by Gene Hackman
Seth Watkins stood with his back to Pete. “You wouldn’t shoot a man from behind, would you?”
“Make a funny move and see.”
The man rocked back and forth in his boots, then finally raised the shotgun slowly over his head and tossed it into the water.
Pete winked at Al and turned back to Seth. “Don’t you feel better now, relieved of the burden of having to decide if you were going to get yourself killed?” Pete walked up behind Seth and whispered in his ear, “You got ten minutes. I don’t ever want to see you around these parts again, you hear me?”
“My wife, what—”
“I’m being as kind as I can be. Send your wife down here to keep us company whilst you pack up.”
“I’ve got a good little business going here. Everybody knows Seth.”
“Don’t come around here anymore. I’ll hurt you real bad and do some ugly things to the little woman, agreed?”
Seth looked to Pete, then walked away.
“Hurry, now, you only got ten minutes.” Pete went back into the water. “I hate a bully, don’t you, Al?”
Pete told Al his plans for raising cash and asked if he was interested. After hearing a “Hell, yes” from Al, Pete mentioned Crook Arm.
“He’s a good enough hand, but where the hell is he?” Al said.
Pete explained to Al that Omaha had told him of Crook Arm’s whereabouts. They decided their soak was over, and soon set out for Big Rock and the completion of the trio that was to become the infamous Día de los Muertos Banditos.
Cybil and Jubal sat next to a meandering stream. Cyb had indeed planted her lips on Jubal’s kisser.
“You know you’ll have to marry me, don’t you?” she said.
“I thought it was the man’s prerogative to make that decision.”
Cybil ran her hands along her long legs, straightening the wrinkles in her skirt. “I think, if truth be told, women make their men feel as if it’s their choice, but in reality it’s always a woman’s decision.”
“But when you say I’ll have to marry you, it sounds as if you’re confident that I would want to.”
“I know you want to be with me… that’s apparent.” Cybil smiled.
“Am I so easy to read?” He tried to look hurt.
Cyb poked him in the ribs. “Oh, it’s a combination of reading and what you might call observing what is undisguised.”
“I realize that when we are together, I tend to… apologize. I don’t seem to be able to help myself, I guess I haven’t the control I feel you deserve.” He wondered how his deepest secrets could be so transparent to this person. “I would marry you in a minute if I had a decent job or an education, or, for that matter, two dollars for the marriage license.” Unless you consider that tarnished lump of yellow.
She gazed at him. “It’s so good to see that apple-pie face of yours again.”
“What would you say if I told you I saw you when I returned before you saw me?” Jubal tossed a rock in the streambed.
“You mean when Daddy brought you into the dining room? What are you getting at, Mr. Wandering Deputy?”
“Ah, never mind. It was just a crazy thought. Forget it.”
She made a fist with her right hand and punched Jubal lightly on the shoulder. “You will sit by this streambed ‘til it freezes over if you don’t tell me what you’re speaking of.” She put both hands on Jubal’s chest and pinned him against the sloped bank.
“I thought you ladies of eastern education were taught manners and—”
“Decorum, cotillion dances. Wrestling, also.” She was bent over him, her arms still pinning his shoulders to the grassy verge, her face merely inches from his. “Give, or I’ll put a death grip on you.”
“Uh-hm. Death grip.” He rubbed his chin as if contemplating something. “Sounds interesting.… It’s not such a big thing. I saw you last night.”
Cybil released his shoulders. “Last night? When?”
“I was out walking”—he sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees—“and found myself in the pathway behind your house.”
She gasped.
“I wanted to be close, I wanted to see you.”
“You just happened to find yourself lurking behind my house.… But where was I? In the kitchen with Mom?”
He shook his head and pointed upward with a finger.
“I was upstairs? In the sanctity of my room?” She poked Jubal in the ribs with a sharp finger. “You are a degenerate, Mr. Junior Lawman, and should be arrested.… Was I dressed?”
“Nope.”
“You’re lying. You weren’t there, were you?”
“I was kidding. You were dressed, stood in the center of the room, and then came to the window to raise the sash. You then parted the curtains and stood for a moment thinking of me.”
She howled and settled next to him on the grassy bank. “I did think of you last night.” She held his hand. “I don’t remember when, maybe it was when you were behind my house.”
“I felt as if you knew I was close. I wanted to toss a pebble at your window and wish you good night.”
“You should have, Jube. Who knows?”
They looked at each other and kissed softly.
“I think I should be getting back. Mom’s going to be asking questions about that ‘embroidered hankie.’”
They started back toward town, arm in arm. “We’ll be with each other someday, Jube. I love you and know you’ll be kind.”
Their heads together, Jubal buried his face in Cybil’s hair. Her arms around his waist, she tightened her hold on him.
The Wetherford brothers found Crook Arm right where Omaha had said he’d be—sitting in his rock cave, smoking peyote. Through a long, painful explanation of what they were planning and what was expected of him, Crook Arm’s expression never changed. With an elaborate system of rocks and pebbles laid on the floor of the cave, Wetherford showed the Indian how much he would receive from their planned robbery.
Crook Arm grunted his assent and explained through sign that he didn’t have a horse, that he had gambled it away. They showed him the assayer’s mount from Cripple Creek. The man sprang onto the animal’s back and raised his fist high into the air, screaming something that sounded like he was in a great deal of pain.
The brothers looked at each other, wondering if they had made the right decision with this wild man.
The tres hombres rode into the courtyard of Miguel Lopez, an old man waving to them.
“Hola, amigos. What can this ancient hombre do for you?”
“Masks. Scary ones, comprende?”
“Ah, yes. Sí, señor. Masks I have. Día de los Muertos is not ‘til November but I have for you many masks.”
“I still don’t understand why we need masks, Pete. Hell, the townies all know us, we’re wanted for everything from rape to murder. Why bother?”
“Al, my good fellow, you haven’t any romance in your soul. The right mask will scare the bejeezus out of these poor clerks, wait and see.” He raised his hands high in the air and made a creepy sound.
They paid Lopez for three masks and started to leave.
“Señors, I would like you to take with you some of Rosa, my wife’s, special food.”
Lopez went into the kitchen and came back wrapping in paper a half dozen fried hotcake-looking pastries. “Very good, corn flour and chile chicken cooked in wood-fire pit. Is good, señors. Eat on your way to your destination.”
They saluted the old Mexican and rode off. Pete turned to Al after a short time. “Did that old man say eat these on the way to your ‘destiny’?”
FORTY-ONE
Jubal and Cybil managed to extract themselves from each other before reaching the center of town. They stood at the corner of Calle Piñon and Paseo Segundo. “Is my hair mussed, Jube?”
“It looks as if you just jumped out of bed, Cyb.”
She smiled, a bittersweet look to her. “I know you’re funning with me, but be serious, please.”
�
��You look beautiful. No one would know that we just walked a mile wrapped tightly in each other’s clothes.”
Cybil glanced around at the passerby, then playfully stuck out her hand as if to shake. “Mr. Young. It’s been a pleasure spending this fine morning with you.”
They shook hands rather formally.
“And you, Miss Wickham. I trust you are busy packing for your sojourn back east?”
“Yes. I’m leaving in the morning, Jube, and I have so much… stuff. It will take a team of mules to get me to the station.”
They smiled, both glancing around, wondering if it would be safe to kiss once again.
“Will I see you tonight?” Jubal asked.
“Let’s try.”
They once again shook hands, enjoying the fun of the little drama, and parted.
Jubal watched from the hotel porch as Cybil walked the few paces down Calle Piñon. It had been a fine morning and Jubal was anxious to get to work, to bury himself in the pure splendor of hard honest labor.
He thought maybe it would be fun to help Cybil pack, to pester her about what she was taking back to school. “What are these for, Cyb?” He would hold up a lacy chemise and act innocent. Then reach for—His thoughts were interrupted. Something about what Cybil had said about packing. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t the packing, but the way to get to the railroad station, what had she said? “A team of mules.”
It all came flooding back. A team of horses. Two. The image of the lone rider when Jubal was coming into Cerro Vista. The man who was leading a packhorse. Cripple Creek’s sheriff Tom Cox’s explanation of the theft of the assayer’s horse after the robbery.
Pete Wetherford was in the vicinity of Cerro Vista. Jubal was sure of it.
The trio of gunmen neared the outskirts of the northern border of Cerro Vista.
“We’re all clear where to meet afterwards? The fork in the road at Morning Peak?” Pete made a sign to Crook Arm with his spread fingers indicating a fork.
Crook Arm acknowledged with a grunt.
“You think he’ll understand what’s needed, Pete?”
Pete smiled and patted brother Al on the back. “If he does half of what’s asked of him, it’ll do.”
They parted just before reaching the cantina. Crook Arm proceeded along a back alley toward the hotel while the brothers continued to Paseo Segundo. They moved past the jail, and Pete wasn’t able to resist a call out to the open rear window, “Hey, Billy! How’s it swinging, boss?” He laughed, and there was no reply.
Al shifted in his saddle. “Let’s try and concentrate here, Pete.”
They rode along Paseo until they were across from the land office, then donned their masks and set their cowboy hats on top of the full headpieces. Pete’s mask was made of stiff papier-mâché, painted a bright red, the eyes black-rimmed and dead-looking, while the mouth was frozen in a crooked sneer. His hat was stuck up high on his head, secured by the rawhide string under his chin. Al’s white-painted skull sported red and black circles for eyes, the open lips adorned with rotting teeth, the nose hole and hollowed-out cheeks painted bloodred.
Al glanced at his pocket watch. “About a minute.”
They glanced around at the few locals walking along the wooden sidewalk, some looking astonished at the two men, while others waved as if trying to get into the spirit of things. Al nodded and they moved up the street. When they were a hundred feet from the bank, smoke began coming from the back of The Wicks Hotel.
The masked pair proceeded down the street, taking their time.
Farther along, a few locals ran toward the stable in the back of the hotel. Someone called out “Fire!” as the two masked men tied their horses in front of the bank, waiting until the people in the building were alerted. In a short time, a half dozen souls came streaming through the double doors looking back down the street at the now-crackling flames.
The brothers walked into the emptying bank.
“Hola, amigos. We’re here for the pesos. This is a robbery. Fill these bags mucho pronto.” Pete didn’t even attempt to make his Spanish sound authentic. They brought out two canvas feed bags and the bespectacled clerk behind the cage began stuffing them with money. Only four people remained in the bank—a customer, the manager, and two tellers. Those not busy emptying the till stood with hands raised, keeping watch on the masked gunmen.
Pete motioned for the hostages to move toward the back room, tying the manager to his desk chair and stuffing a kerchief in his mouth. The woman who was the customer he locked in a clothes closet along with the frightened tellers. He then went back to Al and the business at hand.
Business was brisk at the hotel. Jubal had been given the task of helping the maid fold sheets in the basement, and though it wasn’t his favorite pastime, he was certain it was only temporary. His thoughts were of Cybil and their conversation on the street just before parting. “Will I see you tonight?” “Let’s try.” It had a sign of hope to it.
He was startled from his absorption by the maid asking a question. “What? Sorry, I didn’t understand what you said, miss.”
“Listen, por favor.”
Jubal heard yelling and footsteps on the floor above them. He went up the basement stairs. At the top, people moved quickly from the lobby onto the front porch.
A women’s high-pitched voice screamed, “Fire!”
“Is it in the stable?” Jubal asked.
“Yes!”
Jubal’s one thought was Frisk. He ran outside to find one end of the barn where Frisk was stabled consumed by heavy flames.
Jubal darted into the barn and began releasing the horses into the courtyard. Frisk was five stalls down close to the fire. Jubal couldn’t get to the gate, as the flames had caught the dried wood and begun climbing, so he crawled over the slats separating the stalls until he reached her. She was dancing at the flames licking at the stacked hay in the corner.
He kicked at the horizontal planks separating Frisk’s stall from the adjoining one. Finally breaking the top board, he grabbed her halter and encouraged her to jump the last two planks. They did the same to the next stall, finally able to make their way through the smoke into the now-busy courtyard.
“Did you let those horses out, son?” the manager asked.
“Sure did.”
“Good job. My God. I thought I was seeing ghosts when you came out of that dense smoke. Christ, I don’t know what I’m gonna tell Judge Wickham.”
Jubal looked over the man’s shoulder back down the alleyway toward Tres Paseo. “Look, it seems there’s another fire close to the jail, just up the street at the cantina. Something’s going on.”
While leaving the bank, Pete and Al saw the second fire Crook Arm had started, at the back of the cantina.
“Shit fire, there’s people running around like headless chickens. It’s working, Pete.”
“Damn, boy, you look scary, what with that stupid sombrero sitting atop that skull. If I didn’t know it was you behind that getup, I’d be shaking like a coyote in a wolf’s cave.”
“Let’s hightail it, Pete. Come on.”
“I can see the jailhouse doors open. The sheriff’s probably carrying water to one of the fires. Let’s take a minute for some tit for tat.”
The brothers quickly rode down the street to the jail. Pete tossed his reins to Al and dashed into the outer office of the lockup. Gathering the two wastebaskets and an armload of paper folders from the bookshelf, he kicked in the door leading to the barred cells. He spread his papers around the loose logs next to the wood-burning stove and lit them. He took off his long coat and fanned the flames. The dried logs and papers burned well. It was only a few minutes until the latillas covering the ceiling began smoldering. The straw used for insulation between the horizontal logs and roof was soon fully alight.
“Hey, what the hell’s going on? This some kind of joke?”
Pete raised his hands high and spoke through his sneering papier-mâché lips. “Everybody loves a joke now a
nd again… Billy.”
“Pete Wetherford? Why you doing this?”
“Guess.” Pete walked toward the broken door, the smoke starting to thicken.
“Don’t leave us in here, Petey. Lord God a-mighty.”
This was a different voice. “Who’s calling?”
“It’s Ed Thompson, Pete. Don’t do this. Help me, please, for God’s sake.”
Pete looked back into the smoke-filled room. A figure moved in panic behind the bars. But Ed Thompson’s dead, has been for quite some time. He walked slowly from the jail, his coat dragging behind, and got back on his horse.
Three fires burned now, and one of them had a voice that spoke from the dead. The brothers turned their mounts back toward Calle Piñon and Judge Wickham’s house.
Because the shed Jubal shared with the two other workers was close to the stable and in danger of burning, he took the time to get his possessions out. He dropped the grain sack filled with his clothes behind the front desk counter and ran toward Calle Piñon. Jubal knew something dangerous was going on.
Al was upset. “Christ, man, you’re gonna get our butts fried. First the bank, then you wanted ‘tit for tat’ at the jail. Where we heading now? We’re supposed to meet Crook Arm at the East Fork.”
“I got to settle up with His Honor the right nasty Hiram Wickham. Crook Arm can wait ‘til Christmas. I never did intend to divvy up with Mr. Powwow nohow.”
The streets were peppered with horses, wagons, people running. Jubal saw the sheriff and Marshal Turner in front of the jail. Flames leapt twenty feet in the air, fully engulfing the structure’s roof. Several bodies lay on the sidewalk in front of the adobe building.
The whole town filled with smoke. Horses were loose, trotting unattended, trying to distance themselves from the fires. Relieved he had taken the time to secure Frisk in an orchard behind the hotel, Jubal reached the Wickhams’ front gate, where he could see horses in the back alley. He had a moment of reflection, thinking this was the second time Frisk had gone through a session of fire in a barn.
The Wickhams would have to be deaf not to have heard the commotion. But the house seemed strangely quiet.