Moontrap - Don Berry Read Online Free Page A

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 enough to stay home.
    One of the regular army came riding briskly by,
maintaining a laudable