by Gene Hackman
A group of townspeople crowded around the two men wrestling on the ground. Shop owners and customers deserted their pursuits to be entertained by the rowdy display in the center of the busy street, cheering on the combatants as if this were a paid circus.
Pete kicked back hard against Jubal, Sr.’s leg and spun around, but his exit was blocked by a knee driven into his groin.
“That should give you something special to hold on to, mister.” Jubal, Sr., took the pistol from his son and broke open the breech, emptying the bullets into his hand and tossing them into a nearby water trough.
Pete writhed on the ground, his hands firmly holding his crotch.
Jubal, Sr., bent over him. “Have some respect for others. This land business with your jefe Tauson is never your mind, you hear?” He dropped the pistol in the dirt.
The gathered townspeople cheered, swelling Jubal’s chest with pride. As they walked to the blacksmith’s shop to retrieve the wagon, his father said, “That was a brave thing you did, Jube. Taking that gun when we were scuffling around on the ground. What would you have done if he’d gotten the better of me?”
“I don’t know, Pa.” Jubal paused. “It didn’t occur to me that I would have to do anything as long as I had the gun.”
“Maybe you’ve got a point.” He smiled. “He who has the gun, rules. Unfortunate, but true. Mind you, recognize that things can change very quickly. As I’ve said before, a gun can be a useful tool, but in the wrong hands, dangerous to a fault.”
Pru and his mother were already in the wagon. “Jube, dear, you look a mess,” she said to her husband. “What happened to your clothes?”
“I was larking around with some jaybird and tripped and fell.” He swung easily up to the wagon seat. “Jube here was a big help. He stepped in and… saved the day. Guess I’m getting old, tripping over my big feet.” He smiled at his wife and clicked his tongue to the horses.
Jubal wondered what his pa would have done to the guy Pete if he hadn’t been there. He suspected it would have ended very differently.
As they made their way back to Young’s Valley that evening, Jubal asked his father what had happened.
“Jube, it’s a case of a man making a number of poor decisions. Billy Tauson is a scoundrel and he runs with a pack of equally rotten ne’er-do-wells.”
Nearly an hour later, Jubal asked his pa if he would mind stopping for a few minutes.
“Sure enough, son. I’m sure your ma and sis would appreciate a rest also.”
While the ladies wandered off, Jubal spoke to his father. “Pa, if you look over my right shoulder, back about a hundred yards just inside the tree line, you’ll see a horse and rider from town, an Injun. I’m pretty sure he was with the others you were having that set-to with.”
Without looking, Jubal, Sr., answered, “My oldest and onliest son has developed a keen sense. Very good, Jube. Yep, he’s been following us for near to an hour, and as for him being with that group, you’re right again. You’d think if he were a proper scout he would at least not wear such a bright yellow string to hold on his hat. Believe his name is Crook Arm. Peculiar, in a way. They know where we live, why bother to track us? That jackass Tauson—”
“That’s the tall, gray-haired man?”
“Yes, he used to own our plot of land. I expect they’re just trying to pester us. One thing’s for sure, they can’t eat us—that’s against the law.”
SEVEN
The weathered road came to a fork, one way leading north to Colorado, the other west to Cerro Vista. Jubal was tempted to push on north, but he knew he had to tell his story to the authorities, even though he couldn’t truthfully explain the death of his father without getting himself in trouble. His impulse was to ride away from all the carnage.
But he had to do what was right. He veered west toward Cerro Vista.
As he approached the fork, a slight movement off to his left at the edge of the woods startled Jubal. A dappled gray mare grazed along the fringe of the tree line, looking skittish, with her reins looped over the saddle horn. Oddly, her rider had left the horse with the reins untied. Jubal walked slowly to the animal.
“What you doing out here all alone, huh?”
The horse backed away and whinnied loudly.
“She needs water, Mr. Rifleman,” came a voice from behind. “Fact of the matter, so do I.”
As Jubal turned, he saw a young man who seemed close to his own age lying half propped against a ponderosa. A .44-caliber pistol with dirt caked into the barrel and side rested limply in one hand. The front of his flannel shirt was streaked with dried blood.
“Don’t you concern your mind about this here hogleg, boy. It’s dirty, but it’ll still bust you up to a fare-thee-well, so just hustle back to your buckboard and get me water before I put a round in your chest like you did me.”
Jubal recognized the young man as part of the group of renegades back at the farm. The gunshot wound in his upper torso was from Jubal’s rifle.
“Get me some water, dammit. Go on, git.”
The wounded cowboy seemed weak, and Jubal doubted if he could even pull the trigger, but there was something about his helplessness. Jubal’s rifle lay under the seat of the buckboard, his water canteen hung in plain view on the side of the wagon. He hesitated, then retrieved the water and stepped carefully toward the slumped young man.
“Just set it down careful-like, boy. Don’t try anything brave, or I’ll open you up. My name is Ty and I’m a shootist.” Trying to muster some bravura, he fell short of a sneer. He held the gun in one hand and struggled with the stopper on the canteen. In exasperation, he threw it at Jubal’s feet. “Open it, damn it. Go on.”
Jubal opened the canteen and started pouring the contents onto the ground at the renegade’s feet. “Set that pistol down or I’ll pour all this water out.”
The gunman attempted to cock the pistol, trying to show he was still in the game.
As he did so, Jubal swung the canteen by its strap, easily slapping the .44 to the ground. He calmly retrieved the weapon, stuffing it into his belt while Ty slumped in defeat.
Jubal handed the canteen to his enemy. “I ought to let you die of thirst, you bastard.”
The wounded man whimpered behind him. “They did me dirt, the scoundrels. Left me for dead,” he wailed, full of self-pity. “I rode with those men near on two years, and this is how they treat me. Billy Tauson’s my cousin, for gosh sakes. Said he’d come back for me once they caught and skinned you alive, but he lied. I waited a couple hours, then struggled up on Ned here and made it this far before I slipped off.”
Jubal turned away.
“Don’t leave me. I’ll pay you whatever you need. Don’t leave. I need some fixin’.”
He couldn’t leave this person out here to die. Jubal walked to the slumping form, pulled him away from the tree, and wrapped both arms around him to drag him to the buckboard.
The cowboy screamed as Jubal hoisted him into the wagon and slid the gate back into place so the lout wouldn’t fall. “Dammit, kid, do you have to be so rough?”
Jubal didn’t answer as he tied the fellow’s horse to the back of the wagon and clicked his tongue to Frisk while pulling away.
He had to take the swine into Cerro Vista. It would have been preferable to have left him for the wolves, but Jubal knew he wouldn’t sleep if he did. But he wasn’t sleeping too well as it was, so maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.
“I didn’t harm your kinfolk back there. Nope, wasn’t me. Was Tauson, Petey, and the rest of them. There’s a pistolero for you—Pete ‘Repeat’ Wetherford. He’s another story. I tell you, you’re lucky he didn’t latch onto your butt. He’d a straightened you out, that’s for sure. Never seen anything like him. Toughest sumbitch I ever laid these weepers on, ole Pete. Can you maybe dodge a few of them potholes, pard? That little round you put into me is botherin’ my breath some, I’m gonna shut up now and rest for a bit.…”
The wheels of the wagon seemed to search out the p
otholes.
“Did you pick up my iron? That piece cost me a pretty penny, accurate ‘til hell wouldn’t have it. I tell you, son… no, I never touched your folks. It was the others. I kept telling them to ease up… we just came for payback. Old Billy Tauson got all embarrassed ‘cause of your pa. Tauson’s the boss of the group. The bastard said we’d just have some fun with you folks ‘cause he lost the farm to you all. Got outta hand, I reckon. But most everyone does what Billy says, even Pete Wetherford. Though in a one-on-one Petey would lick him. Except for gunplay, then it’s anybody’s guess. But old Billy Tauson is just a natural kinda leader, the devil.” He grimaced, then immediately started groaning.
They rode in silence for a few minutes before he started up again.
“I figured it were your pa who had the argument, front of the land office…” He paused. “That was him, right? He looked to be a good hand. I couldn’t hear what he told Tauson, but ole Billy was one sober sumbitch when we all got back together. Come to think on it, so was Petey, your pa twisted his arm right smart. No wonder he was so riled up at the farm. Kept yelling, ‘Kill ‘em all, boys!’ Tauson was running ‘round like a sissy schoolteacher. But hell, he started it. In town, I remember he told Crook Arm, the Injun, to trail you back to your ranch. Betcha didn’t know that, did you? Ha, ha. I said to them, ‘Don’t bother the womenfolk, boys. That wouldn’t be good.’ I can’t honestly say whether they did or not. I drift off when things get kinda heavy—”
Jubal gave Frisk some right-hand rein so the wagon wheel would drop into a large hole. It bounced out immediately, followed by the back wheel doing the same.
“Goddammit, can’t you drive this cussed thing? If’n I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a…” He groaned, then picked up where he left off. “I heard the boys agigglin’ and carryin’ on, but as I said, that wasn’t for me. No, sir, my mama didn’t raise no rape person, huh-uhh, nosirree. I kept telling Petey, ‘Pete, it ain’t right, I tell ya.’ But nobody tells Pete nothing, uh-huh… what a guy. Makes me chuckle to think on it. We was all in Abilene, Kansas, and there was this ole gal what could do things with her private parts that would make a body tie up in fits. Well, she didn’t shine up to Petey so good—”
Jubal stopped the wagon and slapped Frisk on the rump. She snapped against her traces, shaking the buckboard with a mighty lurch.
“Dammit to hell!”
After the punishing jolt, Ty sniffled and carried on for a while, then finally drifted off to sleep.
After a mile or so, Jubal heard him stirring.
“What would you say, farmer, if I was to simply mount my horse and ride on out of here. What would you say?”
Jubal didn’t answer, just gestured with his hand as if to say, Help yourself.
“The bed of this wagon stinks. Looks all nasty with blood and shit and stuff. Don’t you have a blanket I could put under my head, for Christ’s sake?” He snickered. “Yeah, old Petey and I’ll be friends ‘til the day we die.”
“Day before yesterday,” said Jubal.
“What’d you say? I didn’t understand. I wasn’t condoning what Petey does, I simply said we would be—”
“I heard what you said, Ty, and I said, ‘Day before yesterday.’ That’s when you and your friend Petey ceased being friends.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s baffling. Your bosom pal, Petey, didn’t mention you the last I saw him. Oh, he talked about a lot of folks.… I could hear him bouncing down the ravine, yelling threats. Your Mexican pal Jorge, his trip was… I think the word is ‘unencumbered.’ Yeah, Petey reached deep into the darkness. Your tough friend managed to go down a list of people he wished to be damned—his mother ‘the filthy whore’, his father, I think, he described as a ‘rotten bastard’, and, ah, yes, me. A rotten pup whom his friends, guess that would include you, should castrate. Yeah, Petey might have lived for an hour, maybe. I hope so. I pray the pain enveloped him in hot misery until he breathed his last.” The dull pain in Jubal’s hip aggravated him. He shifted on the hard buckboard seat.
“I don’t believe you,” Ty finally said. “Petey dead? Nah. Huh-uh.”
“Petey didn’t die well, Ty. No, both Pete and Jorge entertained me for several long seconds while they tumbled, shouting their guts out.” Jubal tried to rein in his anger but couldn’t. “The blood and waste on the wagon floor, by the way, are from my family. If you open your mouth again before we get to town, Ty, I’ll let you hop and skip on in to Cerro Vista on your own, agreed?”
“Nobody kills Pete Wetherford.” He took an instant. “All right, agreed.”
The buckboard creaked its way toward town. Jubal dug his mother’s Bible from inside his shirt, wrapped the reins around his arm, and leafed through the worn pages. He tried to recall a quote about weakness his ma used to repeat. He couldn’t remember if it was from the Bible or not. He pictured his mother standing proud at the cabin door. “Weakness is—” No, it was “cruelty.” “All cruelty springs from weakness,” she’d said.
EIGHT
Cerro Vista had a welcoming feel, the locals all pleasantly busy. A man called out to Jubal, “What’s you hauling, sonny?” Main Street was lined up with mostly wood-frame buildings, each looking much like its neighbor. A few adobe-style homes dotted the street, but most of them had been converted to boardinghouses or small dry goods stores. The Wicks, a grand Victorian and Cerro Vista’s only hotel, stood at the end of the street.
Jubal made his way to the county jail. Built in the pueblo style, it consisted of four small cells constructed with crude metal poles, each area with its own bucket to serve as a privy. A short hallway and wall separated the large open room’s barred cubicles from the small office up front.
Jubal tied Frisk to the rail and stepped inside. He found two desks, each with a man behind it, asleep. “Excuse me, Sheriff?”
“What the—” The larger of the two sat up, red of face, with a heavy handlebar mustache. “Don’t you believe in knocking on a door before you enter, child?”
“Sorry, sir. The door was open. I just thought—”
The man called out to the other sleeper, “Wake up, Ron. Hell’s fire. You can’t get no help these days.” His attention came back to Jubal. “You look to be somebody what was shot at and missed, shat at and hit.” He grinned at his own joke. “What’s eatin’ at you, laddie?”
Jubal didn’t think it funny. “I’ve got a young guy in my wagon been shot in the chest.” He walked toward the door. “He’s in a bad way.”
The heavyset lawman stepped outside and yelled once again at his deputy. He looked at Jubal’s passenger, who had returned to his moaning. Deputy Ron finally came stumbling out the front door, rubbing his face.
“Ron, carry yourself down to the hotel and get Doc Brown here, quick-like.”
It wasn’t more than five minutes before a harried-looking older man in a suit vest and black string tie came hustling down the street. “Where is he?”
The sheriff pointed toward the back of the open wagon.
The older gentleman examined Ty. “Anybody know how this happened?”
Jubal looked to the sheriff, then back to the doctor. “He was shot.”
The doctor continued tending to the pale gunman. “I can readily see that, youngster.”
“By whom?” asked the sheriff.
Jubal paused. “Me.”
The sheriff watched Jubal. “Ron, climb up on that buckboard. You and Doc here, take that shot-up boy back to the doc’s office at the hotel. You hear?”
“I’m on it, Sheriff. Just you watch my smoke.”
“Mind my horse, sir.” This from Jubal.
The sheriff signaled for Jubal to follow him back into the jail, where he gestured for the young man to take a seat. They sat looking at each other far too long for Jubal’s comfort.
“I’m gonna let you think on some things for a minute or so. I’ll be tending some ‘portant business in the back.” He made this sound like a great secret between them. “
Okay by you, sonny?”
Jubal looked around the sparse office. A faded picture of an older man with a badge and gun held a strong family resemblance to the sheriff who was “tending business” in the back. A shelf behind the desk held several rifles and a shotgun. Framed documents on the wall proclaimed Bufort L. Morton a stellar public servant. A newspaper article stated the sheriff had been instrumental in the capture of Harry Walls, a desperate wife-beater and chicken thief. With credentials like that, Sheriff Morton will round up the raiders of the Young family farm in no time at all.
As Jubal waited, he relived the past two days, not really regretting anything he had done, except the way his father had died. He was caught in a trap of memory as the sheriff’s couple minutes expanded to nearly half an hour, until he heard voices coming from the back, where he thought the cells to be.
With an explosion of energy, the big man burst back into the room. He plopped down in his swivel chair. “You want to tell me about it, son?”
Jubal let out a sigh. “I was hunting up around Morning Peak—”
“And this fellow just happened to step in front of your rifle, correct?”
“No, sir. Not exactly. I’m sorry to say I shot him on purpose.”
Morton grew a huge grin. “So you shot him for good reason, but you’re sorry you did it. By the way, I assume that’s his horse tied to the back of your buckboard, right?”
Jubal couldn’t keep up with the sheriff’s interrogation. “I was on the mountain and saw smoke rising from our place in the valley, so I ran—”
“Why’d you take his horse? By the way, what’s your name?”
“Jubal Young, sir—”
“I better write this down,” he mumbled. “Just to keep it straight.” He retrieved a sheaf of paper and pen before nodding. “You shot the fellow, then started to run home ‘cause you saw smoke, then what?”
“No, sir. I saw the smoke, then once I got down to the farm there were a whole bunch of these renegades hollering around our place.”