Payback at Morning Peak (14 page)

“Yeah, well, we should’ve hung around instead of chickened our tails out of town.”

Big Ed began gathering wood for a fire. “Should we cook up some grub, Pete?”

Wetherford didn’t answer but limped down to the creek bed and stared at the reflection of a clouded sky in the slow-moving waters. After a while, he called back to Ed. “Did you see who shot Al?”

“Couldn’t really see much. Someone was sneaking along the fence line, but the shot that felled Al came from across the street, looked to me like it might of been that brat we saw on the street the day you got in that scuffle with the farmer. Say, is that the same little bastard from the farm—you know, with the rifle?”

“I’ll find that little smartass, and when I do, he’ll wish he’d stayed behind the plow.” Pete tried to skip a rock down the creek. “Let’s saddle up, Ed, and go back into town. What you say?”

“Ah, Pete, it’s late. What good is it gonna do? Let it be for a while. I know what you’re feeling, but get some rest.”

Wetherford’s harassed body still had not healed from his fall at Morning Peak. He willed himself to relax, contemplating the events at the canyon, thinking back to his rescue by the sheriff’s band of misfits.

At first he’d thought the wolves had returned, and he was more than ready to do his best to decimate their number. But, quietly propped against the slanted wall of the crevasse, he’d heard voices. Faint at first, but clearly human.

He’d called out. “Come on up here, fellows.…” He knew he would have some explaining to do and that he would have to be careful. There was a gang of them. Sheriff Morton, Judge Wickham, a couple drifters, and some kid who he later found out was the little bastard with the peashooter. Wetherford recalled the painful trip
out of the canyon and his beating by the older man, the judge, whom he hoped he had just killed back in town. It seemed a lifetime getting from the mountainous terrain back to the rickety jail and his incarceration. The doctor had fussed with him once they’d gotten back in town, giving him something for his discomfort. Then, nothing but glorious sleep.

The jail had been a welcome retreat after his ordeal in the canyon. Plenty of water, and the grub wasn’t too bad. He recalled his anger at Al and Tauson for not coming back for him. After Pete had gotten out and finally hooked up with Al at Whiskey Creek, Al explained that Tauson had gone on a side journey into the canyon and had told him his brother was dead. So his ex-boss was going to hear some questions that needed answering.

Wetherford had found the Cerro Vista jail fascinating. The sheriff and his idiot Deputy Ron had made the place into their own house of ill repute, which he turned to work in his favor. He had waited for the moment Maria was relieving Deputy Ron’s manly tensions.

“I’ll have that shooter, Ron.” Pete had reached through the bars of his cell into the Mexican girl’s enclosure and pulled Ron’s pistol from its sagging holster. The deputy’s pants were down, his head thrown back, and his arms reaching up high, holding on to the bars. Maria had stopped.

“Gimme back that pistol, Wetherford,” Deputy Ron had said, “or you’re in a whole hell of a lot of trouble, you hear?”

“Shut your mouth, Ron, and unlock my cell. Do it.”

Ron, wide-eyed, had taken the key ring and turned to Pete’s cell door. “Can I cover my privates, Pete?”

“Leave them hanging, Deputy. Just do like I say and unlock this cell.”

Shuffling with his pants around his ankles, Ron had nervously unlocked the barred door, then stepped back. “Listen to me, Petey. You ain’t got no call to blabbermouth any of what you seen here, you understand?” Wetherford hadn’t answered as he cocked the pistol and shot Ron in the upper chest.

It warmed his heart to remember Ron, thrashing away on the floor, kicking his feet like it would help distance himself from the pain. Wetherford recalled the sheriff then opening the connecting door, stupidly asking Ron why in the hell he was shooting off his pistol. Funny, Wetherford thought, that Ron was more concerned about people finding out he was having a love bout with a prisoner than he was about a prisoner escaping the jail, while the sheriff’s thoughts had to do with what he perceived as an accidental discharge of a firearm. Wetherford chuckled.

Wetherford wrapped his thin blanket tighter around his body. He knew he’d made a mistake in town earlier that night not killing the farmer’s son.

He started to drift as a soft, welcoming mist settled over his body. His breathing changed from rapid desperation to a calming, even flow. He remembered the bridge, the cursed log spanning the crevasse. The young guy levering that big old trunk.

He’d felt light for part of the fall, twisting and grasping as his head ricocheted off the base of a hard shrub. Clawing at the side of the crevasse wall, Pete fell, trying to plunge his fingers into the hard-packed clay. His legs slid violently off a rock outcropping as he suddenly grew
religious and shouted to the Lord for deliverance. Chamisa that had gotten wedged into a small slit in the canyon wall briefly cushioned his headlong journey as his arms beat like a hummingbird, grasping for purchase.

Wetherford remembered Jorge’s screams for help as a small piñon was swept away with his avalanche. A number of boulders, tree branches, and chamisa accompanied him on his downward journey. In the last forty feet, the walls began to slope slightly outward, slowing his sudden stop at the bottom.

Wetherford had taken a sharp breath, causing a sudden stab of pain in his right side. As the shock started to wear off, his whole body vibrated.
If this is death, please, God, let it be quick.

The longer he had rested, the more intense the noise in his head. He’d lost track of time. Wave upon wave of dizzying pain wracked his body. Then nothing. When he awoke it had been raining. Softly at first, then heavier.

He’d been sure Al would come for him. He lay still, each movement sending lightninglike quivers throughout his body. “Jorge, hey, compadre,” he called out. “How you faring?”

He heard only the soft beat of the rain in response.

After what had seemed like several hours, he’d heard a rustling in the brush among the dried mesquite and sage. “Al, I’m over here. Al, where are you, brother? I’m paining pretty good. Stop fooling around.”

The disturbance on the canyon floor had continued. Wetherford, afraid of snakes, tried to move his arm to reach for his pistol but his coat sleeve had been ripped inside out and covered his hand.

Wolves or coyotes, he couldn’t tell. He could see their vague shapes against the cloudy sky. They seemed to be gathered some twenty feet away, snarling, disagreeing with one another. Wetherford dug the heels of his boots into the soft earth and inched his way backward to the wall of the crevasse. Once sitting up, he was able to reach across with his left hand and unholster his .44. The effort to sit made him dizzy. The animals tearing away at Jorge swayed in front of him. Pete had thought about scaring away the beasts with a round from his pistol, but it occurred to him that allowing them their fill with Jorge would mean they would be less likely to come after him.

He had been certain the Mexican was dead until he heard him scream, as if the wolves in their frenzy had awakened the man’s soul. Pete had shivered while the dark shapes snapped and fought the fallen Jorge as the man tried to beat the wolves away.

The feast had gone on for quite some time. Later, a lone animal stared quietly at Wetherford. He raised his pistol and waited. The head of the wolf tipped slightly down, eyes hooded over the dipped brow. Either not able or willing to continue the standoff, she’d trotted back to the depleted corpse of Jorge Morales, sniffed several times, and, after a slow backward glance at Wetherford, moved away.

Twelve riders and the marshal gathered at the front of the hotel.

The sky was now light, with long, soft red streaks trailing east to west against the blue-gray heavens. Without a word, Wayne Turner raised his hand to point southwest. The posse moved at a trot along the street, passing Judge Wickham’s house, where Jubal hid, watching as they filed past the corral.

When they were nearly a quarter mile down the road, he moved Frisk onto the trail and followed. He had borrowed a saddle from the barn. Maybe “borrow” wouldn’t be the appropriate word. In any case, Frisk seemed at ease with the saddle and with Jubal on her back.

Jubal still had his right hand in the air when Wayne Turner finished his pledge, so he decided that, indeed, he was now a Deputy U.S. Marshal.

They rode for several hours, Jubal trying to keep
proper space between him and the posse. He had promised the judge he would stay in the vicinity and do the “proper thing.” So here he was, following a group of men who didn’t want him along, knowing in his gut it was all a boneheaded mistake, because they were certainly headed in the wrong direction.

On several occasions, Jubal noted Marshal Turner sending someone back to see who was following, and each time Jubal managed to move out of sight. As the land changed from foothills to level terrain, Jubal noticed Turner had spread his troops in a line abreast, the horsemen thirty yards or so apart, looking for a track.

At one point near midmorning the group gathered for a meeting, and it appeared as if there were dissension among them. Riders pointed accusatory fingers at the man in the center of the circle, U.S. Marshal Wayne Turner.

Jubal stopped on a small rise under a tree to take in the confrontation and was surprised when the whole group came riding back toward him. He started to move, but a shout from the men let him know he had been seen.

They came hard, the marshal leading the way. As they drew closer, Jubal raised his hands in the air. “It’s me, Jubal Young!”

When they rode up he could feel the anger from the marshal. “What in hell are you doing?”

Jubal lowered his arms. “Just out for a morning ride, Mr. Turner.”

The men gathered in a circle around Jubal. Not finding him amusing, some of them directed their frustration at him. “You’re gonna get your ass shot, you know that?
We’re out here looking for some desperate souls and here you are, Sunday-mornin’ it on that big old plow horse.”

“I thought I said you weren’t coming along with us,” Marshal Turner said.

“You did say that, sir. I think you could also say I wasn’t with you. Right?”

“Well, what in hell’s name are you doing out here?”

“To be honest, Marshal”—Jubal looked around at the faces, they all seemed like family men—“I guess I was just waiting for you to turn north.”

“Why would I do that when the bastards rode out westward?”

“You’d do that, sir, because Billy Tauson is from up around Alamosa, Colorado. Pete Wetherford and anyone left in the gang will probably follow Billy up there.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Billy is the leader. I think we scared Wetherford off in town last night. He’s probably given up on me and his promise to do me in, at least for the time being.” Jubal paused. “I think he’s going up Alamosa way.”

Marshal Turner slapped the reins on his hands, then ripped into Jubal. “I’ve told you that you’re not part of this group, dammit. I’m not telling you again. Get it?”

“I would have liked to be a part of your posse, Marshal.” Jubal pulled Frisk’s reins and backed away from the men. “And do this thing in the right way. But so be it, good luck.”

One of the men called out to him, “I hear tell there’s good hunting up Colorado way, son. Catch yourself some squirrel.”

By noon Jubal had backtracked Wetherford and his companion to the place where they’d laid a false trail to the southwest. He zigzagged for several miles, leaning over Frisk’s withers, scanning the earth. After another hour they came upon a dry creek bed, and there, plain as a smile on his sister’s face, were two sets of fresh horse tracks. The dry gully wound its way east, then back north, then westerly, and then once again toward the north.

A low mesa in front of him would prove a vantage point, and once on top, Jubal could see for miles. The creek bed below indeed snaked through the flat plain but always straightened northward. No need to follow the serpentine trail; he could save time by cutting across the plain and joining up with the creek farther on. Miles ahead, the creek converged into a canyon at the base of the foothills reaching into Colorado.

Jubal pushed Frisk hard, hoping to make up time. Wetherford and his riding partner went to considerable effort trying to hide their intended path. But of course they didn’t count on being trailed by Jubal Young.

Clouds obscured the late afternoon sun, and a chilled wind stirred the chamisa as Jubal made his way over the vast open land. Juniper dotted the earth, looking deliberately placed, the growth spaced evenly apart.

To Jubal’s right were the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, nearly twenty miles away. Although it was late in the season, he was certain it would snow soon. There couldn’t be any doubt those clouds moving from the foothills in the west would be full of moisture.

Lying in front of him, a deep barranca, and just
beyond, a high mesa looming up several hundred feet out of the now-misted sky. He decided he would push on to the east side of the tall plateau, trying for shelter from the oncoming westerly storm. He made it up through a steep crevasse and urged Frisk to hurry on toward the tableland. Jubal wasn’t concerned about losing his quarry. He knew Wetherford and friend would be forced to hole up also.