Moontrap - Don Berry (36 page)

He turned and went back into the cabin. The day
stretched out vacantly before him and he did not know how he was to
fill it. He made a small fire because it seemed appropriate, and
there was nothing else to do. He stared at it, thinking about fires
and cooking, his mind drifting aimlessly. He stood up again suddenly
and looked around the cabin, but nothing had happened there. He
absently swung the coffee pot in over the tiny pyramid of flame.
After a moment he went outside and sat on the porch, but there was
nothing to see. When he came back in, there was an acrid smell in the
cabin, and he realized he had forgotten to put water in the pot. He
swung it out away from the fire, watching the thin tendrils of oily
blue smoke that drifted from the spout. Then he sat down again, his
elbows propped on the table and his head supported by his hands,
trying to remember if there was anything to do. There was nothing.

The day went in tiny spurts of consciousness, spaced
by long intervals of unawareness. He discovered himself standing on
the riverbank, watching the current, but could not remember coming
down. He became aware that he was sitting again, staring at the fire,
but the last he remembered clearly he had been standing. Somewhere.

The trails his mind followed into the future had all
been blocked, save one. And that had begun to spiral in upon itself,
twisting and writhing like a gut-shot coyote, without purpose or
direction. The current of time had become unchanneled, losing self in
an endless futile whirlpool that swirled around him. leaving the
center still and empty, with only the vague awareness of motion at
the perimeter.

The sun swung up and passed the center of the slq;
and the level of the water-clear whisky in the bottle dropped slowly.
He discovered as the morning passed that by spacing swallows he could
maintain a blurred sensation of unreality, without emptying the
bottle too quickly. In a circle around him as wide as his arms could
reach, everything was unreal.

Beyond that, perhaps there was solidity and
actuality; but beyond the radius of his arms, nothing was important.
It was a state that suited him, and what little concentration he
could gather up he devoted to maintaining a veil between himself and
the world around him. The numbness did not in any way remove pain, or
longing; but it blunted the sharp edge of importance and made it more
difficult for the lance of sudden anguish to dart unexpectedly into
his mind.

The drifting bubble of futility remained whole until
mid-afternoon. He had lost the conception of time, since there was
nothing to mark one hour off from the next. It was all one, what
existed and was no more, and what would be. The isolation of the
cabin at the end of the trail was a help, for there was no
distraction other than the silent progress of the sun. When he could
hold his mind to it better, he thought he could maintain the silence
and the lack of motion forever.

When he heard the soft plodding of a horse
approaching he did not look up from the table.

When the door opened he was momentarily blinded by
the brilliance of the afternoon sun that came flooding into the
obscure dimness of the room. He looked over without interest and saw
the thick figure of Meek silhouetted briefly against the cascading
brightness of the doorframe. Then the marshal closed the door behind
him and came to sit on the other side of the table from Monday, his
face seeming somehow loose, without tone.

"You look like hell," Meek said after a
moment.

Monday raised his shoulders in a light shrug. He
lifted the bottle and rubbed his cheek with the smooth, cool,
surface, looking over Meek's shoulder.

"Feelin' sorry for y'rself ain't goin' t'help
nothin'," Meek said.

Monday said nothing. Meek put the flat of his hands
on the table and looked around.

"Webb here?" he said.

Monday shook his head. "No."

"Where's he at?" Meek said.

"
Down t' the coast," Monday said absently.
He tilted the bottle up and took a long swallow.

"
Where at down t' the coast?"

"
Saddle Mountain, maybe."

Meek looked down at the table and swept a crumb off
with the flat of his hand. "He tell y' that?"

Monday nodded.

Meek was silent again for a moment. Finally he pushed
himself up and stood looking down at Monday. "You best come in
t' town," he said.

"Don't feel like comin' in t' town."

"
You best come in anyways. There's trouble."

Monday half laughed, turning the bottle in his hands,
but the sound was faint. "I got troubles enough here," he
said absently.

"
Troubles past is past," Meek said without
sympathy.

Monday inclined his head indifferently.

Deliberately Meek leaned over the table and slapped
him with the back of his hand, his face set. "Straighten up,
Jaybird," he said coldly.

Monday recoiled, his cheek stinging, anger beginning.

Meek braced himself against the table edge and said,
"Get y'r gear an' come in t' town with me, hear?"

"
No call t' do that, Meek," Monday said
quietly.

"Call enough. There's trouble an' we're both in
it up t' the ass. Preacher Andrews is dead. Webb kilt 'im last
night."

Monday looked up, finally reached. He returned to the
world with a sense of loss, his eyes cleared and he saw Meek's drawn
face for the first time. He stood up unsteadily and looked down at
the table planks, trying to sort it all out in his mind. "What
happened?" he said finally.

Meek shrugged. "Put a hole in his gut the size
of a punkin' an' took off."

Meek turned and started toward the door.

"
Wait a minute," Monday said. "How
come you're so damn sure it was Webb? There's other people hated that
bastard."

Meek turned at the doorway and looked silently at
Monday for a moment. "You find me another man in a thousand
miles o' here that'd take the scalp."

Monday looked down at the table again. "Get y'r
gear an' come on."

3

Thurston was waiting for them in the dusk when the
two horses pulled up before Meek's house. The small man's smooth face
was hard and expressionless as he watched Meek and Monday dismount.

He stared coldly at Monday as he approached. Without
taking his eyes away from the big man, Thurston said to Meek, "Why
isn't this man handcuffed?"

"
Handcuffed?" Monday said, looking up.
"What the hell for?"

"Forgot t' tell y', Jaybird," Meek said
disgustedly. "Y're under arrest. Court issued a warrant for y'
this morning." He pushed past Thurston without looking at him
and went in the house. Monday heard Virginia's quiet voice say "I
did not let him in." He could not make out Meek's answer.
Thurston stared at him for another long moment before he spoke.

"You had better come inside, Monday" He
turned abruptly and followed Meek into the house.

Monday stood dazedly for a moment. He glanced at his
horse, decided against it, and slowly followed the other two men.
Inside, Virginia was just closing the door to the back room. A sudden
image flashed across his mind at the sight of the door; a dark head
almost lost in the whiteness of the sheets, the distant lassitude in
her eyes, the softness of her hand on the blanket .... He closed his
eyes for a moment, shocked physically by the suddenness of memory and
pain. His fist clenched spasmodically.

When he opened his eyes Meek was coming back from the
cupboard with a bottle and two tin cups. He clanked the cups down on
the table and poured them half full, pushing one toward Monday.

Meek sat down heavily on the bench. He sighed once
and lifted the cup, making no motion toward Thurston and saying
nothing.

"
And now illegal liquor," Thurston said
contemptuously.

"
Looks that way," Meek acknowledged dryly.

"
Really, Marshal——" Thurston began.

"
This is my house," Meek said flatly.

"W
hat the hell am I under arrest for?"
Monday said finally.

"That should be obvious," Thurston said.
"As an accessory to the murder of the Reverend Andrews."

"Can they do that?" Monday said to Meek.

"Done it, " Meek said.

"The arrangements for the interment have been
made," Thurston said.

"
Glad t' hear it."

"And the posse has been organized. The men will
gather here at six o'clock tomorrow morning. You will swear them in,
Meek."

For the first time Meek looked up at Thurston. With
his eyes fixed on him, Meek took another deliberate sip from the cup.
He smacked his lips and Thurston turned away with an expression of
faint revulsion. Meek looked back at the fire.

"
You're quite the organizer," he said.

"Someone has to do it," Thurston said
sharply.

"
Seems like posse-organizin' is the marshal's
job," Meek said.

The room was cold and barren with hostility. Thurston
finally snorted.

"You take too much on yourself, Governor, "
Meek said.

"
Don't call me Governor," Thurston snapped.

"Slip o' the tongue," Meek said. "I
forgot you ain't made it yet."

Thurston leaned forward, one hand braced against the
table. "Meek, I'm not here to trade insults."

Monday finally looked up from the cup into which he
had been staring during the exchange between the other two men. "Just
what the hell are you here for?" he said quietly.

"
To find out once and for all where you two
stand."

Meek laughed shortly.

"Amuse yourself," Thurston said. "The
posse will be here in the morning."

"
Never needed a posse in my life," Meek
said. "If I go after Webb I c'n do it alone."

Thurston laughed and took his hand away from the
table. "Meek, you are utterly mad, do you understand that? Do
you think you could be permitted to go after that killer alone? A
personal friend?"

Meek reached back and got the bottle again, refilled
his cup. "Meek's got friends," he said, watching the stream
of liquid. "Marshal's got no friends."

Thurston shrugged. "A pretty theory."

"Thurston," Meek said slowly, "I hate
your guts."

Thurston pursed his lips. "Pity," he said.
He finally turned to Monday. "And you, my friend, are going with
the posse."

Monday looked up at him incredulously. "Oh, no,"
he said. "I'm under arrest, remember?"

Thurston was silent for a moment. Then he said
quietly, "Within ten days someone is going to hang for this
murder. I don't care who it is. Do you understand me? This is your
last chance in Oregon, Monday. And yours, Meek," he added. "That
posse will set off in the morning and the two of you will be with it.
It takes a beast to track a beast."

He turned suddenly from the table and walked out.

After the door had slammed behind him, neither of the
others said anything for a long while. Finally Meek let his breath
out explosively and slammed his cup down on the table. "Well,"
he said, "at least all the cards're face up now."

"
Wagh!
they are. Like the old woman said t' the cow with one foot in the
milk pail, 'Get in 'r get out.' "

"Y'know what my problem is, Jaybird? I'm a
honest man."

"
Last chance in Oregon," Monday murmured
contemptuously.

"Oh, I expect if it come t' that he c'd run us
out slick enough. Run me out, anyways, an' hang you."

"Hell, he can't hang me. Not for somethin' Webb
done."

Meek shook his head. "Jaybird, far's he's
concerned we're all of us just as guilty as the old coon. An' this
town is just about hot enough he could arrange it."

Monday looked down at his cup again.

"Well, I don't expect the hoss'll get caught
less'n he wants to," Meek said.

Monday looked up suddenly. "Maybe he wants it,"
he said slowly.

Meek shrugged. "That's his own doin's, then."

"
I don't know what t' do," Monday said
helplessly. His shoulders ached and his head had begun to blur again
from the liquor.

"If'n I was you," Meek said, "I
b'lieve I'd take out when the marshal went t' sleep."

"
Hard on the marshal."

Meek jerked his head impatiently. "That'n I c'n
get by. Me, I'd head f'r the hills, like Rainy."

"
He lit out?"

"He knew about it, I expect. Said he thought
he'd wander off an' see his Conspiration a while."

Monday rested his forehead on his hand. "Well,
that's just it, Meek. That's just exactly it. Rainy's got his
Conspiration. Me, I got nothin'."

"
Best think on it anyways."

"I thought about it.
I thought about takin' out. But I got no place t' go." He looked
up again helplessly, spreading his hands. "I just got no damn
place in the world t' go."