Payback at Morning Peak (32 page)

Then he was back. “Look here what you did.” He took off his buckskin jacket and displayed his bloody arms. Dropping his pants to show a sharp bone protruding from the side of a purple bruised leg, he became hysterical. With his pants still around his knees he drew both pistols and made as if firing them. Mimicking loud bullet sounds, he rocked his pistols up and down, childlike, pointing at the sides of Jubal’s head.

Jubal found himself trying to explain to Pete that his brother Al was among the living. He could hear his shouted words atop the foggy mountain. “Al is alive somewhere, wounded but alive. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Why am I asking this vision of madness for forgiveness?
He woke with a start. Propping himself on his elbows and peering into the blackness, he heard gasps—his own.

Carl Buckles lived a few miles south of Cerro Vista in a shack where he sold stolen property, a ramshackle adobe hut with a hundred-mile view, perched on the crest of a butte overlooking a rambling stream. Wetherford had dealt with him a few times and tolerated him, although he knew better than to turn his back on Mr. Buckles.

Wetherford had decided at the last minute not to traipse smack-dab into the center of Cerro Vista without first knowing the atmosphere in town. He made his way up the steep butte.

“Pete, I could have plugged you an hour ago,” Carl said. “My boy, you make a lot of noise coming up that hill. What’s with that packhorse?”

Wetherford continued up the rise. Once at the top, he doffed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “How you making it, Carl? Everything hunky-dory?”

“Can’t complain. Me and Omaha doing just fine.
Funny you showing up at this time. Your brother Al came by about a week or so ago. Sold him a couple of shooters—”

“What?”

“Yeah, Al, your brother. Sold him a couple of pistols.”

“Holy Christ. Al? You sure?”

“What you mean, am I sure? I know a Wetherford when I see one.”

Pete sat down on a stump in Carl’s messy yard, trying to wrap the news around his addled mind. “I thought he was dead. Lord a-mighty. Al alive.”

“Hadn’t heard nothing about his death. He told me, when I asked about his bent-over shape, that he’d taken a round in the gut in a bar squabble. Spent some time in the hospital down Albuquerque way.… What you need, Pete? Did you come by to pay Al’s credit I advanced him?”

“Yeah, I’ll settle up with you, Carl. What do you hear down Cerro Vista way? Are people hereabouts still looking for me?”

“I don’t think they’re out scouring the hills trying to catch sight of you, but there’s a new sheriff, and course that puffed-up Marshal Wayne Turner. Yeah, they’d like to nab you, but nobody’s beating the bushes.”

Wetherford shrugged, then lit a cigarette. “I came up here wanting to ask you where I could get a couple men to ride with me. Had a certain bank I want to visit, if you get my drift.”

Carl paced back and forth in front of his shanty. “I’d go myself, but I promised my old lady that I would give up that life.”

“How is Omaha, anyway? I always liked that gal.”

“Fine, just fine, giving herself her weekly bath down the stream a ways. Speaking of water, Al’s over in Agua Diablo taking the cures. Soaking in the mineral baths trying to get his self right.” Carl yelled out to his wife, who was making her way up the path next to the stream. “Omie, look who’s here. It’s Pete, remember? Al’s brother.”

An enormous woman already, Omaha looked even bigger wrapped in a colorful native blanket. She waved at Pete. “Looks tired. How you making, big Pete?”

“Making good, Omie, and you?” Wetherford asked.

“Omaha makin’ bread, deer steak, makin’ good.”

After a heavy meal and an ample quantity of rotgut whiskey, as Omie called it, they sat next to a blazing fire. Omaha passed a strand of beef jerky to Pete. “I have a friend, Indian, actually, named Wild Pony. Says her brother Crook Arm is looking for work.”

“I know Crook Arm, he rode with us for a while. He’s a good hand. Where is he?”

“Hanging out up north of Cerro Vista in a cave,” said Carl. “Just up past Big Rock on the river’s east side. Been there about a month.”

“What do you hear about Billy Tauson?” Wetherford asked. “Some simpleton up Colorado way said he was taken by some gunslinger in a saloon.”

Carl wrapped his arm around his wife’s neck and pulled her close. “Yeah, I heard that Turner brought him back from somewhere up north, but I hadn’t heard anything about a shooter.”

“This old prospector said the guy pulled down on
Billy Tauson in a tavern. Kept him sitting next to a dude that took a round to the chest, they were there half the night ‘til the law came and pulled him away. If it’s that little chump from Young’s farm, I’ll—”

Carl seemed to awaken at the mention of Young’s farm. “What you know about that set-to at the farm, Pete?”

“No more than anyone else, why you ask?”

Carl threw a log on the banked embers of the fire. “I hear tell that was a right mess. Couple women got raped and kilt. Some farmer got hung. You involved, Pete?”

“I think you know better than to ask me particulars like that, don’t you?” Wetherford gave him a look of warning.

“Yeah, I do, Petey. Sorry. Just that everybody knows you and Al were there. Of course, that’s why your former boss Billy Tauson’s in jail, isn’t it?”

“If you knew I was there, why did you ask?” Wetherford exhaled loudly. “Oh, hell, it don’t make no never mind. Things kind of got out of hand. But Al and I ended up suffering for it. That, I don’t forgive.”

He spent the night, settled up with Carl for Al’s debt, bought some ammunition for his Spencer rifle, and lit out for Agua Diablo.

Jubal awoke his first morning back from his long trip feeling drowsy and out of sorts. He dressed and then reported for duty, as it were, in the lobby of the hotel.

“Well, until we can figure out exactly what your status is, whether you’re our handyman or what, have breakfast in the employees’ kitchen and I’ll come and get you directly,
okay?” The hotel manager was busy and the last thing he needed was to deal with Jubal.

As he sat having tea and oatmeal, he heard a familiar voice.

“Where’s that prodigal child?” Judge Wickham appeared in the doorway of the small room. “Weren’t you told to keep your hind end in and around the environs of Cerro Vista, young man?” The judge scowled.

Jubal smiled and rose from his chair. “Yes, sir, but I’ve never been good with geography and such, I hope you’ll excuse me.” They embraced. “How’s your health?”

“I’m feeling better by the day. Come with me, youngster. There are folks you need to say hello to.”

Jubal followed the man into the dining room, where Cybil, Mrs. Wickham, and Marshal Turner were having breakfast. When Cybil saw Jubal, she dropped her fork and half rose from her chair. “My God… Jubal?”

The judge loved the fact that he could surprise his family with Jubal’s presence. “You’ve met the marshal, haven’t you, Jubal?”

The two men shook hands solemnly, then Jubal acknowledged Mrs. Wickham and finally Cybil.

“Miss Wickham, so glad to see you. Shouldn’t you be back east?”

Cybil brushed away the egg crumbs from her dropped fork. “Yes, I was meant to go this week, but, well, it’s a long story. How are you? I’m just so shocked to see you. Daddy said he had a surprise for us this morning. Oh, excuse my manners. Please sit.”

Jubal looked to the judge, who grinned and pointed to an empty chair across from Marshal Turner. Jubal thought
it to be ironic, having breakfast with the love of his weary life and his rival for her affection.

“Marlene, pass our wandering pioneer that bowl of hash. Jubal, would you like some eggs or hotcakes?”

“No, thank you, sir. These potatoes and such are just fine.”

“I hear you brought in one of those varmints from the raid.”

“Yes, sir, a certain Mr. Ed Thompson.”

Cybil sipped her tea. “Was he one of the ringleaders?”

“No, I don’t think so, just a cowboy who made some mistakes.”

Turner swiped his mouth with his napkin. “The real boss of the gang was the one I secured from Colorado a while back, William F. Tauson.”

“Wayne, how did you happen to hear about that fellow all the way up there in Colorado?” Cybil asked.

Jubal had to swallow his gall at Cybil’s use of Turner’s first name.

Marshal Turner folded his napkin carefully. “You see, Miss Cybil, lawmen have a kind of community bind, in that we try and keep feelers out to our brethren. In this case, I had been in touch with an officer named… well, his name isn’t so important. The point is, we help one another all throughout the West. I happened to be in touch with this lawman…”

Jubal loved that he was repeating himself.

“… and he described this certain hombre he had in custody. I put two and two together, caught the train to Colorado, and managed to incarcerate this Tauson desperado.”

Mrs. Wickham chimed in. “Jubal, you must be very grateful to the marshal for his work on this case.”

Jubal chewed on a piece of toast and found it hard to swallow. “Oh, yes, ma’am. The marshal has done a workmanlike job. Yes, indeed.” He glanced at Cybil, who was looking back at him with such affection he nearly burst. “In my limited travels I find people of Marshal Turner’s experience along with folks like Sheriff Tom Cox of Cripple Creek invaluable. As the marshal says, it’s the community spirit that’s important. Everyone pulling together. Right, Wayne?”

Marshal Turner grunted in the affirmative. The Wickhams smiled, continuing their breakfast.

Later on the hotel porch, the Wickhams said their goodbyes to Turner and left Jubal leaning against a pillar. He watched as the family started down Calle Piñon. Suddenly Cybil stopped her parents. Jubal saw her speaking with them, then she hurried back toward him and the hotel.

As she approached, she grinned broadly. “I am so pleased to see you. I had to tell a little fib to my parents about a lost embroidered hankie.” She glanced down the street to where the older couple were just turning into their home. “Can we sit here and chat?”

Jubal wiped down the porch swing he had painted earlier in the spring. They took a seat and Cybil pedaled the white planked flooring.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “What if Daddy hadn’t brought us over for breakfast and surprised us, what would you have done? Just hung around here at the hotel hoping
I might pass by and you could wave hello? Didn’t you want to see me?”

“I suppose the real problem is, when I see you sitting near ‘lover boy’ I get the willies. Guess I’m just jealous. You say in your letters—”

“That I care for you, in case you don’t read my letters accurately, Mr. Young.”

“Okay. Then I see you with, in your words, ‘oily hair,’ and I’m confused.”

Cybil smiled. “So you
do
read my letters. Jube, listen to me. I’ve said this before. My parents like Wayne. He’s polite, brushes his suit, and, ah, yes, combs his hair, but—and this is important—he’s their friend, not mine. Okay, Mr. Jealousy?”

Jubal smiled and reached for her hand. “Thank you.” He couldn’t look at her. He felt he didn’t deserve her, felt she was way above him in intellect and maturity, yet in spite of all that, he knew they were right for each other.

Cybil continued to move the swing with her feet.

“What was all that law-community nonsense Wayne was spouting on about?” Cybil asked. “Did you understand what he was getting at? The fact you had to finally supply the name of the sheriff he was supposedly working with seemed peculiar.”

Jubal told Cybil the whole story. As they talked, they enjoyed the passing array of locals, some of them shopping, others simply taking in the day. Cybil squeezed his hand. “I truly felt stupid when you asked if I should be back east. On the way over to the hotel for breakfast, mom and I had a kind of set-to about my travel plans. I had told
my parents earlier in the week I wasn’t feeling well and that I wanted to stay a few days longer. Guess why.”

Jubal put on a dumb look. “Because you wanted to hang out to see if your sweetie pie would come back from the wars?”

“Jubal Young, that’s the most conceited, arrogant, exaggerated—”

“You left out honest.”

“Fraudulent.”

“Not deceptive?”

“Self-important, not to mention self-serving.”

“Lovable?”

“All right. I’ll grant you it was lovable that you saw through my little deceit with my parents.” Cybil softened. “What would you say to a quick walk in the countryside? There’s something I would like to plant on that smug little kisser of yours.”

Jubal met her eyes. “For the life of me, I can’t imagine what that would be.”

They left the hotel porch and walked east toward Morning Peak, unaware of a lone rider leading a packhorse, passing just behind them on his way north toward Agua Diablo.

Wetherford liked taking chances. He could very easily have skirted around the west side of town to get to the waters, but he didn’t like hiding out or dodging the authorities. He rode through town as if he owned it, nodding from time to time at the various passersby.

Agua Diablo, the Devil’s Water, was north of Cerro Vista about five miles. Not a town, but just a few tents scattered along the streambed and a couple of ragtag shacks. Other than that, it was simply a natural hot spring that the locals proclaimed had healing powers. Women weren’t excluded from the waters, but most of the men would bathe in the nude, so it was very close to being exclusive.

Wetherford led his two-horse caravan to the far end of the bubbling waters and secured the horses in the trees, then walked back to check on the various bathers. Steam rose from four areas along the riverbed where the water was deepest. Each pool had a number of elderly men,
standing in water chest-high, staring blank-eyed into the near distance. Al Wetherford sat by himself in the last pool, slowly twisting his head from side to side, his right arm stretched high in the air.

“What’s you reaching for, Al, the heavens? It’s a far piece.” Pete grinned, circling around, trying to see through the mist.