by Gene Hackman
A tall pole stood adjacent to the track. At the top, an angled board held a sphere nearly two feet in radius, attached by several lines through an arrangement of pulleys.
“Yep, just like a flagpole,” continued the man. “If the engineer sees the ball down, he stops the train. Otherwise, he highballs it right on through.”
“You say the train that just went through is going to Alamosa?”
“Right you are, son. Should be there around four this afternoon.”
“Excuse the questions, sir. But I’m looking for a couple dudes. One of them would have been looking poorly, as if he’d been in an accident, maybe limping.”
“Remember them well.” He paused. “Rode in asking directions, arguing about whether to take the train on up north to Colorado or not. Damned if they didn’t finally just ride off. Heavens to Betsy. They were still dickering when they disappeared over the horizon.”
Jubal mounted Frisk. “Much obliged, sir. How far would you say it is to Alamosa?”
“I’d say closer to seventy-five than eighty miles, sonny.”
Jubal nodded his thanks. He thought it might have been better for him if the two men had taken the train, for he wouldn’t have to be so on the alert for an ambush. But one takes the sweet with the sour, as his ma used to say.
He reached down and patted his horse on the withers. “Keep a watchful eye, will you, Frisk?”
She snorted as if she’d understood.
They passed through Tres Piedras well into the night. No one was in view, as the small community wrapped itself into a cocoon of sleep. They pushed on through a wide gap in the rock structure.
Frisk was capable of being ridden all night. Jubal figured they would arrive in Alamosa sometime midmorning. Whether or not he himself would be up to the journey, he would find out soon enough.
He felt lucky they had the railroad tracks to follow, the path most of the time paralleling the ribbon of steel heading north. At one point in the middle of the night, Jubal dozed off and awoke to find Frisk had wandered off the path and was standing in a field, head down, joining Jubal in his late-night snooze. He eased off the big mare and walked her back to the trail. They continued like this for a number of miles, Jubal recalling the time when he had walked with his sister Pru alongside the buckboard on the way from Kansas to New Mexico.
“Jube, I’ll race you to the top of that hill, where that old tree is leaning out over the road.” Prudence skipped sideways along the rutted trail, egging Jubal on.
“What? I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Jubal Young. You’re just trying to cheat ‘cause you know I’m faster.”
“Faster, ho, ho. If you live to be a hundred you wouldn’t be as fast as me.”
“Ma,” Pru cried. “Count it off, one, two, three.”
Bea, driving the team of horses, yelled, “One, one and a quarter, one and a half, one and three quarters—”
Both of the children jumped the gun, and they were off. Pru was fast and Jubal had trouble passing her right at the finish. Under a tree, they both tried to catch their breath.
Jubal had just had his thirteenth birthday. Pru was ten and didn’t seem to mind the arduous trip from Kansas City into the “Wild West,” as she loved to call it.
“Ma, can Jube and I explore up over that funny-looking flat hill?” Pru asked once the two children returned to the buckboard.
Bea gazed out over the rolling hills to the stark-appearing mesa ahead. “Let’s wait ‘til we get a mite closer, Pru, so I can see what’s what up there.”
Sometimes on this voyage, Jubal would spell ma, and mother and daughter would walk. They needn’t have; it just became a nice change to get out and stretch one’s legs.
“Ma, when will we see Pa? Do you know?” Pru asked her mother as they walked side by side.
“When we get there, dear.”
The two exchanged looks.
“That’s a fairly clever way of asking ‘How much longer, Ma’ for the hundredth time. I commend you on your enterprising thought, Pru.”
Pru skipped alongside the wagon. “What does it mean, ‘enterprising’?”
“Let’s think here for a jiffy. ‘Enterprising’ means… oh, it could mean being ambitious, businesslike, relentless. Kind of like what your pa is doing, Prudence.”
“You mean Pa taking the train to New Mexico while we bounce along in this buckboard? Like that, Ma?”
“No, dear.” Bea thought this funny. “Your pa has to make sure his sealed bid for the land we wanted has been properly processed.”
“Huh.”
“He’s a very smart man, sweetheart, and what he has done will be great for this family. Trust me.”
Jubal recalled hearing those words from his mother. At that time they were twenty days from Kansas City, and the group of other wagons Jubal, Sr., had arranged for his wife to join in Topeka had not materialized, but Bea Young was a hardy woman and had pushed on with her two youngsters. In the end, they’d made it.
At one point in the long night, Jubal thought he heard the train. After a while, he decided it had more than likely been a combination of night sounds and their echoes through the ravines. For some time, he listened carefully.
They stopped for the night alongside a grassy streambed. They were days into their journey, but it seemed ages since they had left Kansas City. The three members of the Young family stretched out in the buckboard, each with their own bedroll. The hoops that formed the roof of the wagon vibrated with the wind, the canvas cover slapping endlessly against the wood stays.
“Quiz me, Ma.”
“On what subject, dear?”
Pru clapped. “Anything birds. Okay?”
“Name six birds of prey whose habitat is mostly North American,” Bea said drowsily.
“Eagle, buzzard, hawk, condor, turkey vulture, owl, and the most dangerous of all, the dreaded Latinus Jubus.”
They giggled in spite of their sleepiness.
Pru tried to adopt a scary voice. “The Latinus Jubus is a creature who comes out only at night.”
“Nocturnal.”
“Yes, and as I said, it only comes out at night.”
“‘Nocturnal’ is night, dear, speaking of which, don’t you think we should go to sleep?”
“Yes, Mother, but Jubal scared me.”
“I scared you?” Jubal said. “How in the heck did I do that?”
“You made me make up a name for you that frightened me.”
“I didn’t make you do any such thing, you did that on your own.”
Pru tried to be serious. “But if you didn’t look all gawky and birdlike, it never would have occurred to me.”
Jubal rolled over in the tight quarters. “Ma, would you speak to your daughter, please? She’s loco.”
The wagon quieted, and the tired souls gradually drifted toward sleep.
Then, softly from Pru, “The Latinus Jubus is a night bird, who makes funny sounds and wipes its beak under its wing instead of its handkerchief. It is a slow creature, whose intelligence is matched in the North American climes only by the Slugus Latimus. “
She then whispered a prayer.
Four angels to my bed,
Four angels ‘round my head.
One to watch, and one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
Jubal missed his sister, a spirit bright and full of life always ready with her quick wit. She had been fond of saying to the family, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a preacher in God’s House of Mirth. I’ll start each sermon with a ‘ha, ha,’ and end with a ‘hee, hee, hee.’”
TWENTY-ONE
Seeing the evening train come thundering out of the north the previous night, heading back toward Taos Junction, had been exciting, the people on the train moving about as they traveled. Jubal wondered who they were and where they were going. He still had the harsh reality of a long trek ahead of him and bedded down for the night.
He awoke early and wal
ked a fair distance from his campsite. Each day he gave himself the task of strapping his father’s shabby holster to his belt and tried to get used to the weight and feel of the weapon.
He suspected that Audrey might have been someone other than the saloon keeper in his pa’s earlier life. Jubal would rarely fire the weapon, simply experiment with ways of sliding it from his right-side holster with the least amount of friction. He had to admit that the piece was clumsy and he knew in the end he would be reluctant to use it. But he also knew the quest he had set for himself was full of men who would not hesitate, would relish the opportunity to take advantage of a youngster who was unwilling or not eager enough.
The sky remained a bluish gray for nearly an hour until the sun finally rose over the Sangres. Jubal and Frisk pressed on.
They walked into Antonito at midmorning, still with thirty miles to go to Alamosa. Antonito was a friendly community, and people spoke out sincere morning greetings to Jubal as he tied Frisk to a post outside of Anne’s, a GOOD EATS establishment as proclaimed by a small nearby sign.
“What’ll it be, cowboy?” The woman looked as if she were the proprietor.
“What will twenty-five cents buy me, ma’am?”
“Not a whole helluva lot. But I guess a stack of pancakes and coffee. That do?”
Jubal nodded. The small place appeared to be the only restaurant in town, crowded with locals having their coffee, gossiping, and getting their day started. The waitstaff consisted of just Anne—a hearty soul who seemed to enjoy what she was doing.
Anne, with a mug of steaming coffee, stopped to chat. “Where you heading for, son?”
“I’m going up Alamosa way. Looking around for some… people.”
“I’ve got just the man for you.” Anne turned and called into the kitchen, “Bob!”
A bearded man stuck his head out of the partition. “You called, ma’am?”
“Yeah, this young’un is looking for some folk up Alamosa way. Come out and give a neighbor a hand.”
“What ‘bout the dishes?”
“They’ll keep.”
The dishwasher came out of the kitchen wearing a bibbed apron with buckskin pants and red flannel shirt, his bald pate set off by a face covered in a tangled red beard. “You from up Alamosa way, son?”
Jubal felt he needed to be careful. “Oh, no, not really. I was just telling the lady—”
“That isn’t no lady,” Bob whispered. “That’s Anne. Just a kidding, she’s a nice old gal.… So, you’re heading north and—”
“Yes, I was telling her I was looking for some people who I’d heard were ranching up around Alamosa.”
“I’ve worked all up through there. Maybe that’s why Anne thought I could help you out. What’s their names, son?”
Jubal took a quick look around the restaurant. “Oh, well, it isn’t that important. I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’ll be drifting on. I was just making conversation with the lady, is all. Nothing, really.”
The man nodded and went back into the kitchen. Jubal finished his meal, left his quarter on the counter, and went out into the bright sunlight.
At the side of the restaurant, a water trough stood beckoning. Jubal poured a small amount of water from a bucket into the center of the pump to prime it, then ducked his head in the icy water, scrubbing his face and hands. As he was tying Frisk to a steel ring next to the water, Bob came out the back of the restaurant, having a smoke. The man stood silently, then approached Jubal.
“I live up in the mountains most of the year. Time to time, I come down for a little respite, if you will. I consider myself a fair judge of character and I’d say you’re a young man who needs some…”—he paused—“help. Maybe even some local awareness.”
The man’s directness left Jubal uncertain of his words. “All I said to the lady was that I was looking for someone. That’s all.”
“I been on my own since your age, son. I reckon I know when something’s up.”
Jubal tried to busy himself by lifting a grain sack off Frisk’s back. Finally, he got to the point. “I’m looking for a man named Billy Tauson. Supposed to be working on a ranch up this way. Probably closer to Alamosa.”
“Billy Tauson works the Triple C Ranch just east of town. Alamosa, that is. Relative of yours?”
“No, sir, I just need to… talk to him.”
Bob took out his tobacco and papers and proceeded to roll another cigarette. “I’ve worked with William F. Tauson. He’s a special article, that one. Used to foreman the Triple C a few years back. We had words, he fired my country butt, then beat me out of a month’s pay. I said to Billy I’d run into him sometime in this life.”
Jubal didn’t yet know if he could trust this dishwasher, but he decided to jump in. “He and some of his band of merrymakers set fire to my family’s farm, and they did other things as well. I need to make things right with him.”
“You don’t want to be going up against that bastard alone, son. What’s your name?”
“Jubal. Jubal Young, sir,” then it all just spilled out. “They murdered my family, my baby sis.” He stopped, unable to continue. He tended to Frisk, trying to get ahold of his emotions.
Anne came from the back of the building looking a bit like a mother searching for a lost child. “Bob. You’ve got chores.”
“Duty calls. Stick around ‘til this evening and we’ll continue our talk. All right, cowboy?”
Jubal nodded. And he had only planned on going in for breakfast.
“Thing about Billy, he’s a criminal. Born that way. Works as a ranch hand for a spell, then once he gathers up enough money he lights out and just raises hell. Worked his way up to foreman when I knew him. I hear tell a month after I left he went on a real tear up around Denver. Shot a couple drunks.”
They were sitting on a log near a creek. Though they were unfamiliar with each other, Jubal started to be more relaxed around Bob. “He was traveling with a tall Injun, Crook Arm, last I saw him,” Jubal said. “Tauson, Crook Arm, another named Pete Wetherford, maybe one more.”
“Wetherford I’ve heard of. Nasty man. Tauson, well, his wife.”
“His wife?”
Bob looked down reluctantly. “Folks say she just up and disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Well, you know.” Bob smiled.
Jubal waited for him to continue.
“I guess the folks in Cerro Vista got to wondering about her.”
“Cerro Vista?”
“Yep, that’s where they lived. Not in town but up in the mountains east of town, some farm or ranch. Guess after the third or fourth time ole Billy Tauson came into town to stock up on grub and such without his wife, folks got suspicious. Now, I’m not saying that he done her in, I’m just saying what the folks around Cerro Vista were saying. He started raising hell about that time. I heard he lost the property from gambling or taxes or heaven knows. Anyway, that’s the long and squat of it. He’s a piece a work. Thinks of himself as an intellect. Has a way about him that seems to attract the ornery types like the fellow you mentioned. Wetherford. What’s his name? Pete?”
“That’s the one,” Jubal said.
“Tauson also used to travel with a cousin of his. Kid name of Ty Blake.”
“He’s no longer with us.”
“What do you mean?”
“He and a couple others didn’t survive the raid on our farm.”
“Your pa must have been right handy with a rifle.”
“Yes, sir, he was.” Jubal decided he’d leave it at that for the time being.
“What do you intend to do once you find these desperadoes?”
Of all the questions Bob could have asked, that happened to be the hardest to answer. He had thought about it a lot. He reminded himself several times a day that he had promised Judge Wickham, and for that matter Marshal Wayne Turner, that he would turn those bounders over to the authorities—once he found them. “I’ve made a few promises that I’d do the right thing when the
time came. Other than that, I can’t say.”
Bob picked at a piece of bark from the log. “Okay, and what does ‘do the right thing’ mean, youngster?”
“Do the right thing” didn’t sit right with Jubal. It sounded false. Each time he thought of the potential death of Billy Tauson, Pete Wetherford, and the others, he was reminded of his promises. Had he vowed to Cybil he would do what was “proper”? He didn’t think so.
Maybe, like Edmond Dantès, he would reward himself with the gift of life, and his ultimate travails could result in the best life could offer. But the right thing might very well be revenge. The total cleansing of the soul, giving back to a person the right to live. Jubal gazed at the creek as the water moved slowly past. “I suppose the circumstances will dictate that. I’ll do what it takes at the time.”
“You sound determined enough, that seems for sure.” Bob tossed the bark into the nearby stream. The bit of wood drifted down into the bubbling water, hung up on a rock, then found its way free. “Everybody and everything needs to find their own way under God’s blue sky. Once you commit to an endeavor like this, you’ll ruffle some feathers along the way. Are you prepared for that, Master Young?”
Jubal smiled at Bob’s way of describing him. “Yes, sir. More than prepared. I’m anxious and ready. I’ll be heading out toward Alamosa in the morning. If you’d be kind enough to give me directions to the Triple C Ranch, I’d be much obliged.”
Bob gave Jubal detailed instructions on how to get to the ranch. They said their goodbyes, Jubal thanking the man profusely.
As night drew near, Jubal prepared his bedroll a little ways outside of town. He hobbled Frisk so she wouldn’t drift off, and curled up in front of an inviting fire. He thought a bit on what he had said to Bob about being committed to this endeavor and wondered if, indeed, he was as ready as he let on.
Jubal recalled a saying his mother was fond of. “Chance favors only the prepared.”
Morning opened with a hint of yet another late snow in the air. After a thin breakfast of beef jerky and tea, Jubal fed Frisk and headed out north, deciding once again that he would parallel the railroad track. Not far from town, a rider sat at the base of a water tank used by the trains. As Jubal approached, a scrawny mule and a man wearing a coonskin hat drifted out—Bob the dishwasher. Jubal stopped Frisk and the two men regarded each other.