Payback at Morning Peak (26 page)

“I wrapped my arm with my belt and secured it to the saddle horn. I couldn’t mount the horse.… Too weak, she dragged me for days and hustled along, ‘til I stumbled into this place.… Where are we?”

Massaging the man’s forearm had restored some of the color. Jubal unsheathed his bowie knife and passed it, handle first, to the man massaging the arm. He sliced through the wounded man’s brass-studded belt and Jubal lowered him to the ground. “You’re in Poverty Gulch, my good man.”

The horseman’s eyes grew large. “Oh, shit. Tell the law to look after me or I’m a goner for sure.”

Before Jubal could ask him why, a man calling himself Doc Ward arrived with Sheriff Cox. The doctor had the man moved to the porch of the dry goods store while the lawman bent over him to ask a few questions.

Jubal couldn’t hear everything that was said, but
toward the end of the conversation he heard the five-star peacekeeper repeat the name “Pete Wetherford.” Along with other townsmen, Jubal carried the wounded man to the doctor’s office.

Sheriff Cox trailed behind. “Seems like every time I see you, son, there’s a lot of blood. What gives?”

“Guess I attract disaster, Sheriff. Some people surround themselves with flowers; I’m destined for stinkweed.”

Cox chuckled.

They arrived at the doctor’s office and the men laid the moaning patient on the examining table.

Jubal stepped back out into the street with the lawman.

“Do you know this dunderhead, Slim?” Cox asked him.

“Can’t say I know him, but I’m pretty sure he’s one of Billy Tauson’s gang of rascals. I recognized his checkered vest.”

“Care to join me, son?” The sheriff took out a cheroot and a safety match.

“No, thanks. Never acquired the habit. Suppose if that fellow lives through his ordeal he’ll have some things to tell us about… Pete Wetherford.”

“He already did.” The sheriff struck the match on the butt end of his pistol and lit his cigar. “Said he and Pete were heading up this way to Poverty Gulch to do some mining when, out of nowhere, Pete shot him, left him for dead. Robbed his money, then rode off. Says he don’t know why. Supposed to be friends.”

“If he’s anything like the rest of his ‘friends,’ he wouldn’t know the truth if it was packing double behind
him on his saddle. I’m going to take a little look-see around town, near the tents. Try and spot our Mr. Wetherford.”

“I’ll get a note off to that Turner friend of yours and join you up around Twin Pines. Just before that flat meadow where the tents are. Don’t do anything hasty, buckaroo.”

Jubal tipped his hand to his hat and urged Frisk into a slow trot. He liked Sheriff Tom Cox. Seemed like a respectable man. Still wore his blue Union Army pants, but with a fringe-laden buckskin jacket and Union Army scarf. Jubal tried counting how many years Tom would have had those pants.
Lord, near to thirty years. But the man doesn’t look that old.
Jubal calculated this would have made him twenty or younger during the war.

He rode the main thoroughfare, and then started up the mountain.

It was near dark by the time Sheriff Cox joined him at the trailhead marked by matching pine trees.

Tom Cox pointed across the open space. “There’s a temporary saloon set up in the trees on the other side of this meadow. Let’s take a look.”

As they rode across the wide meadow, Jubal asked Tom about his trousers.

“Thanks for asking, Slim. Truth is, my daddy served in the cavalry. Had a couple pair. When he passed, ma inherited these on down to me. Probably looks a might ridiculous, but I guess folks ‘round these parts have kind of gotten used to the look.”

“My pa served too, but he wore out his gold-stripers years ago.” Jubal had only a vague memory of Jubal, Sr.,
in his uniform. “He’d dig them out from time to time and parade around a bit. ‘What you think, Bea? The tunic covers the waistline right smart,’ he’d say. And then my ma would giggle and point silently toward the wardrobe.”

The saloon tent, rigged by an enterprising barkeep, was not much more than a hank of long canvas stretched between two trees and open on three sides. A bearded musician seated at the far end plucked a banjo while a couple of tired-looking ladies scooted around with pitchers of beer. Close to a dozen tables were spread out, each with its own kerosene lantern. Thirty or forty patrons huddled about, drinking their suds.

Sheriff Cox signaled for Jubal to follow him to the makeshift bar, merely a couple of long planks stretched between two barrels. Jubal stood at the far end while the sheriff walked slowly through the crowd, looking for unfamiliar faces.

“What you have, old-timer?” This from a thin fellow wearing a white apron and a ridiculous-looking ten-gallon hat.

Jubal didn’t really want a drink but thought maybe for the sake of appearances he should have something. “I think maybe a glass of beer. Make that two glasses, if you would.” He watched as the sheriff continued to walk among the patrons. When the beer arrived, Jubal paid and took a sip. Wasn’t bad, he thought, for an old seasoned beer drinker like himself.

The bartender stood in front of Jubal polishing beer glasses. “Where you in from, pard?”

“Ah, well, here and there, sir. Mostly down Cerro Vista way.”

“Where’s that?”

“South, in New Mexico.”

“There were a rascal in here, I think it was last night, from New Mexico, strange dude. Looked as if he were spoiling for trouble. You know the type. Always taking harm at everything a person might say to him. Mean eyes.”

“Did he have black hair, long dark coat, sort of a nasty grin?”

Someone at the far end of the bar called out for service. The barkeep held up a finger to Jubal. “Hold on a spell, youngster. Got a customer down there. I’ll get back to you.”

Jubal felt as if Wetherford might be close. His reverie was interrupted by an angry voice at the other end of the makeshift saloon. The space grew quiet, the banjo player continued awhile, then gradually petered out. Jubal took his beer and stepped out of the tent, skirting behind the open canopy.

“You got no jurisdiction up here. I’m a law-abiding citizen having a drink, trying to mind my own self. Why you pestering me for?”

Judging by the murmur from the surrounding miners, they all seemed to agree the drunk was within his rights. Jubal glanced around the tent. Not many friendly faces.

“Say, there, Walker,” Sheriff Cox said. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yep, my mama gave me that name.” The big guy looked around at his drinking mates. “I’d be obliged for you not to wear it out.”

The sheriff took a step closer. “Walker, I explained to you some two weeks ago about you drinking, then going
home and beatin’ the shit out of that ninety-pound wife of yours. I’m not going to tell you again, you hear? I approached you in a friendly way, but you want to make a spectacle of yourself and let all these good folk hear how much of a cowardly bully you are.”

The red-faced man was close to exploding.

The sheriff waited.

Controlling his temper, Walker revealed a gap-toothed grin, then poured his beer slowly on Tom Cox’s boots while glancing about the room.

The sheriff slapped the glass away and drew his pistol in one swift move.

“Everyone stay seated.” Sheriff Cox called out to the barkeep, “If you want to stay open the rest of the night, no more drinks for Mr. Big Mouth Walker, agreed?”

“You got ‘er, Tom, whatever you say,” the bartender called back.

Tom directed his talk back to Walker. “Why don’t you call it a night, big boy?”

Another man, definitely drunk, came up close behind the sheriff. “Why don’t you kiss all our behinds, lawman?” He poked Sheriff Cox in the back with a long-barreled six-shooter.

A chorus of “Oh, shit” echoed in the crowded tent.

The drunk with the gun spouted a litany of grievances, not just about lawmen but about the rigors of gold mining, the cold winters, and life in general.

Jubal drifted toward the back of the tent, remaining in the shadows, choosing his moment. When it arrived, he stepped out of the darkness, drew his pistol, and got behind the drunk. He forced the barrel into the man’s ear
so he could hear the unmistakable sound of the hammer being cocked.

“Drop that piece or your head comes off, cowboy,” Jubal whispered.

Sheriff Cox turned and disarmed the drunk, slapping him hard across the face with an open hand. “Henry, you’re getting to be a pain, you know that? How many times have I taken this weapon from you?”

“Too many?” The drunk tried to focus.

“That’s for damn sure.” The sheriff cracked open the six-shooter and spilled the brass cartridges into his hand, then tossed them out into the black night. “Folks, listen up. I realize a lot of you are from out of town and are here to make your fortune, but you don’t have a license to act up. You work hard, and want to relax, but you can’t break the law.” He waited to gauge the response. Most of the drinkers seemed to acquiesce and went back to their beers.

“Hear me out. We’ll shut this circus down and you’ll have to hoof it into town for your beer.” He paused, turning back to Walker, and tapped him in the chest with Henry’s empty pistol. “As for you, wife-beater, the next time you cause a ruckus, your butt is behind bars. You
sabe?”

“Hey, what about my hogleg, Tom?” This from Henry.

“You’ll get it back from the barkeep at the end of the night, okay?”

“What if I needed it afore that, I’d just be stuck, wouldn’t I?”

“As drunk as you are, if you were called out in a gunfight you’d never clear your holster. Now sit down and shut up.”

The sheriff handed the empty six-shooter to the bar
keep and told him to keep watch on it until Henry sobered up. Tom and Jubal made their way to the saloon exit, the barkeep following them to the edge of the tent.

“Hey, Slim. Didn’t you want to hear about your friend from New Mexico? The way you described him, kinda mean grin, all nasty black hair, sounds like your buddy, uh… what’s his name?”

“Pete?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Said he was heading up the mountain, do some sifting for yellow with his partner, if he could find him. Billy something or other.”

Jubal and Sheriff Cox glanced at each other. Jubal thanked the man and the two walked to their horses.

The sheriff mounted first. “You put yourself in a tough position back there, Slim. Pulling down on that clown Henry, you looked a mite too comfortable with that shooter of yours.”

Jubal didn’t answer, just fiddled with Frisk’s reins.

“Thing is, youngster, I appreciate what you did. Don’t misunderstand me, but don’t get too comfortable unleashing that weapon. You might be forced to shoot someone, take a life someday. You hear?”

He agreed with a nod, resisting the urge to smile.

Sheriff Cox turned his horse back toward Poverty Gulch. “After all that, we hear that your ‘friend’ Pete Wetherford is in the area.”

Jubal followed the sheriff back in the direction of the gulch. They rode in silence until Jubal called to the man, “Somehow, sir, I don’t think my ‘friend’ Pete had gotten word that Billy Tauson is in jail. He’s going to be hunting around creek beds and panning sites, asking about him,
and the more he asks, the more people will know which way he’s headed. He’s going to leave a trail, the bastard.”

As they picked their way down the dark foothills, Jubal’s thoughts drifted back to his father and the reasons for the move from Kansas.

His pa stood by the closet, running his hand reverently over his Civil War tunic. “Bea, I’ve caused a man to die.” They briefly touched. “It was an accident, but nevertheless, he’s gone. It’s tough to live with that.”

Jubal’s mother hugged her husband. “Jube, dear, Hank passed away? Wait while I get the children to bed.”

His mother scooted both him and Pru into their bedrooms. After she quietly bade him good night, Jubal crept back to the heavy oak door and cracked it open. His parents stood at the entrance to the hallway in a tight embrace, his father weeping. “I never liked that jasper, but I had no real intent. Like I told you the other day, it was just a scuffle, then he fell. His head…”

“What’s to become of us, Jube?” his mother said. “You know we’ve spoken of this before, and it’s always the same, you have to face it.”

“I know, sweetheart. But I’m certain my days in the harness trade are finished. We may have to consider a move out west… that land sale.”

Bastards seemed to run in Pete Wetherford’s family. He could recall a number of uncles, cousins, and the like who, even if trying to be kind, were out-and-out sons of bitches.

Wetherford moved his way up the steep embankment alongside the creek. He’d seen a number of miners, all waist-deep in cold water, shoveling and rattling their sluices, trying to eke out a living. He’d decided, potential riches or not, it was not the life for him. Perhaps he’d let those yokels do their panning, then relieve them of their riches in order to save them a trip down the mountain to the assayer’s office.
Why, Lord’s sake, it would be almost like a community service.

Dismounting, he knelt down next to the stream and dipped his head into the cool water, trying to shake off his hangover. The tented saloon with its warm beer and rotgut whiskey had been a mistake, but like most promises he made to himself, his pledge to ease off the drinking proved
difficult. He recalled a distant relative, Uncle Arnie. The man hadn’t drawn a sober breath in twenty years, and then one day Pete’s ma got a letter addressed to his long departed father, telling of Uncle Arnie’s passing.

Arnie was taken from us on the 12th of August in the year of our Lord, 1876. Gunned down by a cowardly bank guard while our beloved was innocently fiddling with his own Colt pistol. The blessed Lord has seen fit to take his sainted soul back to the promise land.

Love always,
Verna Wetherford

p.s. can you send us a small passel of cash money to hold us over?

Pete remembered his ma practically pissing herself when she read the letter. She carried it around with her for days. Dragging it from her apron pocket, she held the paper with one hand while clamping the other across her mouth, always ready to explode in delight.