Payback at Morning Peak (10 page)

Jubal took advantage of the invitation, the relaxed atmosphere at the hotel dining room lessening his self-consciousness. He was pleasantly surprised by the deference paid to the judge by the waitstaff. It was the first time in nearly a week he felt halfway decent.

“Sir,” Jubal said after they had eaten, “I noticed you didn’t pay after our meal. Do they keep an account?”

“Being as I own the hotel, no. They don’t keep an account.”

Jubal had never met anyone who actually owned a hotel or anything else of real value, and was surprised to hear that this fairly unassuming man had so much power and wealth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No apologies necessary, young man. Let’s have a seat in the vestibule and chat a bit.”

The room’s decor hinted at elegance, but the dark red drapes, heavy wood paneling, and weighty furniture made Jubal recall being in a funeral home in Kansas when he was ten. “Would you mind, sir, if we sat on the porch?”

The judge agreed, and they sat half facing each other in white rockers on the porch. The hotel faced east, and Jubal thought he could see a hint of Morning Peak in the distance. The sight comforted him, yet he still felt apprehensive, not knowing what the older man wanted of him.

Judge Wickham took his time lighting a cigar. “Tell me more about the argument you witnessed in front of the land office, Jubal.”

“Sir, it didn’t last long. At least what I saw of it. My father—”

“What was his name?”

“Jubal Thaddeus Young, Sr., sir.”

“I’m named after my father also. Sometimes it can be a blessing. Sorry, please continue.”

“Pa was just talking to this fellow, who I later found out was Billy Tauson. They looked as if they’d been at it awhile. Tauson said something about ‘legal or not, it ain’t right’ and referred to something about our plot of land.”

“Could be a number of things. Tomorrow, Monday, we’ll talk to Will Davis, try to get an answer to this. Continue.”

“He was shouting threats and said my pa should say his prayers, ‘night prayers,’ to be accurate. I asked my father about it and he didn’t want to talk. Said he’d tell me later ‘cause my sister and ma were nearby and he didn’t want to worry them.” Jubal paused. “As it turned out, he never got around to it.”

“I’d like to get this cleared up,” Judge Wickham said. “I’m sure you would too, right?”

“Yes, sir, I would. I’m going after them, sir. I’ll do my
best not to do harm and I’ll try to do it proper, but those vandals have to pay one way or the other.”

“The thing is, son, I’m not going to allow that until I’ve thoroughly looked into this. I like you, Jubal, you seem like an honest young man, but I’m going to restrict you from leaving town until everything has been checked out.” The judge contemplated his smoke. “I feel you’re innocent of harming your family, and as for the other deaths, I believe we can determine them as justifiable. The man Wetherford, who’s in jail, said enough that I’m convinced he’s one of the perpetrators. Just give me a few days. All right?”

“Yes, sir. Incidentally, Your Honor, just to keep the record straight, Wetherford and my father got into it on the street.”

“When was this? On the same day as the fracas with Tauson?”

“Yes. The fellow was acting like a clown, showing off for his pals, and he and my dad ended up on the ground. Pa kneed him in the nether region and that was about it. I’m sure a lot of what happened on the farm came out of that scrap on the street. I think the fellow Pete was mighty embarrassed.”

“All right, son. I’ll keep that in mind, and remember what I said about sticking close by. No offense, but let the grown-ups handle this, okay?”

Jubal nodded. Tauson and his gang had a lead of several days on him. Maybe a couple more wouldn’t matter. The judge seemed a decent sort. For now he’d bide his time.

The judge knocked the ash from his cigar and took a long, satisfying drag. “I apologize for your having to stay at the jail last night, but I needed to chat with you before I
offered the following: I have a small accommodation in the back of the hotel where I let some of my help stay. Would you be interested in sharing space with two other workers?”

“Yes, sir, that would be fine.” Jubal hesitated. “I hate to sound ungrateful, but would you have room for Frisk, my horse?”

“As long as the other fellows don’t mind the smell of horse in the room, certainly.” Judge Wickham smiled.

“No, sir. Of course I meant outside.” He decided he liked the judge’s fine sense of humor.

“We have a corral in back. Frisk is certainly welcome. Jubal, I’ll see you in the morning and we’ll take a walk over to Will Davis’s office, all right?” The judge led him to a small shed in back of the hotel, on the way introducing him to his new roommates, a waiter and a cook.

After saying their goodbyes, the judge seemed perplexed. He took out his turnip-sized pocket watch and opened the gold-plated cover. “There is something else I would like to discuss with you. ‘Discuss’ may not be the proper word. ‘Explain’ might be more apt. I love this land and I have great hopes for its promise.” The judge fussed with his watch, then pushed it forcefully back into his vest pocket. “Dammit to hell, I’m not an apologizer. I live by a code of ethics, and sometimes that dogma does get bent a bit. Pete Wetherford’s confession in the woods isn’t worth the time it takes to tell, and like I said, I’m not an apologist. But—and this is the root of the thing—I needed to hear it from that animal’s mouth. He is bad, but more importantly, he’s bad for this territory, this community. I’ve talked to Doc Brown and explained my position on my, let’s say ‘indiscretion,’ and he seems to be all right with it—”

“Sir, to relieve your mind,” Jubal interrupted, “I was hoping you would have gone even further. When you were striking him, there was a justice-being-served feeling… very satisfying.”

The judge’s confession of the beating still hung in the air. He hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets and rocked quietly back and forth on his heeled boots. He hesitated. “Every man is as God made him and ofttimes even worse.” He seemed pleased to be using this quote as an explanation for the Pete Wetherford incident.

Jubal also thought the quote amusing, but for a different reason.

“What, son, you don’t know Cervantes?”

“Sir, it’s really nothing. With all due respect, as a matter of fact, I studied his writing quite thoroughly with my mother.” Jubal waited, not knowing if he should continue.

“And?”

“The actual line is somewhat different.”

The judge held back a smile. “So, you’re going to take me to school?”

Reluctantly, Jubal recited, “‘Every man is as
heaven
made him and
sometimes
a
great deal
worse.’ But I guess it still means the same thing, so my apologies, sir.”

“Your apology is not necessary. It is my error. I’ll have to watch my step around you, won’t I?”

“Truth be known, it’s one of the few quotes I remember, probably because ma has a sampler hanging over the dining room table with this same
Don Quixote
line. So I guess I cheated.” He also realized he spoke of his mother in the present tense.
Every woman is as heaven made her.

“You may find what I’m going to say now an odd segue.” The judge smiled, still enjoying the fact he had been schooled by this young man. “But I mentioned your situation to my wife and she suggested that maybe you would like to break bread with us some evening?”

Though pleased by the offer, Jubal thought it peculiar, coming on the heels of the judge’s rationale about Pete Wetherford’s beating. Adults: he couldn’t figure them. “I would like that, sir. Just set the date, I’ll be there.”

“Just a quiet evening, Jubal. You’ll meet my family. My wife, Marlene, and Cybil, home from school.”

Well, Jubal, thought, a free meal and a family evening with the judge, his wife, and Cybil—probably in pigtails and freckles, just home from school.

The new sleeping arrangement was little more than four walls, but at least it was better than the sheriff’s barred confines. Jubal walked back to the jail, unhitched Frisk, and took her and the buckboard to the hotel.

The next day, Jubal walked the main street of Cerro Vista, trying to decide how to proceed with his pursuit of Billy Tauson.

Their inquiry at the land office had been of little value. Will Davis told them that because the land had originally been homesteaded, it made for a potentially messy land transfer, and the fact that Tauson had not paid taxes for a number of years further complicated the transaction.

The land, Jubal knew, went to his father at auction. Tauson evidently tried to pay the taxes later, but the transaction had already taken place, and Tauson’s complaints of unfair treatment at the land office went unheard.

The judge told Jubal he was well aware of Tauson and his cohorts, they’d appeared in front of him in court on several occasions. “He’s a bad one, son. He and the other one over at the jail, Wetherford, drift in and out of these
parts from time to time, always getting into the affairs of others.”

Jubal thought about asking permission to speak to Wetherford but was almost certain the man would only make threats.

After the judge asked Jubal if his accommodations were comfortable, Jubal offered to repay him the favor by helping with chores around the hotel. Judge Wickham accepted. It pleased Jubal to be given the work of chipping flaking paint off the front porch windows, then refinishing them. Charity bothered him. He didn’t know if the judge was just being generous or if he truly needed the help. But the man had treated him well so far. Jubal decided he would not question things too deeply.

After getting tools from the hotel manager, Jubal quickly set to work. It felt good to be busy, like at home. The job kept his mind off recent events, though he was hard-pressed to spend more than several hours without some detail of those times coming to mind. In the afternoon, while cleaning errant paint drops from the porch floor, he overheard two men in lively conversation enjoying the late sun.

“What’s the most anyone has done you for?” one asked the other.

“An odd cowhand looking like the devil himself walks into my shop one day and says, ‘Yes, sir. I’ll have that saddle, the one with the silver buckles.’”

Jubal recognized this speaker as the portly, bald man from the general store.

“That were a fifty-dollar item. I was pleased as punch.
But then he said he only got himself thirty dollars, would I take the rest on a promise? He was hanging with another scrapper I’d seen around town, name of Petey.”

Jubal worked on the porch floor even closer to the men.

“So, what the heck, the saddle only cost me twenty-five dollars and I was still in profit for five. I had him sign a note for the balance. What do you know, if I wouldn’t see him around town from time to time, and the devil, he’d nod, give me a mean look, and walk on.”

“I’ll tell you, it wasn’t worth getting yourself shot over.” The other man smiled. “Where’s he from?”

“Don’t rightly know. He put a ranch name up Colorado way near Alamosa on the agreement.”

Jubal, intent when the name Petey came up, wondered. “Excuse me, sir, I couldn’t help but hear about the man who bought that saddle. Was he a very tall man with long gray hair, kind of a dandy, sorta mean-looking?”

“Yep, that’s the devil. Why?”

“Oh, no real reason, sir, I just wondered if it wasn’t someone I knew. What was his name again?”

“As I remember it was Talson. No, Tauson. Yes, Tauson.”

“And he’s from Alamosa?”

“Near to some ranch or other. You know him, youngster?”

Jubal paused. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“If you run into him, would you mention that a certain old man who runs the general store sure could use that twenty dollars he owes?” The men shared a laugh and went back to their gossiping.

Jubal continued his work. Alamosa was a long way to go on sketchy information, but maybe he should consider it. He pictured himself knocking on a ranch-house door and announcing he was there to collect twenty dollars for an old fellow from Cerro Vista, and ah, yes, by the way, could we chat about murderous events that transpired at the Young family farm on April 10 of this year?

The hotel manager and Judge Wickham both appreciated Jubal’s work—so much so, they offered him a full-time job. The pay would not be much, but at least it would be steady.

The bid caught Jubal off guard. He liked the judge and didn’t really mind the work, and he had also been told not to leave town, so why not? And this was also far easier than farm chores.

But a gnawing still kept after him. He needed to pursue Billy Tauson and his group. He hadn’t any idea what he would do once he found them; he would think on that when the time came. After all, they were the mindless ones, the louts and rapists. Why would they have an advantage? Yes, in numbers, certainly, but in terms of righteousness, as his mother would say, “Why should the devil have all the best tunes?” So he took the job—repairing, painting, peeling potatoes—but he didn’t plan on keeping it for long.

Several days into his full-time employment, in the evening, just before nightfall, Jubal heard gunshots. He ran around to the front of the hotel in time to see a lone horseman racing down the dirt street. Hatless, with both arms swathed
in bandages, the man brandished a long-barreled pistol in his right hand. As he passed Jubal, he fumbled with the weapon, attempting to fire. The bandages and horse reins being too much to handle all at the same time, he managed only a wicked nod of recognition.

Pete Wetherford was out of jail, heading north.

A crowd gathered at the jail, many of them calling out for Doc Brown. As Jubal neared, he heard several women scream and a man shouted that someone had killed the sheriff. Someone else repeated the plea for Doc Brown.

A body lay on the sidewalk, half stretched into the dirt of the street. Sheriff Morton, a puckered hole in his forehead and another in his throat. Both wounds shed blood over his white shirt.

Jubal eased into the office past a half dozen townsmen, all tending a prone Deputy Ron. They had stretched him out on one of the desks, and now several men were holding pieces of shirt and various rags against stomach wounds. The punctures pumped startling amounts of blood onto the office floor.