by Gene Hackman
The sheriff kicked his chair hard. “Time to wake up.” As Tauson stirred, the deputy snapped a set of leg irons around his ankles, then secured them to the shackles the sheriff had applied to his wrists. “You’re in for a long trip.”
The man turned to Jubal. “Heard back from your friend Wayne Turner. Here, I’ll let you read what he says.” The sheriff handed a folded telegram to Jubal.
To Sheriff Tom Cox of Teller County, Colorado.
Sir, received your wire in regards to a William F. Tauson who has been accused of murder here in the environs of Cerro Vista, New Mexico. Please hold said individual until my arrival by train at 4 p.m. later today.
Signed,
Wayne Turner
U.S. Marshal
p.s. as per your wire, I understand a Mr. Jubal Young might have had something to do with apprehension? Hard to believe.
He laughed. Yes, difficult even for Jubal to believe, but there he was, William F. Tauson, taking shackled baby steps, dragging the chain from his leg irons as the deputy led the tall gray-haired man out of the Good Chance.
Jubal looked around the tavern, then followed the men into the street.
The sheriff wrapped his right hand around Tauson’s forearm.
Tauson grunted in pain.
Jubal found Frisk and rode out of town toward his campsite. He thought the revenge Bob had desired over the years toward Billy Tauson had become, in reality, much harsher than Bob had imagined. What was it Tauson had said? “Your partner is a coward.” Bob hadn’t been the bravest, certainly, just a gentle soul who didn’t have the same sense of responsibility toward justice that burdened Jubal, and Jubal didn’t consider himself brave. Throughout the long night it had never occurred to him that he had been doing anything except what was required of him, what he had set out to do some six weeks earlier.
In a peculiar way, Bob had been his responsibility. Yes, the man was older and maybe more versed in the ways of life, but—and this was what bothered Jubal—he was an innocent. Jubal thought it would have been difficult for him to change the path the two of them had pursued, but he should have tried. After all, it was his crusade, his pursuit. Bob had come along because Jubal really hadn’t thought out his dream of revenge against Billy Tauson, and in the end it had cost the big fellow his life. Jubal would have to live with that.
That responsibility, the weight of obligation.
He made his way back to the partially deserted campsite to sleep a few hours. Breaking camp as the sun rose, he bundled his few belongings, including the placer mining tools Bob had left behind. He loaded everything on Frisk’s broad back and headed into town. He found Bennett Street and finally the sheriff’s office.
Jubal looked around for a spot where he could keep watch for Marshal Wayne Turner’s arrival, settling on a nearby run-down building. He tied Frisk out back and stationed himself, hunkering down on what was left of the porch.
Tauson said Pete Wetherford would be trying to find him if he was alive, and that there would be “a hellish debt to pay.” With all the commotion at the Good Chance, Jubal was certain that if Wetherford was in the district, he would have heard of it.
If Wetherford showed himself and tried to get Tauson out of jail, Jubal wanted to be a part of any hell-paying. He leaned against the dilapidated building and cleaned his father’s pistol.
Beef cattle were being driven along Bennett Street, about fifty head, their loud protests at being hurried along awakening Jubal, who had fallen asleep with his back to the rough siding. A recurring dream lingered, something about a game and his family, when they were in Kansas five or six years ago. He tried to remember but couldn’t. Something about numbers.
He silently addressed his father. I got the leader, Pa.
He also pledged that Tauson definitely would not be the last.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Their home in Kansas had been modest but full of love. Pa would be gone most days, traveling, selling harnesses and various gear to outfit the average farmer. His territory had been most of Kansas. They often passed the time with numbers. The game had been devised by Jubal’s mother, and the idea was to see who could guess how many beans were in a jar or a tin cup. Jubal marveled at how his family could be so easily amused. Pru would almost always initiate the game, screaming, “Firsts, firsts, please, Ma, please!”
They were in the middle of a game one evening when Jubal’s father came home from his travels with a red welt above his left brow that gave his face an uneven look. Jubal had never seen his father injured. He’d always seemed immortal.
“We’re going to have to consider that farm out west I told you about” Jubal’s pa said to his ma.
“Why is that, Jube? Did you have problems with Hank again?” She ran her hand gently over her husband’s brow.
“Afraid so, Bea. Fraid so. It’s serious this time, we came to blows.”
“Oh, Jube, are you all right?”
Jubal’s father went to the highboy for a bottle of scotch whiskey. He looked so sad perched that way, squeezing the neck of the bottle. “I really made a mess of things this time, Bea. Really upset the old proverbial apple cart for good.”
Jubal and Pru played checkers while their parents sat in the corner of the living room speaking in quiet tones. Pru had won her third game in a row when Jubal heard his mother’s strained voice. “Oh, my God. Jube, no, how did it—” She turned. “Children, go to bed, please. Now.”
He’d gone to bed but had not been able to sleep. Something had happened with his father. He ended up being around the house a lot after that. He fiddled around in the garden, painted the window sashes, redid the flower beds, but, most importantly, met with ugly men in suits and ties who came to the house to hold long, noisy meetings in the living room, sometimes far into the night. Jubal remembered the man Hank. He had been a fellow who presented himself as cocksure.
It had been a hot summer in Kansas. Jubal was almost fifteen when the company his father worked for had invited employees’ families and friends to an end-of-summer picnic.
A tree-lined lake provided an idyllic background. Toward the end of the day, the head of the company stood and made a briefspeech, thanking everyone for their hard work and loyalty. As he began winding down, he was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.
“Tug-of-war, tug-of-war.”
The fellow Hank stood up, trying to exhort the crowd. “Tug-of-war. Salesmen against harness makers. Tug-of-war.”
It took a while to get organized and eventually the two reluctant groups came together and discussed the rules, most of them trying to be good sports about the game. As it happened, ten fellows in sales and eight harness makers made up the teams. Jubal was recruited to his father’s side. They stretched the knotted rope across a small creek leading down to the lake. Someone tied a handkerchief to the rope in the center of the little creek. Jubal was second in line, close to the creek’s edge. It wasn’t deep, only a couple of feet, but the stream ran muddy over a rocky bottom.
The sales team made a good effort of it, but the superior strength of the harness makers eventually pulled the first three members of Jubal’s team into the creek. There began good natured laughter, and then from Hank a slightly different tone.
“Hey, Jubal, what happened to your boy? Was he trying to learn to swim?”
The elder Young ignored Hank and dutifully helped Jubal out of the quagmire. “You okay, son?”
“Yeah, Pa, sorry about getting all nasty. I tried pulling, but they were just too much for us, weren’t they?”
“Yeah, they were, Jube. But we tried.”
Hank walked up. “Too bad about that, sonny. But it’s all in the growing up, ain’t it? Maybe next year you’ll come pull on our side, be with the winners.”
Jubal’s father stiffened as Hank gave him a big phony wink and strutted away.
“That jackass will be the death of me yet,” his father muttered. Of course, it didn’t turn out that way exactly.
Jubal waited across the stree
t from the sheriff’s office on Bennett. Marshal Wayne Turner said he would arrive on the four p.m. train from Antonito, and Jubal felt he needed to be there to see his new acquaintance, Mr. William F. Tauson, safely in the hands of the marshal.
He dug his ma’s Bible from his saddlebag and sat back down on the weathered porch. He looked for a passage on revenge or salvation, but stumbled onto a line that he thought amusing: “Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne.” So if he took this literally, having caught Billy Tauson, he was being rewarded with this hard seat under this broken-down porch for his righteousness.
My throne is low, but my spirits aren’t.
He felt good; the capture of the man had left him in fine fettle, although the word “capture” didn’t feel right for what had taken place. “Apprehension” seemed too literate, and to “take captive” sounded like it might come from a pirate’s tale. Maybe “detain” would work best.
It had a certain adult sound to it. Jubal Young the Detainer, the scourge of the West, fighting injustice wherever he found it. Tracking down predators, hyenas, ne’er-do-wells, and gallantly releasing them to the authorities.
His daydreams made him smile, but a sober reminder brought him back. There were at least two more villains to be detained—Pete Wetherford and the man he was reminded of each morning when he arose and tried to stretch his midriff—Chief Crook Arm and his damnable arrow. Actually, he thought Crook Arm more than likely was not a chief.
Jubal’s sister Pru loved calling their father “chief,” always behind his back, and only in Jubal’s presence. They would titter and make fun of Jubal, Sr.’s gruff but loving voice. Pru would parade around the barn, her small fists planted firmly on her hips, her face screwed up into a make-believe belligerent frown.
“Jubal, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you…”
In chorus, Jubal and Pru: “… nearly a godforsaken thousand times.” He would then point to her and she would say, “Milk those cows, tend those sheep.”
“We don’t have any sheep, Pa,” Jubal would respond.
“I know that, smarty. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Hoe that garden, pick that corn.”
“It’s too early for corn, sir.”
Pru would deepen her frown. “Don’t talk back to me, boy.”
Joining their voices once again, they would intone, “Your father knows best, darn it.”
Pru always had her head on a swivel when she made fun of her pa. Running to the barn door, she would look both ways, then turn dramatically, wiping make-believe sweat from her brow. “When I get married, I’m going to be just like mom, you know, whip-smart, but with a voice like pa’s, full of authority and wisdom. Though sometimes when I forget to help ma with the dishes and he scolds me, I wonder about his wisdom.”
Then she would daydream about her life as an adult.
“I’ll have three children all at once, and I’ll have them in the field, where I won’t have to miss a day’s work. I’ll name them Pru One, Two, and Three. If they are all boys, so much the better. With names like that, they’ll learn to fight at an early age. My husband will be six-foot-four and protect me from my willful brother, who is as lazy as a sow. I’ll fight for women’s right to vote and I’ll run for mayor and governor at the same time.”
One time Jubal called out with his hands cupped around his mouth, “What about a man’s right to bear arms?”
“Yes, I’m for it, I think a man should have bare arms and a bare backside.”
She stopped and held her hands over her mouth in embarrassment as Jubal called out, “Bare backsides, bare backsides.”
He would never see Pru married, never be godfather to her children. He had been denied the pleasure of her tall, straight countenance on her wedding day. That radiant smile, the sense of play and joy of life.
He had been denied that by a number of fools who had thought their need for fun was greater than the rights of three loving people.
TWENTY-NINE
The marshal, when he finally arrived, strutted down Bennett Street like a man going to his own wedding. Shirt fresh, boots shined. His badge, usually worn on his vest and tucked away, now appeared prominently on the outside lapel of his smart jacket. From the attention he was paid by the various passersby, it seemed the man had achieved satisfaction from his appearance.
Jubal walked to the other side of the street and fell in step alongside Marshal Turner. “Good afternoon, sir, lovely day, wouldn’t you say?”
Turner was lost in his own image. “What the hell? Oh, it’s the young shootist, come to gloat.”
Jubal chose to ignore the remark. “How’s the judge doing, Mr. Turner?”
“I guess you’re going to be a pain in my behind the rest of the day, aren’t you?”
“No, sir, I’m not.” Jubal continued walking beside the marshal. “I just wanted to inquire of Judge Wickham’s health. How is he?”
They reached the front of the sheriff’s office. The tight-lipped marshal paused, looked at Jubal, then entered and shut the heavy door behind him.
Jubal returned to his run-down structure and slid his back down the side of the porch. He was still determined to see Tauson be ridden off to the train. He was baffled as to what he had done that had so agitated Marshal Wayne.
It was close to an hour’s wait when Sheriff Cox and Marshal Turner came out of the building. They spoke for a while before the deputy appeared with Tauson in tow. The group loaded their chained prisoner into a buggy and took their seats. Jubal was determined to get an answer from the marshal.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me before, Mr. Turner, but I asked about the judge. How is he?”
“I heard you, schoolboy. The man you shot, Al Wetherford, is in the hospital in Albuquerque. He’s gonna live. As for the judge, he’ll make it, too, no thanks to you.”
They rode off toward the train station with Tauson trying to look his haughty best, under the circumstances. Sheriff Cox was the only one to acknowledge Jubal, winking at him as the group disappeared down the dirt street.
“‘No thanks to you’?” Jubal repeated aloud, wondering what the heck that meant.
He had no idea how to proceed, thinking maybe he’d hang around until Sheriff Cox came back from delivering Tauson and the marshal to the train station. He then changed his mind and took off.
Jubal walked Frisk slowly down the dirt street, passing the post office, wondering when or if he would hear from the judge. He liked the man. Judge Wickham seemed unusually honest, and while thinking of the judge and his family, it was an easy jump for Jubal to let his mind wander over the body and soul of one Cybil Wickham. He imagined her soft hair, smile, and mischievous frame. A wonderful group of particulars wrapped around a humorous and quick mind. He passed Faulkner’s Livery where he had been yesterday to find out about a sluice for panning gold.
Well, that would have to wait. First he needed to talk to a fellow he had heard of, a certain Greek, a man named Mr. Apoptic.
The dark establishment reeked of chemicals and other dank scents. A thin man, his sleeves rolled up, dried his hands on an overused towel and asked Jubal how he could be of help.
“I came about Bob Patterson.”
The man looked puzzled.
“He was probably brought in early this morning from the tavern. Gunshot wound to the chest, a bit of ginger-colored hair and sideburns.…”
“Ah, yes, and you’re here to…”
“Pay my respects and take care of his funeral if I’m able.”
The man directed Jubal to a chair across from a dark wooden desk.
“Is Mr. Patterson a relative, Mr.…”
“Young, Jubal Young. No, we are just friends. Or, I mean, we were friends before.”
“Mr. Jubal. I know you would like to see your friend Bob well taken care of, wouldn’t you?”
Jubal thought he’d like not to be called “mister,” and especially not “Mr. Jubal,” but then, what the heck was the difference? “Yes, of cou
rse, but I’ve been caught a little short, so it’ll have to be a modest event.”
“Event?”
“I mean, I’m not sure what all this entails, as I’ve never taken part before—in a funeral, I mean.”
The man leafed through a ledger. Jubal suspected the man already had a figure in mind and was just posing.
“Beloved friend Bob.” He took on a serious look. “Could be nicely interred for, I think, around one hundred”—he glanced up to see how Jubal was taking it—“and thirty dollars. Mr. Jubal, would that suit?”
“That includes a box, I mean, a casket and all?”
“Yes, of course, the very finest carved rosewood receptacle we have. That would include a charge for a carriage to the cemetery, crepe for doors—”
“Could you scratch around and find something a little more plain? You see, Bob didn’t go in for anything fancy… wouldn’t feel comfortable in anything too ornate.”
The funeral director moved his pince-nez glasses up closer to his eyes as if looking at the fine print. “How would one hundred and ten suit friend Bob? Think he might rest comfortably at that bargain rate? Of course, that would be all-inclusive. Preparation, a shroud, engraved plate, gloves for friend Bob, opening the ground—”
“What’s a shroud?”
“I assume since we’re talking a value-conscious ‘event’ that you wouldn’t be buying friend Bob a new suit. A shroud is what they wear at a church choir. It just covers the front.”
Jubal paused. “Can I see him?”
“Yes, certainly, give me a minute, please.”
The cost of death surprised him.
Bob looked pale. Mouth open, hands locked across his chest. “I’ll leave you alone,” said the funeral director.
Jubal heard the door click behind him. The dark room, with several covered forms on long, flat tables, did not spark his curiosity. It was cold. It smelled strange. Jubal looked at the stark mound that had been a laughing, fun-loving human being just hours before. He pulled the sheet down to Bob’s waist and took one last look, then rested his hand on Bob’s vest pocket. He felt the hard surface of Bob’s gold watch that he had been so proud of. Also in the pocket were a couple of gold coins. Jubal pocketed the watch and money.