Moontrap - Don Berry Read Online Free

"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