Payback at Morning Peak (25 page)

I am reminded of a recent confluence of Cervantes scholars; we stood on a dusty street trading quotations. Praying that I achieve at least a credible semblance of exactitude, I quote Sancho Panza to his riding companion. “Good Christians should never avenge injuries.” My beating of Pete Wetherford notwithstanding, I believe in this.

I’ll not belabor the point but know that we all care for you, especially one undergraduate of my acquaintance. By the way, this particular wayward student sends her regards and has enclosed a note sealed from her doddering father’s inquisitive eyes.

Please take care and weigh the consequences of revenge carefully.

Yours truly,
Hiram Wickham

p.s. wondrous to hear that Marshal Turner brought William Tauson back from Colorado. There was news from the marshal that Tauson had killed another man in a tavern up your way. I didn’t know if you knew of the Tauson incident but there you have it.

Jubal turned Cybil’s note over in his hands. It had been folded along with the judge’s envelope and sealed with wax, scented as if soaked in rosewater.

Jubal,

Several days after daddy’s attack, a U.S. Marshal came by to see Father and inquire of his health. I overheard him talking about you having followed his band of townsmen, his “posse,” for quite some time, then headed out north on, as he described it, a “wild goose chase.”

We are all still shaken and apprehensive about that nightmarish evening.

I would like to take this occasion to explain my sickening behavior that evening. I hope you understand that the sight of my strongwilled father, helpless on that bloody table, was overwhelming.

Jubal, your complete concentration and steadfast manner with Doctor Brown created an atmosphere of enormous love and caring for another human being. Thank you.

Marshal Turner has stopped by several times and is somewhat a pest. He insisted on describing to me how he wounded Al Wetherford in the street in front of our house and other feats of derring-do throughout his career. I have less than zero interest in him and his oily hair.

I’ll close now, hoping this note finds you in close proximity to transportation back to Cerro Vista and people who care for you.

Regards,
Cybil Wickham

p.s. may the wild geese be chased south to our warmer climes.

He held Cybil’s scented note to his nose again before heading back into the mountains. It pleased him that he had made such good friends. He was touched that Judge Wickham thought so much of him. He hoped he would be worthy.

Cybil. How could this creature possibly know so much about him, and how was it that she could put into words things he had privately thought of and run through his mind about her? It was as if she could gaze into his heart. There was no doubt he admired her, and now his determination to continue his search was, if anything, more resolute.

Marshal Turner. An extraordinary expression of humanity. The man might not have come right out and said he’d captured Tauson, but since he brought him back to town he could just leave the rest to people’s imagination. As for telling Cybil of his shooting Al Wetherford on the street in front of the Wickhams’, it was… ridiculous, Jubal thought.

In some regard the greasy-haired marshal’s behavior with Cybil was understandable. Jubal himself was smitten. It also became clear that he and Marshal Turner had become rivals.
Now I’ve got trouble on both sides of the law.

Pete Wetherford felt tired. His companion Ed Thompson acted like a dolt and moved too slowly. They rode almost nonstop for several days.

“Why do we need to put so much distance between us and Cerro Vista, Pete?” Wetherford’s driven behavior baffled Ed.

“Why you suppose, idiot? We’re wanted. My brother Al’s been shot dead. We plugged the judge, I killed the sheriff and probably the deputy. We’re wanted for those drunken events at the farm. Not to mention our little stopover in La Majestad.”

Ed looked blankly at Wetherford.

“The village where we spent the night, stupid.”

“I don’t like the idea of riding this here pony not knowing who the hell it belongs to, I’ll tell you that.”

Wetherford thought this funny. He rode in silence for a while, then sidled up next to Ed with his mount. “If you
don’t shine up to that there cayuse, why don’t you slip off her and give her a good slap on the butt? She’ll head on back to La Majestad right quick, that way it would relieve all your worries about being hung for a horse thief.”

Ed didn’t know if Pete was kidding him or not. “You know well as I they don’t hang folks for horse thievery anymore. Just concerned ‘cause I’m wondering what you did back at that…”

“La Majestad.”

“Yeah, that town. What you did to that old gal.”

Wetherford didn’t know whether to satisfy Ed’s curiosity. The man was beginning to annoy him. “When you were waiting by the mesa for me, what did you think? That Pete’s a crazy one, he’s gone back to kill that señorita, sure as hell? Was that drifting around in that pea brain of yours?”

“Nah,” protested Ed. “I just don’t want the law taking me down for something I didn’t do.” He glanced over at Wetherford. “Did you do her?”

Wetherford laughed. “When I got back to the shack, she was gone, along with one of the horses. So, yeah, she probably rode into that burg and told someone she had a rollicking good time the previous night, but now she regretted it and would someone please chase after a couple gringos, one who has a big smile plastered across his face? Hell’s fire, man, we’re a hell of a way down the road. No one’s gonna catch us—shake off your willies. Outside of that, we could just parade up and down old La Majestad or Cerro Vista until Christmas. There’s just a couple villages ‘round these parts that don’t need to see the likes of Pete Wetherford and a certain scared-shitless Ed ‘Mama’s Boy’ Thompson.”

Ed reined in his horse and waited for Wetherford to do the same. “No need to talk to a fellow like that. I was just asking, is all. Jesus.”

“You want to trail out of here on your own, Thompson, have at it.” Wetherford jerked his horse around. “Your problem, Ed, is you got no sense of fun and very little patience.”

“Don’t be talking to me about patience. I told you and Al on the street before we ambushed the judge’s house that we should hold up. Try and get the fellow to come out on the porch so we could fix him good. But no, you gotta ride down there spraying away at everything in sight. I said to Al that I seen a couple fellows coming down the street. What is it with the Wetherfords? Whatever you want to do, you just do it? Like it don’t make no never mind what other folk might be thinking or wanting? Now you got us in trouble for raping that Mexican gal and stealing her horse. Lord knows what else.”

“The Wetherfords don’t take kindly to folks who want to criticize or talk ugly.” Wetherford looped his leg over the saddle horn and took a hard look at his riding crony. “Thing is, Ed, I guess I really don’t like you much. Trail your butt out of here before I lose my temper.”

Ed’s long stare angered Wetherford.

“Go on, git. Tell your story while you ride away.” Wetherford took his pistol from the holster, holding it loosely. “Questions?”

Ed mumbled while turning his horse.

“What did you say?” Wetherford called out to him. “Did you call me a name? Spit it out, man.”

Ed spurred his horse northeast into a gallop through the foothills.

Wetherford wheeled his mare, Brindle, back onto the trail to Poverty Gulch. He figured it was closer to five miles than ten. The confrontation with Thompson had been, to Wetherford’s way of thinking, inevitable. The man brought him low in spirit. They hadn’t really been friends in Tauson’s group, anyway, and it was pure happenstance they had hooked up after Wetherford’s escape from the Cerro Vista Jail.

Wetherford had snuck back into town several days after the jailbreak looking for whiskey and ran into Ed at Casa Rey. They had decided to ride north together looking for Billy Tauson and his promised gold deal.

“We’ll all be rich as Midas, boys!” Tauson had shouted, back when he had described his claim and how he wanted the fellows to stake their titles adjacent to his so they could control a whole continuous patch of free flowing riches. “I’ll buy your claims and you fellers will work for me, ‘cause I got the seed money. Don’t worry none about being cheated. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Yeah, Wetherford thought. He would promise in the same way one would to a gal, “I’ll be your sweetie forever, hon.” Wetherford knew Tauson would do him dirt if he got the chance, even though he was smart and had an enterprising soul. A good person for Pete to hook his future to.

If he stayed alert, Pete Wetherford could do well with Billy Tauson.

Wetherford rode through a wooded draw, pulled up, and twisted around slowly in the saddle. Something felt
strange, but he couldn’t put a finger to it. As he started to alight from his mare, a rifle shot blew off a small tree branch just above his head.

Wetherford ducked under his horse and tried to get the lay of the surrounding area. A copse of trees stood up the side of the mountain to the east. Behind him, only open trail. To the west, a steep rocky descent to a stream below. The shot seemed to come from above and to the east. He knew who had fired it.

He tied Brindle to a sapling and unsheathed his rifle, a Spencer carbine.

He waited, knowing Big Ed would be nervous, since his first shot had missed. He would move soon, Wetherford was sure of it. Another bullet ricocheted off a thick piece of shale some ten or twelve feet to his left. A crouched figure darted between the trees and dove behind a log perpendicular to the slope.

Crawling up the grade, Wetherford watched the distant log, stopping where a large rock gave him protection from the shooter. Lifting the rear brass sight to adjust for the rise in terrain, he framed his view, pulled back the hammer, and waited.

“Hey, Ed? Jesus, man. What the hell you doing? I know you’re kind of miffed at me, but Christ, can we talk about it? We been riding buddies for quite a spell now. I gotta admit I go too far sometimes, but… losing Al and all… can you give a fellow another chance, pardner?”

The beginnings of a clump of hair starting to rise above the bark of the tree. Then an ear and a forehead. As the eyes came into view, Wetherford squeezed off a round from the Spencer. A billowing array of shredded bark
exploded next to Ed Thompson’s head, accompanied by the man’s shriek. Ed rolled out from behind the log, both hands holding the side of his face. He staggered down the slanted ground while Wetherford levered in another round, cocked the Spencer, and fired, thinking this time maybe he hit the area of Ed’s left hip.

He tried to decide whether to inspect the body that was now slowly rolling down the steep hill or continue on his way. He gave a satisfied grunt as he watched Big Ed’s limp form continue its lazy descent.

Brindle kicked up a fuss. The gunfire had unnerved her, but as he drew close, she gave a snort as if welcoming him back. Wetherford smiled and mounted, a gratifying conclusion to an irritating problem.

The thought of shouting out a murderer’s name in a tent city appealed to Jubal still, even though the consequences could be dire. It seemed on the surface downright silly, but perhaps it would be effective.

Jubal went back and forth about the idea, going from wild enthusiasm one minute to humbling fear the next. Finally, he decided he’d try it on some of the close-in communities, the ones where he might get support from the local townspeople if trouble arose. He rode into the hills.

Then again, perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea. It was near to suppertime, and most of the campers would be fixing their eats. People might be annoyed at his bellyaching during their meal. Perhaps he’d give it some time.

He realized he missed Cybil more than ever. She seemed so wise and confident. He wished she were there to counsel him.

Jubal turned back toward town. The sun had begun to set and from his hillside he could see a soft purple light descending on the community. It wasn’t such a bad town after all. He and Mountain Bob had shared some fine times. He would have to drop a note to the gal Anne at Anne’s Good Eats to tell of Bob’s sad demise.

As Jubal got closer to town he could see a number of people in the street. A crowd had gathered, a few of the people pointing south toward a lone horseman stumbling along on the main street. Jubal spurred Frisk into a gallop. The man was not sitting atop his mount but was being dragged by his horse as he clung to the saddle horn.

By the time Jubal arrived, several townsmen were trying to untie the man’s right hand from the metal and leather horn protruding from the front of the saddle.

“Ease him up a bit onto his feet to take some pressure off his hand.” This from a gruff fellow who had put himself in charge.

Jubal tied Frisk to a hitching post and joined the gawking crowd.

Clothes torn and caked with dirt, his face and hair matted with blood, it looked as if the horseman had been hit by a tree trunk, with large crimson-tinted shards of wood embedded in his head. He was keening like an infant, and blood oozed down his left side.

Jubal stepped forward. “I think he’s been hip-shot.”

“You the expert on gut-shot? Shut your face and give us a hand here.”

Jubal put his right arm around the man’s waist from the back and gently lifted him. He surveyed the man’s hand. “Look at that, would you?”

“So what?” The tough talker glanced at the rider’s hand.

“It’s black, he’s lost the use. Circulation’s been cut off. It would be best to try and rub some blood back into that hand before we cut him loose.”

“All right, Doctor. Whatever you say. Damnation. Everybody’s an expert, holy Jesus.”

Jubal continued to prop up the bound horseman. Jubal’s head was close to the back of the man’s right ear. “Who did this to you, mister?”

The man breathed deeply. “I did.”

“What do you mean, you did?” Jubal moved his feet to get a better purchase as the gruff man massaged the horseman’s forearm.