by Gene Hackman
Jubal shifted his position to the opposite side of the stump, waiting for the horseman to come charging back.
Several gunshots came from the far end of the street, where he had last seen Pete Wetherford. The rider closer to the hotel disappeared from sight. Jubal once again moved, not knowing which side of the stump was safest.
Up the street toward the hotel, Jubal could just make out the slightest movement. The gunman on the black horse had moved his mount onto the tree-shrouded sidewalk and began inching his way up behind the marshal.
“Marshal! Take cover!” Jubal cried out.
Turner hastily scooted around to the other side of the tree and pointed his weapon back toward the horseman. Jubal fired twice into the branches above where he thought the rider to be. His aim was close enough that it seemed to spook the man, who spurred his mount back out into the dirt street. He struggled to calm his horse as it bolted toward the hotel, but he finally reined it in, turned, and came storming back. Jubal fired at him. He came off his horse heavily, bouncing on the hard earth.
The mean-spirited voice Jubal had heard in the mountains at Morning Peak shouted from down the street.
“Al, you okay, brother?”
The lone figure moaning softly in the street didn’t answer.
Jubal cupped his hands to his mouth and called out to the two remaining riders. “He’s hit bad and suffering. Why don’t you come and lend him a hand, you cowardly bastards?” He watched as the two men continued to dance their horses in the shadows of the tree-lined street. He wanted the men to come back. “Come get some redemption, you motherless heathens.”
The fallen rider momentarily stilled his sad lament.
“Who’s over there?” Turner yelled out from the other side of the street.
“Just the coffee boy, sir,” Jubal shouted back. “Tending my chores.” He then emptied his pa’s pistol at what had now become the two fleeing horsemen, their blackened silhouettes fading down the moon-streaked street.
Judge Wickham had suffered a round to his left shoulder and a grazing wound to the head, which had nearly taken off an ear. He lay on the porch unconscious, losing a great deal of blood.
Doc Brown was already there, and Mrs. Wickham scurried in and out of the house trying to help him, bringing pillowcases for dressings and hot water to clean the wounds. The candlelight flickered off the judge’s pale face and made him appear more dead than alive.
Marshal Turner and some of the neighbors crowded around. The lawman looked to Jubal. “You could have hurt someone with your gunplay out there.”
“That’s what I intended, Marshal.” He stood on the grass in the front yard. “They’ll be coming for me next.”
“What makes you think so? Why are you so damn important?”
“Not important at all, I’m just a nuisance. The hatless one who rode off was Pete Wetherford. The one thrashing about in the street is, I think, his brother, Al.”
Indeed, Al was still on his side, pedaling his legs in agony as he gripped his stomach. Several townsmen hung around watching, waiting for him to die.
“Let’s get the judge inside, folks,” Doc Brown said. “Lend a hand, please.” A couple of neighbors along with Jubal and Mrs. Wickham formed a human stretcher.
“On the table, right there.” Mrs. Wickham directed the group to the dining room table, where she dispensed with the long white doily and Jubal’s fresh-picked wildflowers.
The efficient Mrs. Wickham and Cybil brought several kerosene lamps onto the buffet table at the side of the room. Bent over the stricken judge, Doc Brown reexamined his wounds in the better light. “I have to get that bullet out of his shoulder, it’s pressing against an artery and I’m unable to stop the bleeding.” He looked up. “Going to need some help, people.” He pointed at Jubal. “You there, Jubal, give me a hand.”
Jubal went into action as the doctor continued issuing orders.
“See if you can move him over on his right side so I can pack these pillows against his back to keep him steady.”
Jubal reached under the judge’s neck and with his other arm rolled the man’s hip until he was lying on his side.
A soft hand grasped his left forearm. Cybil. She gave him a reassuring glance.
“I’ll need everyone to leave the room now, please,” Doc Brown said.
Everyone heeded the doctor’s words and filed out of the dining room.
“Jubal, could you stay and give me a steady hand?”
“Be glad to, sir.”
Mrs. Wickham, who had earlier seemed so in control, retreated to a corner of the room, then to the kitchen, weeping, with both hands clamped securely over her mouth.
“Cybil, dear. Keep that hot water coming, and bring me some washbasins, put them through boiling water. I’ll need compresses, long strips of clean bedding about four inches wide, and my case on the front porch. Quickly, now.”
Jubal respected the doctor’s control of the situation.
“We’ll both stay on this side of the table so we won’t block the light.”
Cybil came back into the room with the doctor’s medical case.
“Thank you, dear,” Doc Brown said, taking it from her. “While Jubal holds your father’s torso steady, grasp your dad’s legs to keep him from moving. I’m going to give him some ether so he won’t wake up.” Doc Brown opened his case and extracted a number of instruments. “Jubal, cut his pajama top away from that shoulder.”
Jubal took the scissors the doctor had put nearby and deftly cut away the cotton top, exposing a great deal of blood.
“I’m going to probe into that wound. While I do, I want you to try and keep the opening clear of fluid with these compresses. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir, I can.”
The doctor placed a heavy piece of gauze over the nose and mouth of the judge. “Son, now reach over and let a few drops of that ether soak into that gauze. Careful not to get it on the judge’s skin.”
Jubal was at the front of the table, where the judge’s bloody head was propped on an embroidered pillow. As the doctor bent over the judge’s wound, Jubal caught sight of Cybil, biting her lower lip in fear. Jubal winked at her for reassurance and administered the anesthetic.
“Cybil, you can relax now. Your papa is sleeping nicely,” the doctor told her. “That’s enough for now, son. Grab those cut rags and mop up some of this blood around the wound.”
Jubal did so as the doctor continued to search with a long shiny instrument. “I think I’ve found it. Jubal, hold this while I get my forceps.”
Jubal felt the instrument touching something hard.
“Now, as I run these forceps alongside the probe, hold very still or I’ll lose the bullet, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jubal suddenly felt a piece of cloth on his forehead. Cybil was wiping his brow, like an angel breathing softly on his skin. She moved on to the doctor and did the same.
He tried shaking it off, the feeling, but it persisted. He needed to concentrate. As Cybil moved behind him, he could smell her bath soap. Green pine or grass, something clean and wholesome.
“I’ve got it,” Doc Brown said. “Cybil, give me that basin. Set it at your father’s side.” The devilish slug dropped into the basin with a loud plink. “Jubal, stuff that gauze into the wound while I hold it open with these forceps.”
Blood continued to seep from the gap in the judge’s shoulder. Jubal thought Cybil looked woozy.
“Doctor, I need a little time.…”
The man looked up. Jubal motioned with his head toward Cybil.
“Sit her down, Jubal.”
Jubal wiped his hands and went to her. She wobbled a bit and fell into his arms.
“Here, let me get you seated before you pass out.” She felt warm in his arms.
“I’ll be fine. It’s just, it suddenly felt stuffy here. Maybe some water.…”
Jubal took her to a cushioned armchair and went to the kitchen to fetch water. When he returned, glass i
n hand, Cybil was resting her head on her knees. Jubal gently placed his hand on her dark hair.
“Drink this. Slowly, Cybil.” He thought maybe it was the first time he had used her name. It had a nice feel to it, proper and yet feminine. He went back to assist the doctor.
“Keep dabbing that wound while I try to sterilize it, please.” The doctor washed the injury carefully, then poured a clear liquid into it from a glass-stoppered bottle. “It will take a half dozen stitches. Then we hope for the best. I can manage now. Why don’t you take Cybil out for some air, my good man?”
SIXTEEN
Jubal took the empty glass from Cybil and knelt down in front of her. “The doctor thinks you should get some fresh air.” Jubal grasped her elbow and helped her through the kitchen and out the back door. The quartermoon had traversed the black sky and left their world in darkness.
Jubal returned to the dining room and stood across from the doctor, the room in stark contrast to a few hours earlier. The judge’s bloody head and shoulder were just inches from where Jubal had earlier sat enjoying Mrs. Wickham’s pot roast. The air was filled with a sharp fetid smell, not unlike that during the events at the farm. The brackish taint of blood filled the room.
“As I said earlier, young man”—the doctor kept at his work—“take care of the Mrs. and Cybil. I’ll be fine here.” He then looked up at Jubal. “One can do only so much. Fate has a way of affecting all of us. You’ve helped here.
Make nice with platitudes to the judge’s wife, comfort Cybil, and go.… Thank you again.”
Jubal backed out of the dining room and stopped in the kitchen to wash his hands and face. He noticed Cybil in the garden gazing upward, her hands together in a silent prayer.
The kitchen screen door made a grating screech as he stepped into the garden.
“I’m sorry I acted such a fool,” Cybil said. “Maybe it’s a good thing I won’t be going to medical school. I can’t imagine what I would do in anatomy class. Thank you for your support.”
“It sounds as if your father is going to be fine.”
She began to cry. Jubal rested his hands on her shoulders as she slipped softly into his arms. They stood like that in the dark until a voice called from the back porch.
“Cyb, honey, are you out there?”
Jubal noticed Mrs. Wickham silhouetted against the kitchen window.
“Yes, Mom.” She walked back toward her mother. “I felt faint seeing all that blood on dad.”
“Are you all right now, dear?”
“I’m feeling better. Jubal was kind enough to help me out. It was just so odd. One minute I was fine, then all of a sudden the room started moving.”
Jubal moved up next to Cybil. “Doc Brown said he thought your husband was going to be fine, Mrs. Wickham. Is there anything I can do?”
“Ah, no. I don’t think so. Cybil, mind the night air, dear. Not to catch a cold, please. I’ll wait in the kitchen for you. Good night again, Mr. Young.”
“Your mother seems concerned about you,” said Jubal. “If you’re feeling better, maybe you should go in.” He hoped she wouldn’t take his advice.
“Oh, it’s just mom being protective of me, you know.”
Jubal wasn’t sure that he did know. “I hope she doesn’t think I lured you out into this dark garden.”
“Oh, maybe she does. She probably has a lot on her mind.” Cybil smiled. She placed both hands on his shoulders and surprised him with a peck on the lips. “Thank you for your help this evening, you are very kind.”
They stood staring at each other, then they heard Cybil’s mother in the kitchen moving about. The clanging she made with the pots and pans sounded more like a signal than merely tidying up the kitchen.
They continued looking at each other, their mutual attraction beyond understanding, given the circumstances of the evening.
“I feel kind of guilty,” said Jubal.
“Why, Jube? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
She had called him Jube. He choked a bit. “My sister called me Jube.… There’s a part of me that keeps saying it’s too soon after the death of my family to feel pleasure. I feel good with you. I should still be suffering.” He held her at arm’s length. “Penitence must be paid. I have a debt.”
She placed her finger gently against his lips. “Do you believe you can see someone for the first time and feel a strong connection?”
Jubal nodded as she continued.
“When I first saw you at the gate, you stuttered something about being late when in fact you were early. Then all through the long meal, even though so much had happened to you in the past days, you were concerned with me. You spoke of my schooling, mom’s pot roast, and daddy’s arthritis, and how lovely our house was, and on and on.” She paused. “I should go in and relieve mom’s anxiety. When I said earlier this evening at the gate that I hope to see you soon, I didn’t really expect it to be this soon.”
They held hands at the back door.
“I’ll be gone for a few days,” Jubal said. “May I call on you when I return?”
“Yes. I think I know where you’re going and why. Please, Jube. Be careful. For me.” She turned and passed through the door.
He watched her, then backed away from the house, hoping to catch sight of her through the illuminated windows.
The sky started to lighten in the east as Jubal made his way back toward the hotel.
An hour later, fifteen grown men stood in a semicircle at the foot of the Wicks Hotel stairs listening to Wayne Turner speak. Jubal watched and listened from the fringe of the group. “This is not a lark or game, gentlemen,” Turner said. “I want you to understand that. Those of you who choose to go will be deputized and as such will bear all the responsibilities of said office. Any questions?”
“How long you figure we’ll be gone?” This from a heavyset man nearly the age of Jubal’s father.
“If you’re concerned about being away from your families and such, you best not go. We’ll be gone ‘til we’ve finished the job, to answer your question.” The man nodded as the marshal continued. “Who amongst you have long rifles, a good horse, and a sense of community spirit?”
Most of the men lifted their hands.
“Good, how many are going along?”
There were fewer recruits, but still a fair number.
“All right. The citizens going, raise your right hand and repeat your name when asked.” The marshal started reading off an authoritative pledge, which the men dutifully repeated, Jubal included.
Halfway through, Marshal Turner stopped and pointed at Jubal, who had his arm raised. “What in the name of good sense are you doing, shooter?”
Jubal felt embarrassed, suddenly being the center of attention. “I want to be deputized like the rest.”
“Are you eighteen?”
“No, sir. But close enough.”
“Do you have a rifle?”
Jubal kicked a road apple with the toe of his boot. “I’ve got two pistols, and I think you could attest to the fact I’m a fair country shot, sir.” The rifle will stay sanctified.
“Do you have a horse?”
“Yes, sir. Sort of. I mean, she’s willing and I’ll keep up.” Actually, he didn’t know if Frisk could keep up. But that wouldn’t stop him.
“Get on out of here. Go on, scoot. You’ll be late for school.”
Jubal slunk away from the group as Marshal Turner continued swearing in the men, at the end of which he gave them instructions on what to bring and to be back in front of the hotel in a half hour. The men dispersed, excited in various degrees. The marshal caught Jubal by the sleeve as he started into the hotel.
“You’re not going, boy,” he said. “I can’t have no gun-happy youngster along. Go on about your business. Get a few years on you.”
Jubal objected but was silenced by the marshal’s stern attitude. The man swaggered away.
SEVENTEEN
They turned their horses from Calle Piñon and rode out of town. “Damm
it all to pieces, Ed. Looks like Al got hit… ahh, Christ a-mighty.”
Pete Wetherford and Ed Thompson rode like the forces of hell were behind them. Pete continued to cry out his regrets while they fled. They rode for nearly an hour, exhausted and full of doubt, before they stopped by a small creek and slid from their tired horses.
Ed Thompson tried to cheer up Wetherford. “The way old Al went down, I don’t think he felt any pain. I know that’s not much consolation, but he was surely dead ‘fore he hit the ground. He wouldn’t have suffered none, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, well, we should’ve hung around instead of chickened our tails out of town.”
Big Ed began gathering wood for a fire. “Should we cook up some grub, Pete?”
Wetherford didn’t answer but limped down to the creek bed and stared at the reflection of a clouded sky in the slow-moving waters. After a while, he called back to Ed. “Did you see who shot Al?”
“Couldn’t really see much. Someone was sneaking along the fence line, but the shot that felled Al came from across the street, looked to me like it might of been that brat we saw on the street the day you got in that scuffle with the farmer. Say, is that the same little bastard from the farm—you know, with the rifle?”
“I’ll find that little smartass, and when I do, he’ll wish he’d stayed behind the plow.” Pete tried to skip a rock down the creek. “Let’s saddle up, Ed, and go back into town. What you say?”
“Ah, Pete, it’s late. What good is it gonna do? Let it be for a while. I know what you’re feeling, but get some rest.”
Wetherford’s harassed body still had not healed from his fall at Morning Peak. He willed himself to relax, contemplating the events at the canyon, thinking back to his rescue by the sheriff’s band of misfits.
At first he’d thought the wolves had returned, and he was more than ready to do his best to decimate their number. But, quietly propped against the slanted wall of the crevasse, he’d heard voices. Faint at first, but clearly human.