by Gene Hackman
The judge knocked the ash from his cigar and took a long, satisfying drag. “I apologize for your having to stay at the jail last night, but I needed to chat with you before I offered the following: I have a small accommodation in the back of the hotel where I let some of my help stay. Would you be interested in sharing space with two other workers?”
“Yes, sir, that would be fine.” Jubal hesitated. “I hate to sound ungrateful, but would you have room for Frisk, my horse?”
“As long as the other fellows don’t mind the smell of horse in the room, certainly.” Judge Wickham smiled.
“No, sir. Of course I meant outside.” He decided he liked the judge’s fine sense of humor.
“We have a corral in back. Frisk is certainly welcome. Jubal, I’ll see you in the morning and we’ll take a walk over to Will Davis’s office, all right?” The judge led him to a small shed in back of the hotel, on the way introducing him to his new roommates, a waiter and a cook.
After saying their goodbyes, the judge seemed perplexed. He took out his turnip-sized pocket watch and opened the gold-plated cover. “There is something else I would like to discuss with you. ‘Discuss’ may not be the proper word. ‘Explain’ might be more apt. I love this land and I have great hopes for its promise.” The judge fussed with his watch, then pushed it forcefully back into his vest pocket. “Dammit to hell, I’m not an apologizer. I live by a code of ethics, and sometimes that dogma does get bent a bit. Pete Wetherford’s confession in the woods isn’t worth the time it takes to tell, and like I said, I’m not an apologist. But—and this is the root of the thing—I needed to hear it from that animal’s mouth. He is bad, but more importantly, he’s bad for this territory, this community. I’ve talked to Doc Brown and explained my position on my, let’s say ‘indiscretion,’ and he seems to be all right with it—”
“Sir, to relieve your mind,” Jubal interrupted, “I was hoping you would have gone even further. When you were striking him, there was a justice-being-served feeling… very satisfying.”
The judge’s confession of the beating still hung in the air. He hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets and rocked quietly back and forth on his heeled boots. He hesitated. “Every man is as God made him and ofttimes even worse.” He seemed pleased to be using this quote as an explanation for the Pete Wetherford incident.
Jubal also thought the quote amusing, but for a different reason.
“What, son, you don’t know Cervantes?”
“Sir, it’s really nothing. With all due respect, as a matter of fact, I studied his writing quite thoroughly with my mother.” Jubal waited, not knowing if he should continue.
“And?”
“The actual line is somewhat different.”
The judge held back a smile. “So, you’re going to take me to school?”
Reluctantly, Jubal recited, “‘Every man is as heaven made him and sometimes a great deal worse.’ But I guess it still means the same thing, so my apologies, sir.”
“Your apology is not necessary. It is my error. I’ll have to watch my step around you, won’t I?”
“Truth be known, it’s one of the few quotes I remember, probably because ma has a sampler hanging over the dining room table with this same Don Quixote line. So I guess I cheated.” He also realized he spoke of his mother in the present tense. Every woman is as heaven made her.
“You may find what I’m going to say now an odd segue.” The judge smiled, still enjoying the fact he had been schooled by this young man. “But I mentioned your situation to my wife and she suggested that maybe you would like to break bread with us some evening?”
Though pleased by the offer, Jubal thought it peculiar, coming on the heels of the judge’s rationale about Pete Wetherford’s beating. Adults: he couldn’t figure them. “I would like that, sir. Just set the date, I’ll be there.”
“Just a quiet evening, Jubal. You’ll meet my family. My wife, Marlene, and Cybil, home from school.”
Well, Jubal, thought, a free meal and a family evening with the judge, his wife, and Cybil—probably in pigtails and freckles, just home from school.
The new sleeping arrangement was little more than four walls, but at least it was better than the sheriff’s barred confines. Jubal walked back to the jail, unhitched Frisk, and took her and the buckboard to the hotel.
THIRTEEN
The next day, Jubal walked the main street of Cerro Vista, trying to decide how to proceed with his pursuit of Billy Tauson.
Their inquiry at the land office had been of little value. Will Davis told them that because the land had originally been homesteaded, it made for a potentially messy land transfer, and the fact that Tauson had not paid taxes for a number of years further complicated the transaction.
The land, Jubal knew, went to his father at auction. Tauson evidently tried to pay the taxes later, but the transaction had already taken place, and Tauson’s complaints of unfair treatment at the land office went unheard.
The judge told Jubal he was well aware of Tauson and his cohorts, they’d appeared in front of him in court on several occasions. “He’s a bad one, son. He and the other one over at the jail, Wetherford, drift in and out of these parts from time to time, always getting into the affairs of others.”
Jubal thought about asking permission to speak to Wetherford but was almost certain the man would only make threats.
After the judge asked Jubal if his accommodations were comfortable, Jubal offered to repay him the favor by helping with chores around the hotel. Judge Wickham accepted. It pleased Jubal to be given the work of chipping flaking paint off the front porch windows, then refinishing them. Charity bothered him. He didn’t know if the judge was just being generous or if he truly needed the help. But the man had treated him well so far. Jubal decided he would not question things too deeply.
After getting tools from the hotel manager, Jubal quickly set to work. It felt good to be busy, like at home. The job kept his mind off recent events, though he was hard-pressed to spend more than several hours without some detail of those times coming to mind. In the afternoon, while cleaning errant paint drops from the porch floor, he overheard two men in lively conversation enjoying the late sun.
“What’s the most anyone has done you for?” one asked the other.
“An odd cowhand looking like the devil himself walks into my shop one day and says, ‘Yes, sir. I’ll have that saddle, the one with the silver buckles.’”
Jubal recognized this speaker as the portly, bald man from the general store.
“That were a fifty-dollar item. I was pleased as punch. But then he said he only got himself thirty dollars, would I take the rest on a promise? He was hanging with another scrapper I’d seen around town, name of Petey.”
Jubal worked on the porch floor even closer to the men.
“So, what the heck, the saddle only cost me twenty-five dollars and I was still in profit for five. I had him sign a note for the balance. What do you know, if I wouldn’t see him around town from time to time, and the devil, he’d nod, give me a mean look, and walk on.”
“I’ll tell you, it wasn’t worth getting yourself shot over.” The other man smiled. “Where’s he from?”
“Don’t rightly know. He put a ranch name up Colorado way near Alamosa on the agreement.”
Jubal, intent when the name Petey came up, wondered. “Excuse me, sir, I couldn’t help but hear about the man who bought that saddle. Was he a very tall man with long gray hair, kind of a dandy, sorta mean-looking?”
“Yep, that’s the devil. Why?”
“Oh, no real reason, sir, I just wondered if it wasn’t someone I knew. What was his name again?”
“As I remember it was Talson. No, Tauson. Yes, Tauson.”
“And he’s from Alamosa?”
“Near to some ranch or other. You know him, youngster?”
Jubal paused. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“If you run into him, would you mention that a certain old man who runs the general st
ore sure could use that twenty dollars he owes?” The men shared a laugh and went back to their gossiping.
Jubal continued his work. Alamosa was a long way to go on sketchy information, but maybe he should consider it. He pictured himself knocking on a ranch-house door and announcing he was there to collect twenty dollars for an old fellow from Cerro Vista, and ah, yes, by the way, could we chat about murderous events that transpired at the Young family farm on April 10 of this year?
The hotel manager and Judge Wickham both appreciated Jubal’s work—so much so, they offered him a full-time job. The pay would not be much, but at least it would be steady.
The bid caught Jubal off guard. He liked the judge and didn’t really mind the work, and he had also been told not to leave town, so why not? And this was also far easier than farm chores.
But a gnawing still kept after him. He needed to pursue Billy Tauson and his group. He hadn’t any idea what he would do once he found them; he would think on that when the time came. After all, they were the mindless ones, the louts and rapists. Why would they have an advantage? Yes, in numbers, certainly, but in terms of righteousness, as his mother would say, “Why should the devil have all the best tunes?” So he took the job—repairing, painting, peeling potatoes—but he didn’t plan on keeping it for long.
Several days into his full-time employment, in the evening, just before nightfall, Jubal heard gunshots. He ran around to the front of the hotel in time to see a lone horseman racing down the dirt street. Hatless, with both arms swathed in bandages, the man brandished a long-barreled pistol in his right hand. As he passed Jubal, he fumbled with the weapon, attempting to fire. The bandages and horse reins being too much to handle all at the same time, he managed only a wicked nod of recognition.
Pete Wetherford was out of jail, heading north.
A crowd gathered at the jail, many of them calling out for Doc Brown. As Jubal neared, he heard several women scream and a man shouted that someone had killed the sheriff. Someone else repeated the plea for Doc Brown.
A body lay on the sidewalk, half stretched into the dirt of the street. Sheriff Morton, a puckered hole in his forehead and another in his throat. Both wounds shed blood over his white shirt.
Jubal eased into the office past a half dozen townsmen, all tending a prone Deputy Ron. They had stretched him out on one of the desks, and now several men were holding pieces of shirt and various rags against stomach wounds. The punctures pumped startling amounts of blood onto the office floor.
A trail of blood led to Ron’s desk, where the door to the back room had been left open. The deputy must have been in the cell area. Jubal stepped through the portal and eased into the barred confines unnoticed.
He saw Wetherford’s open cell door, the key on a large steel ring still in place in the lock.
The sound of someone crying came from the back cell, next to where he had spent the night. As he eased his way down the short hallway, he could see blood splattered in front of the Spanish woman’s cell.
“Maria, it’s Jubal. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” she mumbled between her gasps. “Can you please to help me?”
“What happened here?”
A long pause. “I don’t know.”
Jubal stood by the bars, looking at the forlorn woman. She sat on the floor in the corner of the cell, her hands grasping her knees.
“Can I get you water?”
“No, thank you.”
Jubal thought the voices in the outer office had gotten even louder, sounding as if they were ready to move Ron. The deputy led the chorus, shouting instructions on how to ease his pain.
Jubal directed his attention back to Maria. “Guess they’re helping Ron.” Jubal watched for her reaction. “Who shot him? How did it happen?”
“Fat Ron stood there.” She pointed to the corner of her cell next to the bars. “Near the wall of the hombre who came to jail all banged up. I, having to do my daily thing.”
“Your daily… thing?” Jubal didn’t know what else to say.
“I was doing him like I did ever’day. Him and stinky-man sheriff.”
Jubal still couldn’t find the words.
“The hombre next door, Mr. Petey, he reach over to grab Deputy Ron’s gun and said to him to open his cell or he was gonna shoot him to death. Well, Ron was soiling himself and unlocked Petey’s cell. I beg him to let me out, too, but he just shoots Ron and runs out. It was so loud. Then I’m hearing more pistola rounds, then nothing.”
Again, Jubal found himself stunned, trying to grasp how all of this had happened. Even so, in the midst of all the unnecessary pain, Jubal realized there was one thing he could do to help.
Maria continued her moaning but got distracted when Jubal turned the key in her cell door. He swung it open.
“Quietly,” Jubal said. “Do you understand? People in the office are tending to Ron. More are outside. Stay alongside me and don’t speak.”
The diminutive woman nodded and began to creep alongside Jubal as they made their way through the throng. They were lucky to be swept outside as the townsmen hoisted Ron onto a stretcher and whisked him away. Jubal and Maria walked unnoticed into the street.
They made their way along a back alley, and the young woman wept. “Thanks to you, señor. Muchas gracias.”
“Do you have a place to stay? What will you do?”
“I have amigas who will take me.”
Jubal knew there couldn’t be much he could say to her. “Good luck to you, Maria.”
The woman turned and slipped down a dark lane between two buildings. At the corner she clasped her hands together as if in prayer, called out, “!Muchas gracias!” and disappeared into the shadows.
FOURTEEN
Sitting on the porch of the hotel, Jubal watched people stream past the jail area, there being, he figured, a morbid curiosity about the death of the sheriff.
Bufort Morton had died in the street. He had, much to Jubal’s surprise, a family—and, from the reactions of the gawkers, quite a few friends. Or if not friends, acquaintances.
Jubal wondered if he would have to hold himself somewhat responsible for the man’s death. If he had simply left his canteen with Ty Blake at the crossroads and ridden off, none of this would have transpired.
He scolded himself for living in the what-if world again. Then he scolded himself again for stalling. He had to make a decision. Not about whether to trail after Wetherford and Tauson, but how to treat Judge Wickham. The man had been forthright with Jubal and deserved an explanation of why Jubal needed to leave. After all, he said he was restricting Jubal to the town until further notice. Otherwise, Jubal could simply pack up and go, although the expression “pack up” might be a bit grand when describing his possessions.
“Why would I consent to lifting my ban on your traveling outside town limits?” the judge asked Jubal. “I have said to you it’s still under investigation, your part in all this.”
Jubal sat politely, hands clenched in his lap. They were once more on the porch of the hotel. “With respect, sir, I don’t believe you think I did anything wrong in the recent… tragedy. Am I right?” There was no answer, so he continued. “As I said before, I don’t intend to break the law. I am the only one who knows these fellows as a group. I can point them out.”
“Good. There’s a U.S. Marshal coming up from Albuquerque, should be here soon, and you can describe in detail to him exactly what transpired.” He looked at Jubal. “It’s true, I don’t think you’re culpable in these misdeeds, but—and this is important—you should mind your manners, son. I mean that in a number of ways, not just in a legal sense. I have put you on informal status, meaning I have not drawn up a document stating your being bound to this township—a restraining order, if you will. Let’s stop beating around the teepee here, son. You’re a proper young man. I also believe with the proper education and resolve you could make something of yourself.”
Jubal dropped his chin. This act of concern made him uncomfortable. “I
’ll do as you asked, sir, and will stay in town. Although I don’t agree with your order, I respect you and your judgment, and thank you for the encouragement. I know I need additional schooling. When we moved from Kansas, that was pretty much it for any formal book learning. Ma schooled sis and me each day. She taught in Kansas City and when we came out here she set up a curri… cure…”
“Curriculum.”
“Yes, sir, my sis was very bright. She finished enough reading to have graduated high school, even though she was still real young.”
“And you?”
“I completed my studies as far as high school and was given extra reading to do.”
“Having been shaken by your last literary revelation of Cervantes, I hesitate to ask. But curiosity rules the day.
Such as?”
Jubal hesitated, not sure of the right response. “Melville, sir, he wrote a tale about the sea. My pa was a fisherman when he was young. I don’t mean he just went fishing, he fished for a living. Anyway, I liked to read him. Poe was a favorite of my ma’s. I liked his stories. ‘The Raven,’ and the one about the man who was sealed up in a tomb.…”
“‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”
“Yes, sir, that one, and, uh…” He hesitated, realizing the story of Edmond Dantès had a similar theme to Poe’s tale.
“It’s about revenge, is that why you like it?”
Jubal blushed. He wasn’t sure why he liked that particular story. It did have a bizarre cruel justice to it, but he had read both stories long before the events at the farm.
“Keep reading, son. It’s good for the soul.”
Jubal wondered if he should mention the long Dumas opus, but maybe for now he would keep the Count and his revenge to himself.
“Have you given any thought to what I asked about you staying on at the hotel as a handyman?”
“Sir, under the circumstances, if I’m not allowed out of the yard—”
“No, no, no. I never said ‘not allowed out of the yard.’ “He smiled. “I said ‘township’—you’re a bit provocative, aren’t you?”