Monday shook his head.

"Anyways," Meek said, "I got half a
notion Thurston put that stuff in that speech his own self. You seen
him up there, ca'm as ca'm. He wa'n't surprised none. Me, I think he
was just throwin' a rock in the pool t'see what jumped."

"
Well, he knows now, sure god."

"Mary's all right, I expect? "

"She's all right. She's—hell, I don't know,
seems like she's so moody lately I can't tell what she's thinkin'."

"It'l1 pass," Meek said. "That's the
one thing we're allus sure of, coon. It'll pass. What d'y' say we go
down to that there boat, cheer y' up a bit?"

"
Tell y' the truth, I ain't much got the heart
for it," Monday said.

"
Nothin' t' give a man heart like a leetle sip
o' rum," Meek said. He stood up and looked down at Monday, still
leaning back against the porch post. "C'mon, hoss, do y' good.
Rainy an' Webb's already gone down."

"All right," Monday said, standing. "How
come you didn't go down with 'em?"

Meek grinned at him and flipped the reins of his
horse off the rail.

"Oh, I figured as how you might be comin' back."

Monday looked at him, surprised. "
Wagh!
You ought t' go on the stage like one o' them
mind-readers."

"Hell, you ain't the hardest man in the world t'
figger out," Meek said. "Littler the mind, easier it is t'
read. C'mon."

"
By god, I believe I'd like a little bit o"
rum. Relax me some."

"None o' that damn relaxin'," Meek said.
"Last time you got relaxed the front yard smelled bad f'r a
week."

"That was different," Monday said
defensively.

2

They reached the riverbank about a hundred and fifty
yards from the  beginning of the wagon road that led down to the
ferry.

The sloop-of-war
Portsmouth
lay at anchor in the middle of the Willamette, her graceful bowsprit
pointing upstream. The mid-afternoon sun was brilliant, picking out
the ripples of the river in sharp flashes of silver, glinting from
the polished fittings of the ship. The sails were neatly furled on
the yards, and there was a strong feeling of peace about the long,
slim shape of the vessel.

As they watched, there was a flash of white from the
hills across the river, and seconds later the boom of a cannon
explosion, echoing across the placid Willamette surface.

"
Where the hell'd they get that?" Monday
said.

"That there's the twelve-pounder McLoughlin
brought over from Vancouver," Meek said. "They been
shootin' her off ever' now and then all day."

"Hell of a waste o' powder," Monday said
glumly.

"
What's Independence Day 'thout a cannon or
two?" Meek demanded. "Anyways, it don't take near as much
powder just t' make a noise as it does t' fire ball."

"She's mighty pretty sittin' out there,"
Monday said, looking back at the
Portsmouth
and the stars and stripes that streamed from the flagstaff at the
stern.

"She is, now. Just like a picture or somethin'."
Meek started his horse off toward the wagon road and Monday followed.
They left their animals near the top of the bank and started down the
road to the landing on foot. Halfway down they rounded the corner and
met Devaux and Webb coming back up.

"
Hooraw, coons, where's y'r stick floatin'?"
Meek said, puzzled.

Webb squinted at him, wrinkling his nose as though by
way of answer. He lifted his hands, fists clenched. in a gesture of
helplessness.
"
Enfante de garce!
'"
Deyaux exploded. "You know what he says, the animal! You
know
?"

"
Whoa back there, Rainy," Monday said. "Who
you talkin' about?"

"That dunghead down t' the boats," Webb
muttered.

"He say two dollars, the animal! Two dollars to
rent a little boat to go out there."

Monday lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Jesus
god! Meek, ain't that against the law or somethin'?"

Meek shook his head sadly. "No sir. This here's
a free country, man's got a right to make his livin' how he sees fit.
Me, I never interfere with a man's profit. It ain't moral." He
dug into his pocket and brought out his marshal's badge. As he pinned
it on, his chin tucked down to see, he said, "On t'other hand, I
never let a man's profit interfere with me. Who's down there?"

"Heap o' shit with teeth," Webb offered.

"Me, I don't know the name. The animal, the
béte! Is half bald, him, with little spectacles." Devaux made
circles with his thumbs and forefingers, holding them up to his eyes
to demonstrate.

"Little Billy Macon," Meek said, grinning.
"Come on, deputies."

Devaux shook his head. "You try that deputy
thing once before. Me, I have to swim the river, just for the honor."

"
There ain't going to be no trouble this time,"
Meek said. "Little Billy got hisself a order o' copper tubing up
from San Francisco 'bout a month ago. Ain't but one thing a man'd
want copper tubing for, an' that's a still. But you don't say
nothin', all right?"

Monday shrugged. "Hell, I suppose it's worth a
try."

They rounded the last corner before the landing in a
group, Meek marching slightly ahead. At the edge of the raw plank
dock there were half a dozen tiny skiffs tied up. The short, stocky
man heard them coming and turned around. Seeing Devaux and Webb he
set his jaw defiantly and folded his arms decisively across his
chest. "No pay, no boat," he said. "That's all. I tol'
you oncet, you men. Now get out of here."

About fifty yards out from the dock was one of Little
Billy's skiffs, laboriously being rowed by two of the Indians from
the Methodist Mission down-valley. It was obviously the first time
they'd ever tried to row, and the little boat zigzagged erratically,
the only determinable direction being gently downstream. As
passengers the skiff held Thurston and four others, all Methodist
Mission dignitaries. From time to time the annoyed, sharp voice of
Thurston came over the water as he tried to discipline the Indians
into doing something they were incapable of doing.

Meek smiled warmly. "How's business, Billy?"
he said conversationally.

"Some of it ain't bad," Billy said
pointedly, staring at Webb. Webb leaned on his rifle and stared back
indifferently.

"Glad to hear it, Billy," Meek said. "Wisht
I c'd say the same." He shook his head sadly. "Ain't allus
pleasant, bein' marshal."