Payback at Morning Peak

by Gene Hackman

  “Call me sucker.”

  Sheriff Cox and Jubal laughed as the sheriff gestured for the man to step into the jailhouse. “Well, Mr. Sucker, please enter.”

  As the man described his assailant, Jubal was sure it was Pete Wetherford. The physical description, the sheer ruthless behavior—it had to be him. Wetherford had cut a path of death and malice through the countryside, and Jubal wondered if it would all lead to him. He had no doubt Wetherford would kill him without hesitation. He would need to stay vigilant.

  The street had quite a slope to it, the water rushing along as many small tributaries before eventually melding into one watercourse. The rutted dirt road became difficult, and he was reminded of his hellish ride with Frisk down the raging waters in the arroyo.

  As the downpour lessened, Jubal darted across the street, leaping carefully over the beginnings of the small river in the middle of the roadbed, to stand under the awning of the assayer’s shop. The sign above the door read GOLD APPRAISED AND BOUGHT. PROPRIETOR STEVEN WILLS. In the window of the door, a CLOSED sign with note attached: Regret, the shop will be closed for several days, sorry. S.W.

  Later that day, Jubal heard from the sheriff that the fellow Ed Thompson, who had been dragged into town by his horse, would live.

  Jubal and Sheriff Cox had become fairly good friends and, when the rain finally stopped, Jubal asked the sheriff to visit Ed with him. The rain finally stopped, bringing out the sun along with the locals. The shops and stores buzzed with a variety of miners and prospectors, all intent on spending money. Jubal remarked to Sheriff Cox how prosperous the town appeared to be.

  “Yeah, I suppose you could say that. Except it also has a lot of yokels who are flat on their asses, so anytime you have that kind of disparity among folks, you’ll always have trouble. Grousing about wages, unhappy about their lot in life. A kind of constant woe-is-me mentality. You get my drift?”

  Jubal thought maybe he understood. “Then you have guys like Pete Wetherford,” he said, “robbing and killing. Makes for an unhappy combination, I guess.” They continued walking along a street with a mix of proper houses and occasional shacks and tents.

  The doctor had arranged for Ed to be bedded in a home for the infirm. Ed sat propped up in an easy chair, head swathed in bandages. A shirt open at the front revealed an array of dressings across his waist and chest.

  Sheriff Cox sat beside him on a couch. “How you holding?”

  Ed Thompson’s eyes darted around the room. “The doctor says I need plenty of rest.”

  “Ah-huh. Well, this young’un wants to talk to you. He’s one of the folks who helped you when you slid into town.”

  “I don’t feel much like talking, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind, dammit,” Sheriff Cox said. “You came into town bullet-shot and whimpering. I want to know what happened.”

  Jubal introduced himself to Ed and started to tell him his story. He saw the man’s eyes shift from looking at him to checking his left hand as if he’d never seen it before. “In April of this year, a group of cowardly bastards rode into our meadow, killed my family—”

  “Why you telling me all this sad tale? In April I was up in Alamosa, ranching with Billy Tauson. You could ask anyone. I swear, cross my heart.”

  “Who had your vest?”

  “What?”

  Jubal watched the man’s eyes. “Your vest. It’s very distinctive, what do you call it?”

  “My vest? I don’t understand.”

  “Your checkered vest was at our farm that day. I saw it, and you were there, too. Don’t deny it.”

  “How you gonna act, coming in here at a man’s sickbed making accusations about my behavior? I didn’t do nothing wrong. So I have a colorful checkered vest, so what? It was that crazy bastard Pete Wetherford started it.” The big lummox of a man started crying, head down, fists buried into his eye sockets.

  Sheriff Cox got up from the couch and grabbed the man by the chin. “Listen to me… fellow. Look up here at me.”

  Ed Thompson finally looked at the sheriff.

  “I’ll drag your lanky butt out of that comfy chair and deposit you down at the jail, you understand me?”

  Big Ed agreed to cooperate.

  Jubal began once again. “Where’s Pete Wetherford?”

  “We were heading into Cripple Creek here to try and find Billy Tauson.” Big Ed took a breath. “Supposedly to do some mining. Gold. Hear tell there’s plenty around.”

  Jubal thought of the nugget he had squirreled away in his pocket.

  “I don’t have no idea where the bastard is. Hell’s fire, he shot me with no warning. I hope he’s in hell.” He tried to shift his weight in the chair. “You got to look after me, Sheriff. That bully will come into town and back-shoot me sure as heck. Tried to sweet-talk me… then, ah, hell.”

  Sheriff Cox nodded, signaling to Jubal they were leaving. He glanced back briefly at Ed Thompson and slammed the door. They walked toward Tom’s office.

  “What do you think about all this?” Jubal asked.

  “Pete ambushes this phony Big Ed, rides on into town. Stops for a drink at the tented bar, goes up the mountain, kills a couple innocents, robs a handful of prospectors, then what?” Tom arched his brows in mock surprise. “That’s right, you didn’t hear the best part. After all that, he came down here late in the afternoon, tied up the gold assayer, took his stash out of the safe, and rode off with the man’s horse.”

  “All this happened in the last few days?”

  Sheriff Cox nodded. “The fellow is a handful, I’ll tell you.”

  Jubal couldn’t imagine what would get into a human being to get in such a state as to commit so many crimes. I’ll continue looking. I just don’t know where to start.

  “How about I buy you supper?” Tom put his hand on Jubal’s shoulder. “I got a few things to clear up. Meet you five-thirty at the Big Pan.”

  Jubal agreed, thanked the man, and walked down Main Street. He felt reasonably certain Wetherford would not have stayed anywhere close to town. He seemed to be a loner, always on the move. He’d be hard to find. Even when I find him, what the heck am I to do about it? Challenge him to a duel? But some way I will kill him. He could feel his attitude hardening further.

  He continued walking as the shop owners rolled up their awnings, closing for the day.

  The man from the post office waved to him as he locked his office door. “Hold on, there, scamp, I got something.” The man darted back inside his office and came back with a letter held high in the air. “This thing’s been reeking up my place for several days. Lord a-mighty. What’s your lady friend do? Write with rose oil?” He seemed to enjoy that he could deliver the letter to Jubal. “You are Jubal Young”—he glanced down at the address—“Terror of the West?”

  Jubal couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. The clerk pointed to the penned address on the front of the letter.

  Jubal Young, Terror of the West

  c/o General Delivery

  Cripple Creek (Poverty Gulch), Colorado

  The man handed the letter over. “I’d hold on to that old gal, she’s got herself a sense of humor, and a dandy supply of bouquet perfume.…”

  Pleased, Jubal sauntered up the street whistling “Clementine.” He found the Big Pan and waited for Sheriff Cox on the wood plank sidewalk. He turned the letter over in his hands several times, touching where she had touched, wanting to open it, yet also treasuring the moment of anticipation.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Dearest Jubal,

  Your letters have all gone missing. Rumors are adrift that bears are stopping the U.S. mail trains and rifling through various correspondence searching for ones that are the sweetest.

  We all know how bears have a sugary tooth so I’m sure your notes would have been the first taken. You are excused but just bearly.

  Jube, please forgive my attempts at humor. Dad is feeling good, goes to the hotel every day, and is generally back to his opinionated self. Mom sends
regards as she works in her garden.

  I’m writing primarily because I have a problem. I have to go back to school soon and I don’t see how I can do that without setting eyes on the People’s Purveyor of Peace once more before I’m swallowed up in academia on the east coast. I don’t really mean to make fun of your quest, but please write.

  Marshal Wayne Turner sends his regards. (Just kidding.)

  Fondly,

  Cybil Wickham

  p.s. my bedroom window looks east, I can see Morning Peak, where Daddy told me your family lived. Please hurry back to Cerro Vista, there are people here who miss you.

  “You look as if you’re on another planet, youngster,” Sheriff Cox said, startling Jubal. “Is it good news?”

  He quickly stood. “Ah, yes, sir. Good news, sure, from my girlfriend, or I should say my could-be, hope-to-be friend. She’s a girl who is more than a just a friend, but maybe not quite a girl, yet. She’s a girl, but not yet a girlfriend.”

  “Well, the fact that she can get you to rattle on like that means she’s probably as nuts about you as you are about her. Come on, let’s get dinner, Romeo.”

  They were halfway through their meal when Jubal told Tom of his nugget find.

  “Holy Jesus, sounds huge. Where do you keep it?”

  Jubal patted his pocket and looked around the restaurant. About a dozen miners were enjoying their meals, but no one was close by. He unbuttoned his pocket and glanced once again around the eatery. Unfolding his fist on the table, he revealed the nugget. He placed it on the black-painted table, where it looked like a ripe moon on a dark night.

  Tom reached slowly across the table. “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  The sheriff held the piece close to the candle on the table.

  “I’ve never seen a nugget this big; not many people have. Holy…”

  “What do you think it will assay at?”

  Tom bounced the piece in his hand. “It feels to be something over a quarter pound. Worth a whole hell of a lot more than just the sheer ounce value.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s say there’s four ounces of gold here. The ounce weight would be around a hundred dollars, but this nugget could be worth four or five times that because of its rare size—and, I might add, it is truly beautiful.”

  Though Jubal realized the nugget could be of great monetary value, that meant very little to him. It paled in comparison to his constant ache for retribution.

  Jubal slept in the blacksmith’s barn. The rain had brought moisture into the building, making the straw damp and smelly. In the morning he rubbed Frisk down, then walked over to the jail. He waved at Sheriff Cox. “Morning, Mr. Jailer, how’s it going?”

  “Passable. Yes, tolerable and passable. How’s by you?” Sheriff Cox sipped coffee from a tin cup.

  “Everything you just mentioned, along with restless.”

  Sheriff Cox motioned to the coffeepot on the iron stove. “Help yourself.”

  Jubal took from the shelf a cup that looked as if it could stand a good washing, but, being polite, he poured the black coffee. “I’ve been thinking, Tom, about an idea I had concerning our Mr. Thompson.”

  “And?”

  “What would you say to my bundling him up in the bed of a buckboard and hustling him down to Cerro Vista to stand trial along with Billy Tauson?”

  “You’re a persistent devil, aren’t you?” Tom paused. “I don’t have any jurisdiction over that brute. Only thing he’s done wrong, as far as I can tell, is get hisself all shot up. Yes. Take him away. Think you can handle him?”

  Jubal set the vile-tasting coffee down on the stove. “How can you drink that? It tastes like—”

  “Horse piss?”

  “Come to think of it, yes.”

  The sheriff offered no excuses other than explaining the whims of being a single man in his busy world. “What was your plan about Big Ed?’

  “No real plan, just get a mattress, build a little tent of sorts over the buckboard, harness up Frisk, and light out.” Jubal hoped this was making sense. “I saw an old wagon in the corner of the blacksmith’s barn. Figured I could buy it cheap, have the smithy anchor a twenty-foot chain to the end of the side plate, then secure Big Ed with an ankle shackle from my friend Tom Cox.”

  Sheriff Cox smiled. “For someone without a plan, you sound like you’ve got it pretty well figured out. Why the twenty-foot chain?”

  “That way I don’t have to worry about old Ed wandering off. He can do his business along the side of the road without me having to lock and unlock his tether constantly.”

  “Sounds good. Strangely enough, I never heard back from your buddy Marshal Turner, so if anybody is going to secure your Big Ed, I guess it’s gonna have to be you. I can deputize you, but it’ll only be good in this county. I could give you a note, though, to cover yourself, explaining the situation. Might help. When did you plan on leaving?”

  “Don’t know. What do you think of Thompson’s health?”

  “He’s a sugar tit, the bastard. He looked fit enough now, far as I’m concerned.”

  Firm in his plan, Jubal headed out for the blacksmith’s.

  “What I thought might work, sir, is a bolt through the back of the sideboard near to the tailgate. The chain link could be secured by the bolt and then onto the shackle around the fellow’s leg. But first I’d need to know what you want for that buckboard in the corner of the barn.”

  The smithy guffawed. “That old thing? If you pay me twenty dollars, I’ll be glad to get rid of it. I’ll even grease the axles and straighten out a few flat spots in those rims.”

  “I’d need a harness for Frisk.”

  “We’ll rig up something. I’ll have her done by tomorrow night ‘round five, okay?”

  Jubal spent the rest of the day provisioning for the trip. He bought hardtack, a side of bacon, coffee, sugar, and, because deep down he was still a kid, several handfuls of hard candy.

  He needed a mattress for the back of the wagon for Thompson to lie on. He solved that problem by borrowing a stiff canvas mattress cover from the jail and stuffing it with straw from the blacksmith’s barn. He confiscated additional yardage of canvas from the back alley of a store that had just replaced their awning. It would suffice as shelter for him at night, as well as protection for his patient-prisoner, Mr. Ed Thompson.

  The following day he got the ankle shackle from the sheriff and took it to the smithy, who welded it to the twenty-foot chain, then bolted the other end to the wagon.

  He was getting close.

  The smithy told him he would have the rims straightened in another hour. Jubal left the mattress and awning material in the buckboard and went back to the sheriff’s office.

  “All set?” Cox asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you want me to accompany you to see Ed? That yehoo will probably kick up a fuss when he sees what’s happening.”

  Jubal agreed that he would more than likely need help. After settling up with the smithy, Jubal harnessed Frisk and they all headed to visit with Ed.

  “I wrote you this letter, put it on official county stationery.”

  To Whom It May Concern—

  This letter is to inform all, that the holder of this document, a certain Mr. Jubal Young, is a deputy of Teller County, in and around the town of Cripple Creek, Colorado. This deputy is authorized to transport one Mr. Ed Thompson to the environs of Cerro Vista, New Mexico, where Mr. Ed Thompson is wanted for multiple counts of murder.

  Sheriff Tom Cox of Teller County, Colorado.

  “Of course, the crux of it is that it isn’t worth much once you get outside the county. But it might help.”

  They pulled up outside the house.

  “Raise your right hand.”

  “What? Oh, yes, the deputizing.” Jubal dutifully raised his right hand while the sheriff read over him. He felt he was now a deputy in Teller and Cerro Vista counties. All he would have to worry about now was the half do
zen or so counties in between.

  Sheriff Cox stopped Jubal at the door. “We need to make this short and to the point. No explanations or bullshit. Is the ankle shackle open?”

  Jubal nodded.

  “All right, here’s the key. Don’t lose it. You snap the shackle closed as we load our Mr. Thompson on board. The folks inside won’t know what’s going on—and don’t tell them. They’ll recognize my badge and will damn well stand off. If we have to carry the bastard, we’ll do that. Remember, no explanations. Just ‘This is official business,’ right?”

  “Right.” Jubal admired Sheriff Cox’s tough approach.

  A matronly woman greeted them at the house. The sheriff looked down at a piece of paper he’d retrieved from his pocket as if it were official business. “Where is a… Mr. Ed Thompson?”

  “Mr. Thompson is still feeling poorly. Can’t stand proper. He’s in the kitchen having supper.”

  They shouldered their way into the country kitchen, where six people sat around a large wood table. Sheriff Cox looked at Jubal. “Chair and all, okay?” Jubal agreed as they each sidled next to Thompson and picked up his chair.

  Ed, with a large hunk of cornbread in his mouth, gripped both sides of his chair arms and protested. “What in the name of God are you doing?”

  They didn’t answer, but turned sideways to get through the kitchen entry. Hustling across the parlor, they kicked the front door open and stopped on the porch to catch their breath.

  “I’ll have you prosecuted,” Ed squealed, and looked closely at the sheriff. “Why you doing this? Tell me, am I arrested? For what?”

  “A number of things, namely being a sloppy eater.” Ed’s front was covered with soup stains and cornbread crumbs.

  They took their burden down the short flight of steps and next to the tailgate of the wagon. Jubal snapped the shackle around Ed’s right ankle, then closed the padlock. Accompanied by Ed’s howling, they lifted him off his chair and into the buckboard. Sheriff Cox took the seat next to Jubal as they headed for the jail.