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Payback at Morning Peak

Page 19

by Gene Hackman


  It would all go back to Mr. Funny Glasses in the end, but Jubal thought it best if it passed through him first. He didn’t want to interrupt his search for Pete Wetherford, but Bob Patterson’s funeral and his own need for food and provisions would have to come first.

  THIRTY

  Jubal passed a shop with a trio of metal balls hanging from a sign that read WALT’S HOCK AND TRADE. While Jubal was looking in the window, the man he assumed to be Walt came to the door.

  “How you doing, son?”

  “Oh, fine, sir. I’ve got a watch I need to sell.”

  “Sell or hock?”

  “Sell, I think. What’s ‘hock’?”

  “It’s when we loan money on an item, like a watch.”

  “I think I just need to sell this, sir.” Jubal took out Bob’s watch and handed it over.

  “A Swiss copy. What did you think on getting for this piece, sonny?”

  “It were pa’s and I hate to let it go from the family. I’ll need a right good number for it, sir.”

  Walt opened the back of the watch and squinted at an inscription. “Was your pa’s name Patterson?”

  Jubal nodded, trying to look sad.

  “I’ll give you thirty dollars for it. It’s not stolen, is it? I’m not going to get some fella in my shop a-yelling at me that I’ve got his timepiece, am I?”

  “I can assure you, that will not happen.”

  Jubal decided to return to the livery to ask for directions to the sawmill.

  An old-timer with a wad of tobacco in his jaw, upon regarding Jubal’s sketch of the sluice, offered to accompany him.

  “A man could describe a sluice to you ‘til sundown and you’d still not understand the lay of it.… Look here.” The bent old miner laid out a series of planks and drew his own sketch in the soft ground. “You need a gentle angle along here so the water and your filings will filter down.…”

  It took a while, but in the end Jubal purchased his lumber, bundling it so Frisk could drag it, and then proceeded into the hills to try and make a living.

  It was frustrating work. The sluice he built worked better than the way he and Bob had panned, but it would have been much easier with two men.

  The ten-foot-long apparatus slanted at a thirty- to forty-degree angle. The high part was about four feet off the ground, then it angled down close to the surface of the stream. Narrow one-inch riffles, there to catch the gold, created a series of dams along the length of the sluice. Jubal would pour dirt from the streambed onto a screen that caught the larger of the rocks. The water then flowed into the top of the sluice, washing down past the little dams, the theory being that as Jubal shook the whole trough, the heavy gold would settle into the strip of burlap placed in the bottom of the channel.

  After a while the screen would become clogged with material that wouldn’t track down the length of the apparatus, and Jubal would stop and clean it out. He would also be careful to glean the small, heavy sparkles stuck to the burlap at the bottom.

  After a week of sluicing, he figured he had enough of a stake that it would be worth making his way back down the mountain. He hid his sluice behind some pine trees and headed for the assayer’s office.

  “Eighty-seven dollars, mister. What’s you gonna do with all that cash?”

  “Bury some sad memories.”

  Jubal paid the funeral man and saved himself five dollars by hooking Frisk to the carriage wagon with flower-etched windows. They headed up the long hill to Pisgah, a rundown cemetery at the top of a verdant mound overlooking the tight little valley.

  Mr. Apoptic, a preacher for hire named Reverend Everett, and Jubal stood silently after a short few words and benediction. The funeral director signaled for Jubal to begin filling in the damp grave. It had rained the previous night, and the sides of the grave were washed down, the wooden casket settling halfway into a puddle of mud. Jubal carefully tamped the shoveled earth alongside the box and proceeded to fill in the wet hole, wishing he had Bob’s five-dollar gloves.

  Mr. Apoptic and Everett disappeared down the hill with Frisk and the black-filigreed wagon, Jubal briefly considering charging the pair a fee for using his horse on their way back.

  He had many thoughts along those lines, mostly about injustice and greed. Jubal stopped himself from feeling put-upon and morbidly sorry for allowing people to take advantage of him. He resolved to be more tough-minded and resolute, and to direct his feelings in more positive directions. Here I am, worrying about a trifle in terms of rudeness by this bastard Greek funeral director and a for-hire illiterate preacher, while my friend Bob lies at the bottom of a wet grave—his fingers still locked across a cold chest. Heaven help us.

  Frisk stood, head down, still harnessed to the funeral wagon.

  “I hope you were satisfied with the service, Mr. Jubal.” Mr. Apoptic appeared at the back door of the home. “I had to charge you, of course, for the ice to keep friend Bob comfy. I also took the liberty of advancing Reverend Everett ten dollars extra for his thoughtful address. I felt confident you would agree and reimburse me for my foresight. In beloved friend Bob’s memory.”

  Jubal unhitched Frisk and dropped the weighty harness to the ground. “Mr. Apologetic, your foresight and taking of liberties with my money has astounded me. I would have thought people in your position, dealing with folks who have lost those they care for, would be a little more sensitive. Would you like to take a ride with me to the Methodist church? We’ll ask the kind Reverend Ev whether he received a gratuity or not. What do you say? It’s worth an additional ten dollars to you if he says yes.”

  The funeral man ducked back inside his dark house and slammed the door.

  Jubal rode Frisk back into the street. He withdrew his pistol and hit the large reception-room window with the butt end. The glass crazed into a beautiful star shape. He knew it to be childish, but it satisfied him.

  Jubal passed a school that looked closed for the day. A few boys played hide-and-seek, their shouts of joy as they searched out their playmates a delight to Jubal’s ears. He pressed on without really knowing where it would lead him, and even considered riding through the various shantytowns and calling out Pete Wetherford’s name, like a child.

  But justice wouldn’t happen that way.

  Jubal,

  “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye need know.”

  Your note was refreshing and found me in both good spirits and fine health. I walk a little further each day and my appetite has returned.

  Both Marlene and Cybil are doing well and send their regards.

  I hope you’ll excuse the beginning of this note’s partial quote from John Keats. It is one of my favorites and held me in good stead, my years on the bench.

  You have a way about you, young man. Your honesty and forthright behavior will, I think, be the bedrock of your life’s work. Whatever that turns out to be.

  I am flattered you took my incident of physical harm to such heart. Cybil described to me your sensitive help with Doc Brown and how her own woozy behavior led to her comfort and support by you. My most humble gratitude.

  If you will be kind enough to indulge an old man, “heed ye these morsels of ancient wisdom”?

  Stop constantly putting your life on the line, dammit. I know you have been through much and that you are headstrong and independent. But Jubal, my son, think about the consequences of your actions, please. I understand your need for revenge but if it jeopardizes your life, is it worth it?

  I am reminded of a recent confluence of Cervantes scholars; we stood on a dusty street trading quotations. Praying that I achieve at least a credible semblance of exactitude, I quote Sancho Panza to his riding companion. “Good Christians should never avenge injuries.” My beating of Pete Wetherford notwithstanding, I believe in this.

  I’ll not belabor the point but know that we all care for you, especially one undergraduate of my acquaintance. By the way, this particular wayward student sends her regards and has enclosed a note sealed from her do
ddering father’s inquisitive eyes.

  Please take care and weigh the consequences of revenge carefully.

  Yours truly,

  Hiram Wickham

  p.s. wondrous to hear that Marshal Turner brought William Tauson back from Colorado. There was news from the marshal that Tauson had killed another man in a tavern up your way. I didn’t know if you knew of the Tauson incident but there you have it.

  Jubal turned Cybil’s note over in his hands. It had been folded along with the judge’s envelope and sealed with wax, scented as if soaked in rosewater.

  Jubal,

  Several days after daddy’s attack, a U.S. Marshal came by to see Father and inquire of his health. I overheard him talking about you having followed his band of townsmen, his “posse,” for quite some time, then headed out north on, as he described it, a “wild goose chase.”

  We are all still shaken and apprehensive about that nightmarish evening.

  I would like to take this occasion to explain my sickening behavior that evening. I hope you understand that the sight of my strongwilled father, helpless on that bloody table, was overwhelming.

  Jubal, your complete concentration and steadfast manner with Doctor Brown created an atmosphere of enormous love and caring for another human being. Thank you.

  Marshal Turner has stopped by several times and is somewhat a pest. He insisted on describing to me how he wounded Al Wetherford in the street in front of our house and other feats of derring-do throughout his career. I have less than zero interest in him and his oily hair.

  I’ll close now, hoping this note finds you in close proximity to transportation back to Cerro Vista and people who care for you.

  Regards,

  Cybil Wickham

  p.s. may the wild geese be chased south to our warmer climes.

  He held Cybil’s scented note to his nose again before heading back into the mountains. It pleased him that he had made such good friends. He was touched that Judge Wickham thought so much of him. He hoped he would be worthy.

  Cybil. How could this creature possibly know so much about him, and how was it that she could put into words things he had privately thought of and run through his mind about her? It was as if she could gaze into his heart. There was no doubt he admired her, and now his determination to continue his search was, if anything, more resolute.

  Marshal Turner. An extraordinary expression of humanity. The man might not have come right out and said he’d captured Tauson, but since he brought him back to town he could just leave the rest to people’s imagination. As for telling Cybil of his shooting Al Wetherford on the street in front of the Wickhams’, it was… ridiculous, Jubal thought.

  In some regard the greasy-haired marshal’s behavior with Cybil was understandable. Jubal himself was smitten. It also became clear that he and Marshal Turner had become rivals. Now I’ve got trouble on both sides of the law.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Pete Wetherford felt tired. His companion Ed Thompson acted like a dolt and moved too slowly. They rode almost nonstop for several days.

  “Why do we need to put so much distance between us and Cerro Vista, Pete?” Wetherford’s driven behavior baffled Ed.

  “Why you suppose, idiot? We’re wanted. My brother Al’s been shot dead. We plugged the judge, I killed the sheriff and probably the deputy. We’re wanted for those drunken events at the farm. Not to mention our little stopover in La Majestad.”

  Ed looked blankly at Wetherford.

  “The village where we spent the night, stupid.”

  “I don’t like the idea of riding this here pony not knowing who the hell it belongs to, I’ll tell you that.”

  Wetherford thought this funny. He rode in silence for a while, then sidled up next to Ed with his mount. “If you don’t shine up to that there cayuse, why don’t you slip off her and give her a good slap on the butt? She’ll head on back to La Majestad right quick, that way it would relieve all your worries about being hung for a horse thief.”

  Ed didn’t know if Pete was kidding him or not. “You know well as I they don’t hang folks for horse thievery anymore. Just concerned ‘cause I’m wondering what you did back at that…”

  “La Majestad.”

  “Yeah, that town. What you did to that old gal.”

  Wetherford didn’t know whether to satisfy Ed’s curiosity. The man was beginning to annoy him. “When you were waiting by the mesa for me, what did you think? That Pete’s a crazy one, he’s gone back to kill that señorita, sure as hell? Was that drifting around in that pea brain of yours?”

  “Nah,” protested Ed. “I just don’t want the law taking me down for something I didn’t do.” He glanced over at Wetherford. “Did you do her?”

  Wetherford laughed. “When I got back to the shack, she was gone, along with one of the horses. So, yeah, she probably rode into that burg and told someone she had a rollicking good time the previous night, but now she regretted it and would someone please chase after a couple gringos, one who has a big smile plastered across his face? Hell’s fire, man, we’re a hell of a way down the road. No one’s gonna catch us—shake off your willies. Outside of that, we could just parade up and down old La Majestad or Cerro Vista until Christmas. There’s just a couple villages ‘round these parts that don’t need to see the likes of Pete Wetherford and a certain scared-shitless Ed ‘Mama’s Boy’ Thompson.”

  Ed reined in his horse and waited for Wetherford to do the same. “No need to talk to a fellow like that. I was just asking, is all. Jesus.”

  “You want to trail out of here on your own, Thompson, have at it.” Wetherford jerked his horse around. “Your problem, Ed, is you got no sense of fun and very little patience.”

  “Don’t be talking to me about patience. I told you and Al on the street before we ambushed the judge’s house that we should hold up. Try and get the fellow to come out on the porch so we could fix him good. But no, you gotta ride down there spraying away at everything in sight. I said to Al that I seen a couple fellows coming down the street. What is it with the Wetherfords? Whatever you want to do, you just do it? Like it don’t make no never mind what other folk might be thinking or wanting? Now you got us in trouble for raping that Mexican gal and stealing her horse. Lord knows what else.”

  “The Wetherfords don’t take kindly to folks who want to criticize or talk ugly.” Wetherford looped his leg over the saddle horn and took a hard look at his riding crony. “Thing is, Ed, I guess I really don’t like you much. Trail your butt out of here before I lose my temper.”

  Ed’s long stare angered Wetherford.

  “Go on, git. Tell your story while you ride away.” Wetherford took his pistol from the holster, holding it loosely. “Questions?”

  Ed mumbled while turning his horse.

  “What did you say?” Wetherford called out to him. “Did you call me a name? Spit it out, man.”

  Ed spurred his horse northeast into a gallop through the foothills.

  Wetherford wheeled his mare, Brindle, back onto the trail to Poverty Gulch. He figured it was closer to five miles than ten. The confrontation with Thompson had been, to Wetherford’s way of thinking, inevitable. The man brought him low in spirit. They hadn’t really been friends in Tauson’s group, anyway, and it was pure happenstance they had hooked up after Wetherford’s escape from the Cerro Vista Jail.

  Wetherford had snuck back into town several days after the jailbreak looking for whiskey and ran into Ed at Casa Rey. They had decided to ride north together looking for Billy Tauson and his promised gold deal.

  “We’ll all be rich as Midas, boys!” Tauson had shouted, back when he had described his claim and how he wanted the fellows to stake their titles adjacent to his so they could control a whole continuous patch of free flowing riches. “I’ll buy your claims and you fellers will work for me, ‘cause I got the seed money. Don’t worry none about being cheated. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

  Yeah, Wetherford thought. He would promise in the same way one would
to a gal, “I’ll be your sweetie forever, hon.” Wetherford knew Tauson would do him dirt if he got the chance, even though he was smart and had an enterprising soul. A good person for Pete to hook his future to.

  If he stayed alert, Pete Wetherford could do well with Billy Tauson.

  Wetherford rode through a wooded draw, pulled up, and twisted around slowly in the saddle. Something felt strange, but he couldn’t put a finger to it. As he started to alight from his mare, a rifle shot blew off a small tree branch just above his head.

  Wetherford ducked under his horse and tried to get the lay of the surrounding area. A copse of trees stood up the side of the mountain to the east. Behind him, only open trail. To the west, a steep rocky descent to a stream below. The shot seemed to come from above and to the east. He knew who had fired it.

  He tied Brindle to a sapling and unsheathed his rifle, a Spencer carbine.

  He waited, knowing Big Ed would be nervous, since his first shot had missed. He would move soon, Wetherford was sure of it. Another bullet ricocheted off a thick piece of shale some ten or twelve feet to his left. A crouched figure darted between the trees and dove behind a log perpendicular to the slope.

  Crawling up the grade, Wetherford watched the distant log, stopping where a large rock gave him protection from the shooter. Lifting the rear brass sight to adjust for the rise in terrain, he framed his view, pulled back the hammer, and waited.

  “Hey, Ed? Jesus, man. What the hell you doing? I know you’re kind of miffed at me, but Christ, can we talk about it? We been riding buddies for quite a spell now. I gotta admit I go too far sometimes, but… losing Al and all… can you give a fellow another chance, pardner?”

  The beginnings of a clump of hair starting to rise above the bark of the tree. Then an ear and a forehead. As the eyes came into view, Wetherford squeezed off a round from the Spencer. A billowing array of shredded bark exploded next to Ed Thompson’s head, accompanied by the man’s shriek. Ed rolled out from behind the log, both hands holding the side of his face. He staggered down the slanted ground while Wetherford levered in another round, cocked the Spencer, and fired, thinking this time maybe he hit the area of Ed’s left hip.

 

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