by Gene Hackman
“Well, no, sir.” Jubal now felt confident in his newfound friend. “I don’t mean to provoke, I’m much appreciative of your thoughtfulness. I’ll stay on as long as you’ll have me.”
They parted with a handshake.
“Remember what Montressor said to Fortunato?” the judge said as they turned to depart.
Jubal shook his head.
“He said, ‘I have my doubts.’ “The judge walked off the porch down the newly painted steps. “I am jesting with you, Jubal. They were speaking of a sherry, a fine drink, and whether it was in fact as advertised. It was a subterfuge, a ruse. You say you’ll stay, but you say it perhaps a mite too quickly.” The judge tipped his hat to Jubal and smiled.
Maybe so, maybe Jubal tended to agree with adults and tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. Was that dishonest? He found himself in peculiar circumstances. He liked the judge and hoped he wouldn’t have to disappoint him.
Excitement descended in Cerro Vista the next day when U.S. Marshal Wayne Turner arrived. The man questioned almost everyone who had any knowledge of the Young family killings and the shooting of the sheriff and Deputy Ron.
Jubal took note of him as he arrived at the hotel—a thin fellow dressed in business attire, a dark suit and vest, the gleaming badge tucked just inside his coat. He came and went with a decided self-awareness, which made Jubal anxious as he approached the marshal, who was sitting on the hotel porch having a cup of coffee.
“Good day, sir, excuse me, but I work here.” Jubal thought maybe he should mention his employer’s name. “For Judge Wickham.”
No response.
“He hired me. I do odd jobs and such. I wondered if maybe I could have a few words with you?”
Turner looked to Jubal. “You’re the Young family survivor, and are a bit perplexed we haven’t spoken, because there’s something you feel is important to add to this investigation. The sooner I question you, the sooner you’ll feel better about the deaths of a couple of those ne’er-do-wells.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Why did you take it upon yourself to shoot those men? Wouldn’t it have been more prudent to scamper into town and collect the sheriff?”
Turner didn’t wait for an answer, which was good, because Jubal had none. “Youngsters like you are always taking the law into their own hands and the results are always, without exception, disastrous. You’re a child trying to be a man. You should be left to your toys. You made a foolish mistake and probably cost several lives.
I’ve interviewed the deputy and talked to the judge. The deputy puts you square in the middle of all this.”
The marshal continued, “The two townsmen who accompanied the lot of you out to the farm said you were standoffish, somewhat excitable. They said you were wanting to get after the victim they found who was hurt, that you wouldn’t let him finish his story. Then, while they went back up to retrieve one of the bodies, you beat the hell out of him. An article of intrigue is what you are. You approached me, hat-in-hand polite, with your ‘excuse me, I work here, Judge Wickham hired me’ bullshit. So what’s that supposed to mean? Just because the judge hired you doesn’t make you a saint. I’ll talk to you when I am good and ready. If you work here, trot inside and get me more coffee.”
Jubal took the cup to the kitchen and refilled it, adding sugar and a great glob of his own saliva. With the tainted coffee in hand, he left the kitchen and started toward the porch, but he hadn’t even gotten twenty feet when he realized he couldn’t do it without regretting it. He went back to the kitchen and put the cup in the sink.
“What’s you doing, compadre?” said one of the kitchen workers. “I just saw you pour that.”
“I think it’s cold, I need to pour a new cup… to start over.” To start over. What an idea. Was that even possible?
After he delivered the coffee to the marshal, Jubal stood on the porch of the hotel, listening to a trumpeter playing a scratchy spiritual. The musician’s lament was followed by a choir of seven singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” A flat black buckboard led the sad parade, a pine casket on the bed, festooned with flowers. A man in a battered silk hat drove the two horses in a somber fashion.
A crowd of thirty to forty people trailed the wagon, some singing along with the choir, others holding handkerchiefs to their mouths and weeping. At the head of the procession was a woman all in black, with two small children dressed in their finest, walking uncertainly along the dirt street. The youngest of the two had his head pressed hard against his mother’s hand. Jubal doffed his hat as Sheriff Bufort Morton took his last, slow ride.
When Jubal returned through the lobby, the room clerk called him over, holding out a folded piece of paper. Jubal opened it.
Jubal,
Please come for a light repast at six this evening, if your busy schedule allows. Turn right on Calle Piñon after the hotel. Three doors down on left.
Regards,
Judge Hiram Wickham
This appealed to Jubal. He could use a good meal.
At precisely five minutes to six that evening, Jubal found himself pacing outside the judge’s white picket fence. He had gathered wildflowers in a field behind the hotel and wrapped them in a damp newspaper, and now he looked down at the vivid mix of color forming the haphazard bouquet, much like the ones filling his sister’s basket as she ran across that open field the day she died. Maybe, he thought, that was why he liked them—they were hardy and free like Pru.
“Are you Jubal?” He was startled by a lilting female voice.
He stammered out an answer before having really seen who had called from the doorway. “Ah, yes, ma’am.”
A young woman stepped out from behind the screen door into the orange light of the setting sun. “I’m Cybil Wickham. So pleased to meet you, Jubal. Father said you would be coming. Welcome.”
This woman was not what Jubal had been expecting. Pleasantly so. “Oh, thank you,” he said. “I was just waiting a minute or two. I thought I was late—I mean, early.” He hoped the light of dusk hid his now-flushing cheeks. She was gracefully tall, with dark straight hair and a quick, friendly smile, and he desperately wanted her to like him.
Cybil held the door open for him and he started in, then stopped, remembering his manners. “After you, ma’am.”
As she brushed past, Jubal held out the bouquet to her. “These poor things were kinda dying to be picked.” He fumbled the wildflowers and they fell to the floor. Cybil bent to retrieve the bouquet, but Jubal unfortunately did the same and they cracked heads.
“Oh, my God, ma’am! I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive me, ahh, Miss Wickham.”
The girl laughed and reached for the flowers. “Call me Cybil. ‘Ma’am’ is my mother. May I call you Jubal?”
She could call him anything she wanted, he reasoned, including clumsy and stupid.
The elegance of the house gave Jubal pause. Polished wood floors at the entrance, with a graceful staircase leading to a railed open area with a crystal chandelier. On the walls, oil paintings of faraway cities with boats being steered along river streets. A thick ruby-colored rug led through the long wide hallway toward the back of the house, and to Jubal’s left was a full-length mirror encased by an ornate wood frame.
“Your house seems like a palace, Miss Cybil. I’ve never seen the likes of it.”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She smiled. “Mother loves Europe, art, all the fine things.”
Judge Wickham entered the foyer. He held his right arm pressed against his hip. “The ole rocking chair’s got me, I guess.”
“My pa has rheumatism, suffers some,” Jubal offered. “What I mean is, he had—”
“It’s arthritis, son. At any rate, I see you two have met. Jubal, come in and meet my wife.”
Mrs. Wickham was an older version of her daughter, trim and sophisticated. She swept out of the kitchen carrying a steaming pot roast on a silver platter.
“You, of course, are Jubal,” she said. “Welcome, young man, to our humble abode. Please have a seat while I finish
the potatoes and gravy. Cyb, will you see that our guest is comfortable, then give me a hand?”
Jubal wished he had taken more time with his appearance. Dirt-edged fingernails and hair looping over his ears curling inward at the nape of his neck made him feel sloppy in the presence of these people. He decided he would eat, make his regrets, then head for his room in back of the hotel.
Cybil waited until Jubal seated himself, then disappeared into the kitchen. Judge Wickham sat at the head of the table and shook out his folded napkin.
“I hope you’re hungry, Jubal. Marlene’s pot roast is delicious.”
This “repast,” as the judge had called it, was unlike anything Jubal had ever taken part in. Gilded, scalloped-edged dishes. Heavy silverware, napkins with crocheted corners. He was so overawed by the luxury that he didn’t really taste the food.
“Cybil has just finished her freshman year at Radcliffe College.”
“Oh, Mom. I am sure Mr. Young is not interested in my education.”
Jubal fumbled with his fork. “Oh, on the contrary, Mrs. Wickham, I’d like to hear about it. Where is this college, miss?” He turned to Cybil.
“Massachusetts. I’m studying physics. I would have liked to study medicine, but this is the first year of the school, and we pioneers must be willing to sacrifice.”
“Oh, Cyb, stop. You know that’s not true.”
“Daddy, please. Aren’t we living in an age of enlightenment?”
The judge dropped his head a bit and looked over his glasses at his daughter. “Are you quoting that Anthony woman, Cyb?”
“Please, Your Honor. May I speak?”
Her father thought this funny, giving her a world-weary gesture to continue.
“First of all, no. I’m not quoting her. I’m merely stating the facts. The Constitution clearly states that all citizens should be deemed equal. There is nothing remotely suggesting that women should be excluded because of their sex.”
“Please, dear, your language,” Cybil’s mother whispered.
“Where would you be if Daddy wasn’t a broadminded, bright, upstanding citizen?”
“What do you mean, dear?” Mrs. Wickham looked to Jubal, who had slouched back in his chair.
Cybil continued, “You were brought up in Europe, where people are relegated to certain ways of life depending on wealth, nobility, birthrights, education.”
Her father seemed to be enjoying Cybil’s rant. He interrupted in a put-upon strong voice. “Chivalry, brute force, moral power. Right, Jubal?”
He acknowledged the judge, then retreated.
“Excuse my going on at such length, Mr. Young,” Cybil persisted. “But wouldn’t you agree it’s wrong for a son and his so-called aristocracy of sex to be the political master of his mother, as is so prevalent in other countries? Don’t you think that’s ludicrous, sir?”
“Uh-huh,” Jubal answered weakly, having absolutely nothing upon which to base a dissenting vote. The idea of Jubal even being the moral equivalent of his mother was beyond comprehension.
Mrs. Wickham tapped her spoon against her water glass. “Cybil, please. Cyb, darling, do you think this is the proper forum for such talk?”
“I see nothing wrong in Cybil’s bombastic proclamations,” offered the judge. “You were denied entry to medical school. How does that tie in with this Anthony woman’s so-called temperance movement?”
Jubal loved this family’s fascinating dinner table discussion but tried to hold his tongue.
“Daddy? You honestly can’t see how unfairly that decision came about? I was told that because I refused to state my religious beliefs, if any, my application would be considered incomplete. Do you think that’s fair?”
“Why didn’t you just put down ‘atheist’?” Jubal blurted.
The table went silent. Having spoken out, Jubal now found himself having to defend his position, so he continued.
“I suppose one could argue that would be a lie, but maybe the more important thing is”—he looked around the table, realizing he was in deep—“if you really wanted to be a doctor bad enough, you would do whatever it took.” Jubal stopped, thinking maybe he’d piped up at the wrong moment. Once again, a heavy silence. Then Cybil chuckled, followed by her father and Mrs. Wickham. Jubal joined in. Maybe, he thought, an occasional little lie wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Jubal found himself fascinated by this strong, opinionated woman. She was only slightly older than Jubal and yet she had lived away from home for almost a year. He thought of his sister and what she had missed in terms of world experience.
They moved into the parlor, where Cybil served them tea and hard biscuits sprinkled with sugar. She sat across from Jubal on a settee with her mother. “Another cup of tea, Mr. Young?” She tilted her head as if she were having fun with him.
“Oh, no, thanks. I have to work in the morning. It might keep me up. I could be late.” He glanced at the judge and smiled. “I have a tough boss.” They all smiled. “I really should be going. But before I leave, could I help with the dishes, Mrs. Wickham?”
They all rose from their seats. “No, that’s all right,” Mrs. Wickham said, thanking him with a careful, socially polite hug. “Take care.”
He thought she was slightly disapproving of him. “It was a terrific dinner and I hope someday to repay you in kind. Thank you again, sir. I am much obliged. Miss Wickham, my congratulations on the sweets, and good luck in school with your studies.”
Cybil took his arm. “I’ll walk you to the front gate.” Jubal’s elbow seemed on fire from Cybil’s contact, but he could tell she was very much at ease. She opened the gate to let him out.
“I hate to bring this up, but I would feel remiss if I didn’t express my condolences on the loss of your family. Father told me of his trip to your farm and the devastation. I can’t imagine how you must feel. I know this must sound weak and insipid, but please, if there is anything I can do, just ask… will you do that?” She stopped and looked straight at Jubal. “Oh, I almost forgot the flowers.” She reached over and kissed Jubal on the cheek. “They were wonderfully appropriate. Hope to see you soon.”
Unable to speak, Jubal felt a fool. A stupid schoolboy kind of buffoon, tongue-tied and red-faced. Cybil was almost back to the door before he could utter a “Good night.”
He didn’t even remember the walk back to the hotel. Though Mrs. Wickham seemed slightly difficult, they were an appealing family. Strong parents, educated, and sensitive. He wondered what Cybil would do with her life. She seemed so sure of herself, smart, and had what he thought to be a rare kind of independence. Would a girl like that ever look twice at him?
FIFTEEN
Night sounds kept Jubal awake. He never quite got to deep, satisfying sleep, but instead was settling on eyes-shut, annoying awareness. Plus he couldn’t keep his mind off the ethereal Cybil.
The night was well under way when he was roused by peculiar rumblings. Jubal tried to identify the various noises.
The snoring coming from one of his roommates was soft and rhythmic. A wood board squeaked whenever a breeze passed over the loose windowsill. Somewhere close, a night bird called. In the distance, thunder.
As the storm seemed to find its way ever closer, an itch started in Jubal’s mind. It wasn’t thunder. It sounded—it felt—as if it were horses.
And they were getting nearer.
Something didn’t feel right.
Were the horsemen coming for him? Why would he think that? Was it simply his ever-present guilt that kept him awake tonight? Why should he feel guilty about anything?
He knew, of course, but it was best left alone.
The hoofbeats trailed away, becoming quieter. Good. Then it sounded as if they turned down Calle Piñon, but why? Nothing there but houses. No bars, no hotels.
Just Judge Wickham’s house.
That’s when the gunfire erupted. There must have been a dozen shots fired before it all stopped. Then the boom of several shotgun blasts answering back.
He slipped out the shed door, leaving his two drunken companions snoring away.
The night air lay damp all around him. Frisk and several other animals stamped restlessly in the corral, uneasy about the gunshots.
Jubal skirted the hotel and crossed Calle Piñon, where several lanterns had been raised in the various houses along the street. He crouched behind the stump of an oak tree to survey the situation.
The moon was low on the horizon, creating silhouettes of three horsemen. Halfway down the street, their frenetic images stood out against the lighted crescent shape. The hatless one riding a dapple-gray mare he easily identified as Pete Wetherford. The other two men he didn’t recognize.
They once again raised their rifles and fired indiscriminately into Judge Wickham’s house. Jubal looked behind him at the hotel entrance and spied the outline of several men on the porch, one of them being U.S. Marshal Wayne Turner.
Turner came quickly down the street, hugging the picket fences, dodging behind various trees until he was on the other side of the street. The marshal had no sooner arrived than he called out to the horsemen.
“Drop your weapons. That’s an order, I’m U.S. Marshal Wayne Turner, drop those guns.”
His order was met with a barrage of gunfire directed at the tree he hid behind. He cursed, then cried out once again to the men. In the middle of his demands the horsemen lit up the night with another volley of gunfire.
Jubal laid his pa’s pistol on top of the stump to steady it and took aim at Pete Wetherford, but the men purposely danced their horses to keep from being hit. Finally, one of the riders, on a black horse, came charging up the street past the marshal’s position, his horse’s reins clamped in his teeth, both hands holding six-shooters. He drove his horse hard all the way to the corner by the hotel before he wheeled around for another run. As he turned, the rider danced his mount under the protection of a large cottonwood.