Payback at Morning Peak (23 page)

“You were there? No, you weren’t. Where were you?”

“After he and Jorge fell, you walked around the crevasse and came back. You stood talking to Pete’s brother,
Al. I tucked myself safely under the log bridge hidden by branches. My rifle was pointing up, only a couple feet from your crotch. I thought about pulling the trigger. Wish I would have, but on second thought maybe it’ll be better to see you and Pete swinging in the breeze for your escapades. I don’t really know… and by the way, you didn’t go down that rock face to see that Pete and Jorge were ‘kilt,’ you pathetic liar.”

“If Wetherford is alive as you say,” Tauson said, “and you followed him up here, he’s without a doubt looking for me.” Tauson kept avoiding Jubal’s gaze. “And when he finds me there’s gonna be a hellish debt to pay around here. You can trust me on that, Mr. Young.”

Maybe, thought Jubal. But so far he hadn’t been able to trust William F. Tauson on much of anything.

At three a.m., the sheriff and a tired deputy came back to the Good Chance. He came directly to the table and found a sleeping Billy Tauson.

The sheriff kicked his chair hard. “Time to wake up.” As Tauson stirred, the deputy snapped a set of leg irons around his ankles, then secured them to the shackles the sheriff had applied to his wrists. “You’re in for a long trip.”

The man turned to Jubal. “Heard back from your friend Wayne Turner. Here, I’ll let you read what he says.” The sheriff handed a folded telegram to Jubal.

To Sheriff Tom Cox of Teller County, Colorado.

Sir, received your wire in regards to a William F. Tauson who has been accused of murder here
in the environs of Cerro Vista, New Mexico. Please hold said individual until my arrival by train at 4 p.m. later today.

Signed,
Wayne Turner
U.S. Marshal

p.s. as per your wire, I understand a Mr. Jubal Young might have had something to do with apprehension? Hard to believe.

He laughed. Yes, difficult even for Jubal to believe, but there he was, William F. Tauson, taking shackled baby steps, dragging the chain from his leg irons as the deputy led the tall gray-haired man out of the Good Chance.

Jubal looked around the tavern, then followed the men into the street.

The sheriff wrapped his right hand around Tauson’s forearm.

Tauson grunted in pain.

Jubal found Frisk and rode out of town toward his campsite. He thought the revenge Bob had desired over the years toward Billy Tauson had become, in reality, much harsher than Bob had imagined. What was it Tauson had said? “Your partner is a coward.” Bob hadn’t been the bravest, certainly, just a gentle soul who didn’t have the same sense of responsibility toward justice that burdened Jubal, and Jubal didn’t consider himself brave. Throughout the long night it had never occurred to him that he had been doing anything except what was required of him, what he had set out to do some six weeks earlier.

In a peculiar way, Bob had been his responsibility. Yes, the man was older and maybe more versed in the ways of life, but—and this was what bothered Jubal—he was an innocent. Jubal thought it would have been difficult for him to change the path the two of them had pursued, but he should have tried. After all, it was his crusade, his pursuit. Bob had come along because Jubal really hadn’t thought out his dream of revenge against Billy Tauson, and in the end it had cost the big fellow his life. Jubal would have to live with that.

That responsibility, the weight of obligation.

He made his way back to the partially deserted campsite to sleep a few hours. Breaking camp as the sun rose, he bundled his few belongings, including the placer mining tools Bob had left behind. He loaded everything on Frisk’s broad back and headed into town. He found Bennett Street and finally the sheriff’s office.

Jubal looked around for a spot where he could keep watch for Marshal Wayne Turner’s arrival, settling on a nearby run-down building. He tied Frisk out back and stationed himself, hunkering down on what was left of the porch.

Tauson said Pete Wetherford would be trying to find him if he was alive, and that there would be “a hellish debt to pay.” With all the commotion at the Good Chance, Jubal was certain that if Wetherford was in the district, he would have heard of it.

If Wetherford showed himself and tried to get Tauson out of jail, Jubal wanted to be a part of any hell-paying. He leaned against the dilapidated building and cleaned his father’s pistol.

Beef cattle were being driven along Bennett Street, about fifty head, their loud protests at being hurried along awakening Jubal, who had fallen asleep with his back to the rough siding. A recurring dream lingered, something about a game and his family, when they were in Kansas five or six years ago. He tried to remember but couldn’t. Something about numbers.

He silently addressed his father.
I got the leader, Pa.

He also pledged that Tauson definitely would not be the last.

Their home in Kansas had been modest but full of love. Pa would be gone most days, traveling, selling harnesses and various gear to outfit the average farmer. His territory had been most of Kansas. They often passed the time with numbers. The game had been devised by Jubal’s mother, and the idea was to see who could guess how many beans were in a jar or a tin cup. Jubal marveled at how his family could be so easily amused. Pru would almost always initiate the game, screaming, “Firsts, firsts, please, Ma, please!”

They were in the middle of a game one evening when Jubal’s father came home from his travels with a red welt above his left brow that gave his face an uneven look. Jubal had never seen his father injured. He’d always seemed immortal.

“We’re going to have to consider that farm out west I told you about” Jubal’s pa said to his ma.

“Why is that, Jube? Did you have problems with Hank again?” She ran her hand gently over her husband’s brow.

“Afraid so, Bea. Fraid so. It’s serious this time, we came to blows.”

“Oh, Jube, are you all right?”

Jubal’s father went to the highboy for a bottle of scotch whiskey. He looked so sad perched that way, squeezing the neck of the bottle. “I really made a mess of things this time, Bea. Really upset the old proverbial apple cart for good.”

Jubal and Pru played checkers while their parents sat in the corner of the living room speaking in quiet tones. Pru had won her third game in a row when Jubal heard his mother’s strained voice. “Oh, my God. Jube, no, how did it—” She turned. “Children, go to bed, please. Now.”

He’d gone to bed but had not been able to sleep. Something had happened with his father. He ended up being around the house a lot after that. He fiddled around in the garden, painted the window sashes, redid the flower beds, but, most importantly, met with ugly men in suits and ties who came to the house to hold long, noisy meetings in the living room, sometimes far into the night. Jubal remembered the man Hank. He had been a fellow who presented himself as cocksure.

It had been a hot summer in Kansas. Jubal was almost fifteen when the company his father worked for had invited employees’ families and friends to an end-of-summer picnic.

A tree-lined lake provided an idyllic background. Toward the end of the day, the head of the company stood and made a briefspeech, thanking everyone for their hard work and loyalty. As he began winding down, he was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.

“Tug-of-war, tug-of-war.”

The fellow Hank stood up, trying to exhort the crowd. “Tug-of-war. Salesmen against harness makers. Tug-of-war.”

It took a while to get organized and eventually the two reluctant groups came together and discussed the rules, most of them trying to be good sports about the game. As it happened, ten fellows in sales and eight harness makers made up the teams. Jubal was recruited to his father’s side. They stretched the knotted rope across a small creek leading down to the lake. Someone tied a handkerchief to the rope in the center of the little creek. Jubal was second in line, close to the creek’s edge. It wasn’t deep, only a couple of feet, but the stream ran muddy over a rocky bottom.

The sales team made a good effort of it, but the superior strength of the harness makers eventually pulled the first three members of Jubal’s team into the creek. There began good natured laughter, and then from Hank a slightly different tone.

“Hey, Jubal, what happened to your boy? Was he trying to learn to swim?”

The elder Young ignored Hank and dutifully helped Jubal out of the quagmire. “You okay, son?”

“Yeah, Pa, sorry about getting all nasty. I tried pulling, but they were just too much for us, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, they were, Jube. But we tried.”

Hank walked up. “Too bad about that, sonny. But it’s all in the growing up, ain’t it? Maybe next year you’ll come pull on our side, be with the winners.”

Jubal’s father stiffened as Hank gave him a big phony wink and strutted away.

“That jackass will be the death of me yet,” his father muttered. Of course, it didn’t turn out that way exactly.

Jubal waited across the street from the sheriff’s office on Bennett. Marshal Wayne Turner said he would arrive on
the four p.m. train from Antonito, and Jubal felt he needed to be there to see his new acquaintance, Mr. William F. Tauson, safely in the hands of the marshal.

He dug his ma’s Bible from his saddlebag and sat back down on the weathered porch. He looked for a passage on revenge or salvation, but stumbled onto a line that he thought amusing: “Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne.” So if he took this literally, having caught Billy Tauson, he was being rewarded with this hard seat under this broken-down porch for his righteousness.

My throne is low, but my spirits aren’t.

He felt good; the capture of the man had left him in fine fettle, although the word “capture” didn’t feel right for what had taken place. “Apprehension” seemed too literate, and to “take captive” sounded like it might come from a pirate’s tale. Maybe “detain” would work best.

It had a certain adult sound to it. Jubal Young the Detainer, the scourge of the West, fighting injustice wherever he found it. Tracking down predators, hyenas, ne’er-do-wells, and gallantly releasing them to the authorities.

His daydreams made him smile, but a sober reminder brought him back. There were at least two more villains to be detained—Pete Wetherford and the man he was reminded of each morning when he arose and tried to stretch his midriff—Chief Crook Arm and his damnable arrow. Actually, he thought Crook Arm more than likely was not a chief.

Jubal’s sister Pru loved calling their father “chief,” always behind his back, and only in Jubal’s presence. They would titter and make fun of Jubal, Sr.’s gruff but loving voice. Pru
would parade around the barn, her small fists planted firmly on her hips, her face screwed up into a make-believe belligerent frown.

“Jubal, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you…”

In chorus, Jubal and Pru: “… nearly a godforsaken thousand times.” He would then point to her and she would say, “Milk those cows, tend those sheep.”

“We don’t have any sheep, Pa,” Jubal would respond.

“I know that, smarty. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Hoe that garden, pick that corn.”

“It’s too early for corn, sir.”

Pru would deepen her frown. “Don’t talk back to me, boy.”

Joining their voices once again, they would intone, “Your father knows best, darn it.”

Pru always had her head on a swivel when she made fun of her pa. Running to the barn door, she would look both ways, then turn dramatically, wiping make-believe sweat from her brow. “When I get married, I’m going to be just like mom, you know, whip-smart, but with a voice like pa’s, full of authority and wisdom. Though sometimes when I forget to help ma with the dishes and he scolds me, I wonder about his wisdom.”

Then she would daydream about her life as an adult.

“I’ll have three children all at once, and I’ll have them in the field, where I won’t have to miss a day’s work. I’ll name them Pru One, Two, and Three. If they are all boys, so much the better. With names like that, they’ll learn to fight at an early age. My husband will be six-foot-four and protect me from my willful brother, who is as lazy as a sow. I’ll fight for women’s right to vote and I’ll run for mayor and governor at the same time.”

One time Jubal called out with his hands cupped around his mouth, “What about a man’s right to bear arms?”