Payback at Morning Peak

by Gene Hackman

  Jubal had Audrey in a battered holster at his right side. He pulled his coat back and laid his thumb lightly on top of the hammer, his fingers not quite touching the burnt handle. Bob yelled, “Draw,” and Jubal’s fingers pulled up on the bottom of the grip as his thumb cocked the weapon. With knees slightly bent, he fired as the piece became level with his waist. The rock split in half. He reached across with his left hand and ripped his palm across the hammer and kept the trigger depressed, firing off all six rounds as he fanned the piece with his left palm. It was fairly fast and, more importantly, accurate.

  “Any questions?”

  “You’re right handy with that piece. How’s about another knife-throwing session?”

  Jubal agreed and they proceeded to throw at a tree that had overgrown its purchase at the side of the canyon. Jubal was pretty good inside ten feet or so. He could stick the blade eight out of ten times, but it became more difficult when the long-bladed knife had to rotate in the air more than once. Bob could also throw underhanded, so that the sticker didn’t tumble in the air but slid out of his hand quickly with a long stride. This, Bob explained, was the “desperadoes’ death throw.”

  “You sling it just like you would a rock. Underhanded.”

  Jubal thought maybe it was exactly that, in more ways than one.

  Their little sack of dough, as they called it, netted them right at $28 from the local assayer. Bob, pleased with his half of the take, bounced up and down on one leg like a child. “I got to have me a beer, son.”

  “Bob, it’s ten in the morning.” Jubal laughed at his antics. “Let’s meet back here at the assayer’s office at noon, then decide about eats. What do you say?”

  They agreed. Bob hightailed it over to the Good Chance. Acting drunk, he waved to Jubal and zigzagged his way up the saloon steps.

  Jubal unhitched Frisk from the rail outside the as-sayer’s office. He rode Frisk the length of Bennett Street and stopped at the general store to inquire if anyone knew about sluice boxes and how to build them. He had been told by a mine worker that a sluice was a better way of getting to the gold.

  He killed time admiring various weaponry under a glass display case. As he bent over to get a closer look, someone jostled him from behind. He turned without rising up, astounded at the rudeness of people. Jubal saw only the man’s back as he continued chatting with another fellow on their way out of the store. Just another hurried soul in a town full of unfamiliar people.

  The clerk at the counter directed Jubal to Faulkner’s Livery, where a man named Lou could help him with instructions about a sluice.

  Jubal led Frisk to the blacksmith to adjust a shoe, then stood in the open barn door watching the heavy rain that had begun to fall. To pass the time, he sharpened his long-bladed knife with the smith’s stone, then, with the man’s permission, tossed the bone-handled piece accurately into a heavy hitching post.

  Lou turned out to be a nice fellow who dutifully sketched a picture of a sluice with all the dimensions. Jubal rode Frisk back down the street toward the general store for supplies.

  Outside the store, he glanced at a large clock on a pole outside the bank. Eleven-thirty. If Bob was still in the tavern, he was well on his way to being stiff with drink. Jubal strapped his purchases behind the saddle and took his time walking Frisk back toward the saloon. Maybe he would simply wait outside the drinking establishment and give the bearlike man his time to imbibe. He stayed on the steps a few minutes but then decided to see if Bob was, indeed, in the tavern.

  As he started to enter the Good Chance, he took a quick peek over the swinging doors and spied Bob at a far table, his sweaty bald head shining like a beacon. Jubal pushed the doors open, started in, then stopped. Bob sat with two men. One of them, his back to Jubal, was the rude man from the store.

  Jubal now recognized him. The gray-haired Billy Tauson.

  Jubal eased back out onto the sidewalk. He stumbled on the rotting planks, finding himself seated in the dirt street. Several passersby probably thought him to be drunk. He shot to his feet, running down the street to Frisk and the saddlebag with his pa’s pistol. As he neared the horse, he slowed himself. He knew Tauson’s location; no need to panic. He retrieved the .44-caliber and tucked it firmly in his belt, hidden beneath his coat. Mounting Frisk, he rode slowly back.

  He steadied himself by carefully going over the things he knew. Tauson was previously acquainted with Bob Patterson, and there was bad blood flowing between the two. That would explain the tension at the table.

  Tauson had also never seen Jubal up close. The fleeting image of a young man darting about the farm, taking potshots at him, hadn’t registered in any meaningful way, Jubal hoped. Plus, he was now adorned with his fresh new mustache and goatee.

  But most importantly, Billy Tauson wouldn’t be expecting company.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Jubal moved Frisk to a hitching post in front of a dry goods store. Slipping between two buildings, he made his way to the alley behind the tavern. He climbed the outside stairway to the second floor and let himself in the door. A short hall opened onto the mezzanine looking down to the floor of the tavern. The balcony swept around three sides of the tavern, with a half dozen rooms opening onto the banistered walkway.

  He positioned himself from above so he could see the table with Bob and Tauson. A Mexican also sat with them; the man rose and made his way to the bar to reorder.

  Staying close to the inner wall, Jubal made his way toward the steps leading to the tavern floor. Mountain Bob’s nerves were showing. He sat hunched forward as if listening to each word Tauson said to him. Jubal was certain Bob was unarmed, but from all that he had seen and heard about Billy Tauson, that probably wouldn’t matter.

  For a moment Jubal considered whether he should get a lawman to intercede, in order to reduce the chance of gunplay. He had made certain promises to Judge Wickham. Or maybe this was the correct way to subdue this bastard. Come at him head-on, not try to finesse the thing. Perhaps attack in a way that the notorious Billy Tauson would understand. Let the devil get his due.

  A young woman came out of a room in front of Jubal and glanced at him as she straightened her dress.

  “Are you ready for a second go-around, handsome?”

  The woman’s inquiry startled Jubal, but he recognized her from the other night. “Ah, well, yes, ma’am. I mean, not exactly. I was looking for the gents’.”

  “Back down the hall by the outside door. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Saturday virgin, good-looking?”

  Jubal had no idea what a Saturday virgin was, and it must have showed in the way he looked at her.

  She smiled at his expression. “I’m just starting work. Fresh as a schoolgirl, all yours for a drink and two dollars.” She cocked her hip and placed one hand around a breast. She ran her other hand slowly up, down, and against the outside of her leg.

  Rather than looking appealing, she came off as kind of ridiculous, but there was something about her that seemed bright. “Could I buy you a drink and just kind of, well, the two of us just hang about for a short while?”

  “Sure, hon. But it’ll still cost you the same.”

  Jubal paid her, then turned his back to the raucous doings downstairs. “You see the red-mustached man sitting with two other men at the table, just to the left of the pillar?”

  “Yeah, the dense-looking big guy?”

  “He’s a friend and we had a bet as to who could get drunk the fastest and find the most beautiful… girl. I just want to tease him a bit. Maybe disrupt his serious talk with those two gents he’s speaking with. Okay? Will you play along?”

  “Yeah, sure, but you gotta buy me the drink first.”

  He gave her the money and watched Bob sweat at the table as Jubal waited for his lady of the evening to return.

  She arrived back with a pair of beers, as if looking forward to the charade. “By the way, my name is Pauline. What’s yours?”

  “Jack. Jack Older.”

  “What do
you want me to do, Jack?

  “Just go along with whatever I do. Right?”

  “Yeah, right.” She put one arm around Jubal’s waist and felt the pistol tucked in his belt. “Well, you’re packing ‘round your middle. How about down here, Long John?” She reached low in Jubal’s crotch and gave him a gentle tug, then laughed. Not unpleasantly.

  Jubal just took a sip of beer, wrapped his arm around Pauline’s shoulder, and started down the stairs, still feeling the sensation of her gentle tug.

  “Bob Patterson!” Jubal shouted. “You old warhorse. How you doing?” He extended a hand in greeting. “You remember me? I’m Jack Older!”

  “Jack Older—” Bob looked stunned. He glanced at Tauson and dropped his head.

  “This here is my sweetie, Pauline. Say hello to my friend Bob Patterson.” Jubal looked at Tauson. “Who’s your lady friend, Bob?”

  Disgusted, Tauson breathed a long sigh of annoyance. “Who’s this jackass, Ginger?”

  Jubal thrust out his hand like a rube. “Name of Jack Older. Pleased to meet you, and you are?”

  “None of your beeswax, sonny.”

  Jubal’s plan was to distract Tauson long enough so he could get the drop on him. Jubal set his beer on the table. His arm still around Pauline, he faked a cough and went as if to retrieve a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket, feeling for the burnt-handled .44. To his surprise, Pauline was gripping the gun from outside of his coat. He couldn’t get to it.

  Tauson tapped his fingers on his half-filled glass. “Bob, why don’t you tell your asshole buddy here to take his painted whore off to another room somewhere and leave us be?”

  “Hey, hold on, there, mister,” Jubal said. “No need to be rude. Pauline and I are fixing to tie the knot. Why, heck, Ginger is gonna be my best man, right, Bob?”

  Bob remained seated, his hands holding the edge of the table, ready to spring. Jubal waved his arms in a parody of someone who was upset, trying to get Pauline’s death grip around his waist to loosen up.

  “Bob, tell your gray-haired friend here what a sweet gal Pauline is, and have him say he’s sorry for his remarks.”

  “Jube, I’m in trouble.” Bob glanced quickly at Tauson. “That is to say, Billy, I mean Mr. Tauson, wants… oh, shit, he’s going to kill me.”

  Jubal dropped his arm from around Pauline’s shoulder and briskly forced her away with his hip. “That right, Mr. Beeswax? You gonna kill my friend Bob?”

  Jubal watched Tauson’s hands, still on the table.

  The Mexican on Jubal’s left slid his way slowly away from the table. “I’ll be moseying along, Señor Bill. Adiós.”

  Jubal didn’t take his eyes from Tauson, but called out to the Mexican. “What’s your name, amigo?”

  The man kept walking slowly backward until he stumbled into the back of a chair. “Manolo.”

  “Where you know Mr. Beeswax from?”

  Manolo snickered weakly. “We do business about claims of gold and such. No funny stuff. Just business.”

  “Have you ever been south, around Cerro Vista?” Jubal never took his eyes from Billy Tauson’s hands. He hadn’t recognized the Mexican from the confrontation on the street or the raid on the farm, but there had been a lot of confusion both days. He could have been one of the horsemen.

  Jubal was cursing himself for having his coat buttoned. He motioned for Manolo to come back closer to the table.

  “Señor, I never been anyplace like Cerro Vista. I swear on my sainted mother. Why you ask, please?”

  Pauline had moved away from Jubal’s side, and he could sense Bob trying to ease his chair back from the table. Jubal now shifted his gaze to Billy Tauson’s eyes. The man seemed relaxed but with a growing sense of suspicion.

  “You know, Manolo, some time ago, a group of cowards and lowlifes raided a farm up in the high foothills east of Cerro Vista. These selfsame scum murdered a whole family. Raped two of them. Burned their farmhouse and outbuildings.”

  Tauson glanced downward at the mention of the deaths and fire.

  “You know anything about that, Manolo?” Jubal closely watched Tauson, whose mouth had the beginnings of a slight grin.

  Manolo spread his arms wide in an innocent gesture. “Ah, señor, I swear on all that’s holy—”

  “Manolo, step back away from the table and call it a night, comprende?” Jubal interrupted.

  The man stumbled as he once again walked backward. “Gracias, señor. Gracias.”

  The packed tavern quieted, both the drunk and the sober all very aware of the tableau taking place in the middle of the room.

  Tauson’s hands hadn’t moved. “What’s the reason for all this rigamarole, mister? Or should I say ‘sonny’?”

  Bob began weeping.

  “‘Sonny,’ will do,” Jubal said, “or you could call me Jubal.”

  Tauson gave a slight nod. “How fast are you, sonny?”

  “Accurate.” Jubal didn’t blink.

  “Accurate?” Tauson smirked.

  “I’ll put two into your chest while you scatter your quick shots around the room.”

  Tauson tapped all ten fingers on the beer-streaked table, trying to intimidate Jubal. His right hand moved toward his drink. “May I have a last sip, angelito?”

  Jubal didn’t know the term but nodded in agreement.

  “Velorio de angelito.” Tauson grinned. “Wake for a dead child.” He took a sip, dropped the glass, flipped the table onto its side, and dove to the floor.

  Jubal moved to his right behind Bob’s chair as Tauson fired wildly from around the corner of the table. People screamed, ducked behind the bar, and scattered out the front door. Jubal dug his pistol out from his belt, having second thoughts about provoking Billy Tauson into a gunfight. Well, like it or not, we’re in with both feet now.

  Pauline curled into a ball at the base of the overturned table, gasping for breath in between blurting a string of expletives describing Tauson’s lineage, his penis size, and the dubious profession of his mother.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Bob Patterson was lying faceup, hands frozen across his chest. Blood pumped between his fingers as he muttered a prayer. Jubal was stretched out on the floor next to him, facing the direction of the overturned table.

  “… Forgive us our sins as we…” He stopped speaking as Jubal felt his forehead. There began a long slow pouring out of air from Bob and a dry clattering rattle. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling and his pupils were dilated. Jubal moved his fingers to Bob’s neck, then noticed the blood had stopped.

  He was gone.

  Jubal thought Tauson must have crawled away while he was tending to Mountain Bob. People were still calling out, with the occasional sprint toward the doorway. Jubal, using his elbows, moved up behind Pauline and touched her ankle. She screamed and kicked out at him. “Pauline, it’s all right. It’s me.”

  “Goddammit. You scared the hell out of me. What? You want your money back, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Take my hand. I’ll get you out of here. Just take it.” Pauline sniffled a few times while Jubal looked over the top of the table. A number of people were still crouched, seeking a safe haven. The bartender had a shotgun and was bent over the polished wood service gate. When Jubal finally caught his eye, he motioned to the man with open hands and shrugged as if to ask, Which way did he go? The white aproned barkeep pointed up the stairs to the second-story balcony. Jubal grasped Pauline’s hand and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his free arm around her waist, half carrying her out the front door. After charging across the street with her, he sat her down on a bench in front of a haberdashery.

  “Sorry about this, miss. As soon as you catch your breath, hightail it for home.”

  “That is my home.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed. “The bar. The room you saw me come out of, number three.”

  “Is it locked?” She nodded.

  “Is there a back window?”

  “There’s a door with a window in it
that leads out the back of the building to a walkway that runs to the back stairs.”

  Jubal remembered seeing the walkway, probably so the women would have access to their rooms when the bar was closed. “Do you have your key?”

  Pauline took from around her neck a pink ribbon that had been threaded into a large skeleton key.

  “Will this unlock all of the rooms?”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded again. “Is he dead? The bald man with the red mustache?”

  Jubal chewed his lip. “Afraid so.”

  He made his way to the back stairs and ascended them, then crawled along the walkway, looking in the windows. When he made it to room two, he spied Billy Tauson with his back to the inner wall, his left arm wrapped around an older woman’s neck while his right held his pistol to her head.

  Jubal made his way back through Pauline’s room and crept along the balcony away from room two. When he was about halfway over the bar, he hissed a couple of times until the barkeep finally stepped out from beneath the balcony.

  “He’s in room two,” Jubal whispered. “With an older woman held hostage. I think if you distract him with a knock on the door I can get him from behind, okay?”

  “That’s Mary, damn it to hell.” It sounded like the barkeep might be sweet on her. “Maybe we should wait for the sheriff. He’s up in the hills arresting some wife-beater.”

  “I don’t know. This guy looks desperate.”

  “All right,” the bartender said. He started up the stairs, frightened silly.

  “Hey. I’m Jubal. What’s your name?”

  “Mike.”

  Jubal nodded, then signaled Mike by tucking his gun under his arm and holding up all ten fingers, twice.

  The barman understood and began a silent count. Jubal did the same as he slid through room three to the walkway, crouching beneath the door marked with a number two.

  At the count of fourteen, the waiting seemed an eternity. At seventeen Jubal heard a loud knock. Praying Tauson would face the woman toward the interior door, he broke the window. “Drop the gun, Billy, or I’ll kill you.”