Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Leo returned Phil’s glare. “Like Stanley Wagner, is ih. n what you mean?”

Phil’s brow furrowed. “You better shut up about Stanley Wagner before you-” He broke off without finishing as the door opened again and Pfeiffer slipped in, dripping.

“Well, here you are,” Wally said, shaking out his poncho and staring around at the group. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

“Jeez, Pfeiffer,” said Moon Mullens, “does Phil have to draw you a map every time he wants to do something? He’s not your mother, you know.”

“Shut the damn door,” growled Zipper. “My ass is freezing.”

Wally slammed the door shut; he hung his slicker over Phil’s, then began sneezing. “I’m catching a cold, I can feel it.” He slid his red, bulbous eyes around the room. His long pale lashes were wet, as though he’d been crying. “I know you had another meeting,” he said, failing to heed Phil’s frowning look. “I’m sure of it.”

“Shut up about that,” said Moriarity; all eyes had gone to Leo.

“No, I won’t shut up,” Wally retorted. “Phil promised I could join.”

“I never.”

“You did! You said you’d take me, then you played ditch on me.”

Phil’s look grew menacing. “I said shut up about that.” Ignoring Leo, Wally stared rigidly at the others. “Well, am I going to be a Mingo or not? You promised. You said I could take the oath. You said-”

Phil raised a heavy fist. “You better shut up about what I said.”

“I don’t care. I’ll tell. I know what’s going on. You’re not so smart. I’ll tell Pa, he’ll – ooof!” Wally crumpled as Phil’s knuckles caught him in the midriff. When he’d got his breath back he lifted a face white as flour paste, and fell back toward his bunk.

Phil smiled. “Some guys just have to learn,” he said. “On the other hand” – taking in Leo – “some guys never learn.” He leaned over and, grabbing Leo’s pillow, gave it a spin in the air.

“Albert, huh?” he went on. “First time I ever heard of a camper snuggling up to someone named Albert at night, right, you guys?”

As Leo reached to grab the pillow, Phil sent it across the room to Zipper. Leo rushed after it, but Zipper tossed k to Moon, and so it went, all around the room. As Leo made a last, desperate attempt to recapture his property, Moriarity siezed it with both hands and yanked it apart; the seams gave way and the pillow spilled feathers into the air like the snowflakes in a blizzard.

“Aw, gee, look what I done,” wailed Moriarity. “I ruint poor Wacko’s pillow. Now what’s the baby going to sleep on, no more Albert.”

The feathers floated to the floor; some of them cascaded onto Reece’s bunk.

“Boy, Wacko,” Phil said with a smirk, “you better get that stuff cleaned up before Big Chief sees it.”

“Me? I didn’t do it. He did. He-”

He had turned and was staring at Moriarity, who, having rid himself of the torn pillow, had discovered Leo’s journal, and was now thumbing through its pages. Leo tried to snatch the notebook away, but Moriarity straight-armed him. “Screw you, Wacko, don’t interrupt me-” While he read, the rest waited and watched with anticipation.

“ ‘Moriarity, the big bad Brobdingnagian boob-?’ What’s that supposed to mean? Where do you come off callin’ me names, you little twerp?”

It was useless to explain about Jonathan Swift to the likes of Bullnuts Moriarity; useless to explain anything to anyone. Meanwhile, Phil and the other Jeremians were getting a big kick out of Moriarity being the butt of Wacko’s joke.

“Don’t laugh, you guys,” Moriarity said. “Wait’ll you read what he says about you and Reece. He calls him a cigar-store Indian, and then – listen to this – Reece is Snow White, and you guys are the Seven Dwarfs.”

Abruptly the laughter stopped. Phil walked over to Leo. “I guess we know what you think of us now, don’t we, guys?” he sneered. As Leo started to reply Phil put up a deprecating hand. “Don’t bother to explain; we don’t care what you think of us, Wacko. Go ahead, write anything you want to, we don’t care.”

“It was just a joke-”

“Yeah, sure, we know.” He winked elaborately at the others. “But – we do care about what you wrote about Reece. He’s not going to like being called ‘Snow White,’ is he?”

Again the door opened and the group increased by three: Tiger, the Bomber, and Fritz, who asked what was up. “They have my journal and won’t give it back,” Leo said. Fritz saw the notebook in Moriarity’s fist. “I think you’d better give Leo back his property, Claude,” he said in his soft-spoken way. “Gentlemen don’t go around reading other people’s private papers.”

“I do when it’s about me, damn it. He called me a Brob-Brobdy-something boob!”

Fritz’s lips twitched with incipient laughter. “Never mind, Claude, forget it.” He put a hand out. “Just let me have the book.”

“Nuts,” Moriarity said, sneering. “I betcha there’s a lotta guys ’ud be real interested in reading some of what Wacko’s got to say here. ’Specially about a certain trip to the Wolf’s Cave.”

The Wolfs Cavef What was Wacko doing at the cave when he wasn’t a Seneca?

As Bullnuts brandished the offending pages in Leo’s face, Fritz made a move toward him, but Bullnuts, surprisingly quick on his feet, sidestepped him, holding the booklet out of reach.

“Outta my way, Jewboy. Who wants you buttin’ in around here anyways?”

“I must insist. Please let me have the book!”

“Go ahead, make me.”

Fritz eyed him up and down. “Claude, if you think I’m going to expend any physical effort on you, you’re wrong.”

“Yeah. Know what you are, Katzenjammer? A coward, that’s what.”

Before Fritz could say or do anything, the door again opened, this time admitting Reece. He was togged out in his sporty military trench coat, with its nattily cinched waist and folded shoulder tabs, wearing his garrison cap, whose black patent visor dripped with water. He unbelted his coat, hung the cap and coat on the back of the door, then turned and coolly surveyed the scene.

“Maybe someone can tell me what’s been going on in here,” he said.

“It’s Wacko’s feathers.” Moriarity laughed. “Wacko-quacko’s feathers.”

“Moriarity’s got Leo’s journal,” Fritz said.

Reece gave him a deadly look. “What are you doing in here? And what do you mean, Moriarity’s got Wacko’s journal?”

“It seems plain enough. I am describing the situation as it exists; I am sure you will treat the matter as is called for. In the meanwhile, I must get back to my cottage. Like the lodge, it too has a leak in the roof.”

He put on his rain hat and left abruptly. When he had gone, Reece addressed himself to Moriarity.

“Well, have you this stuff of Wackeem’s?”

“Sure, we got it.”

“Then give it back,” he ordered.

“Yeah, but listen-”

Reece cut off the protest. “It’s not yours, you’ve no business reading it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know what he done. He was in the Wolf’s Cave. He was messin’ around with Seneca stuff. Read it yourself if you don’t believe me.” Moriarity held out the journal. Reece took it and began thumbing its pages

“See? Right there-” Bullnuts used a dirty thumb to point with. “Read how he was pissing on the sacred fire ring! Read that!”

Reece looked up, his eye fixed on Leo. “What were yon doing at the Wolf’s Cave? Don’t you know better than to go there? It’s off limits.”

Stammering, Leo tried to explain how he’d stumbled on the place the night of the Snipe Hunt. “I got lost. 1 only found it by accident,” he said weakly. “Please make them give me back my book.” His appeal went unheeded, however; Reece scrutinized page after page, the crease between his brows deepening as he read. Finally he closed the cover and slowly rolled the notebook up, scroll-like, in his hands.