Payback at Morning Peak (34 page)

Crook Arm acknowledged with a grunt.

“You think he’ll understand what’s needed, Pete?”

Pete smiled and patted brother Al on the back. “If he does half of what’s asked of him, it’ll do.”

They parted just before reaching the cantina. Crook Arm proceeded along a back alley toward the hotel while the brothers continued to Paseo Segundo. They moved past the jail, and Pete wasn’t able to resist a call out to the open rear window, “Hey, Billy! How’s it swinging, boss?” He laughed, and there was no reply.

Al shifted in his saddle. “Let’s try and concentrate here, Pete.”

They rode along Paseo until they were across from the land office, then donned their masks and set their cowboy hats on top of the full headpieces. Pete’s mask was made of stiff papier-mâché, painted a bright red, the eyes black-rimmed and dead-looking, while the mouth was frozen in a crooked sneer. His hat was stuck up high on his head, secured by the rawhide string under his chin. Al’s white-painted skull sported red and black circles for eyes, the open lips adorned with rotting teeth, the nose hole and hollowed-out cheeks painted bloodred.

Al glanced at his pocket watch. “About a minute.”

They glanced around at the few locals walking along the wooden sidewalk, some looking astonished at the two men, while others waved as if trying to get into the spirit of things. Al nodded and they moved up the street. When they were a hundred feet from the bank, smoke began coming from the back of The Wicks Hotel.

The masked pair proceeded down the street, taking their time.

Farther along, a few locals ran toward the stable in the back of the hotel. Someone called out “Fire!” as the two masked men tied their horses in front of the bank, waiting until the people in the building were alerted. In a short time, a half dozen souls came streaming through the double doors looking back down the street at the now-crackling flames.

The brothers walked into the emptying bank.

“Hola, amigos.
We’re here for the pesos. This is a robbery. Fill these bags
mucho pronto.”
Pete didn’t even attempt to make his Spanish sound authentic. They brought out two canvas feed bags and the bespectacled clerk behind the cage began stuffing them with money. Only four people remained in the bank—a customer, the manager, and two tellers. Those not busy emptying the till stood with hands raised, keeping watch on the masked gunmen.

Pete motioned for the hostages to move toward the back room, tying the manager to his desk chair and stuffing a kerchief in his mouth. The woman who was the customer he locked in a clothes closet along with the frightened tellers. He then went back to Al and the business at hand.

Business was brisk at the hotel. Jubal had been given the task of helping the maid fold sheets in the basement, and though it wasn’t his favorite pastime, he was certain it was only temporary. His thoughts were of Cybil and their conversation on the street just before parting. “Will I see you tonight?” “Let’s try.” It had a sign of hope to it.

He was startled from his absorption by the maid asking a question. “What? Sorry, I didn’t understand what you said, miss.”

“Listen,
por favor.
”

Jubal heard yelling and footsteps on the floor above them. He went up the basement stairs. At the top, people moved quickly from the lobby onto the front porch.

A women’s high-pitched voice screamed, “Fire!”

“Is it in the stable?” Jubal asked.

“Yes!”

Jubal’s one thought was Frisk. He ran outside to find one end of the barn where Frisk was stabled consumed by heavy flames.

Jubal darted into the barn and began releasing the horses into the courtyard. Frisk was five stalls down close to the fire. Jubal couldn’t get to the gate, as the flames had caught the dried wood and begun climbing, so he crawled over the slats separating the stalls until he reached her. She was dancing at the flames licking at the stacked hay in the corner.

He kicked at the horizontal planks separating Frisk’s stall from the adjoining one. Finally breaking the top board, he grabbed her halter and encouraged her to jump the last two planks. They did the same to the next stall, finally able to make their way through the smoke into the now-busy courtyard.

“Did you let those horses out, son?” the manager asked.

“Sure did.”

“Good job. My God. I thought I was seeing ghosts when you came out of that dense smoke. Christ, I don’t know what I’m gonna tell Judge Wickham.”

Jubal looked over the man’s shoulder back down the alleyway toward Tres Paseo. “Look, it seems there’s another fire close to the jail, just up the street at the cantina. Something’s going on.”

While leaving the bank, Pete and Al saw the second fire Crook Arm had started, at the back of the cantina.

“Shit fire, there’s people running around like headless chickens. It’s working, Pete.”

“Damn, boy, you look scary, what with that stupid sombrero sitting atop that skull. If I didn’t know it was you behind that getup, I’d be shaking like a coyote in a wolf’s cave.”

“Let’s hightail it, Pete. Come on.”

“I can see the jailhouse doors open. The sheriff’s probably carrying water to one of the fires. Let’s take a minute for some tit for tat.”

The brothers quickly rode down the street to the jail. Pete tossed his reins to Al and dashed into the outer office of the lockup. Gathering the two wastebaskets and an armload of paper folders from the bookshelf, he kicked in the door leading to the barred cells. He spread his papers around the loose logs next to the wood-burning stove and lit them. He took off his long coat and fanned the flames. The dried logs and papers burned well. It was only a few minutes until the
latillas
covering the ceiling began smoldering. The straw used for insulation between the horizontal logs and roof was soon fully alight.

“Hey, what the hell’s going on? This some kind of joke?”

Pete raised his hands high and spoke through his
sneering papier-mâché lips. “Everybody loves a joke now and again… Billy.”

“Pete Wetherford? Why you doing this?”

“Guess.” Pete walked toward the broken door, the smoke starting to thicken.

“Don’t leave us in here, Petey. Lord God a-mighty.”

This was a different voice. “Who’s calling?”

“It’s Ed Thompson, Pete. Don’t do this. Help me, please, for God’s sake.”

Pete looked back into the smoke-filled room. A figure moved in panic behind the bars.
But Ed Thompson’s dead, has been for quite some time.
He walked slowly from the jail, his coat dragging behind, and got back on his horse.

Three fires burned now, and one of them had a voice that spoke from the dead. The brothers turned their mounts back toward Calle Piñon and Judge Wickham’s house.

Because the shed Jubal shared with the two other workers was close to the stable and in danger of burning, he took the time to get his possessions out. He dropped the grain sack filled with his clothes behind the front desk counter and ran toward Calle Piñon. Jubal knew something dangerous was going on.

Al was upset. “Christ, man, you’re gonna get our butts fried. First the bank, then you wanted ‘tit for tat’ at the jail. Where we heading now? We’re supposed to meet Crook Arm at the East Fork.”

“I got to settle up with His Honor the right nasty Hiram Wickham. Crook Arm can wait ‘til Christmas. I never did intend to divvy up with Mr. Powwow nohow.”

The streets were peppered with horses, wagons, people running. Jubal saw the sheriff and Marshal Turner in front of the jail. Flames leapt twenty feet in the air, fully engulfing the structure’s roof. Several bodies lay on the sidewalk in front of the adobe building.

The whole town filled with smoke. Horses were loose, trotting unattended, trying to distance themselves from the fires. Relieved he had taken the time to secure Frisk in an orchard behind the hotel, Jubal reached the Wickhams’ front gate, where he could see horses in the back alley. He had a moment of reflection, thinking this was the second time Frisk had gone through a session of fire in a barn.

The Wickhams would have to be deaf not to have heard the commotion. But the house seemed strangely quiet.

“What is it you want from us, Wetherford?”

Pete stood in the doorway of the Wickhams’ kitchen. Al crowded in behind him in the narrow passageway.

“You beat me when I was feeling poorly up on Morning Peak. I intend for ‘satisfaction.’ “He dragged the word out, enjoying his sense of power. He looked at Marlene and Cybil huddled behind Judge Wickham. “Maybe the word is ‘satisfy.’”

Jubal listened at the judge’s front door. Something told him things weren’t quite right. He wanted to open the door without knocking but knew he’d feel a fool if he did and everything in the house was fine.

Pete motioned for Judge Wickham to move to one side. “You with the pretty ribbon in your hair, come here.”

Cybil walked tentatively across the kitchen floor.

Judge Wickham spoke in a loud voice. “Now, listen, Wetherford, leave my family alone. We have some money stashed away. Take it and leave us. For God’s sake, man. Have you no self-respect?” He stomped his foot in frustration. “If you need a hostage, take me!”

Pete looked at the judge. “Why would I take a withered bag of wind like you when I could have this fresh, unspoiled maiden?” He wrapped his left arm around Cybil’s waist and pulled her in close, his pistol pressing tightly into her stomach. “You look kind of innocent. Are you… unspoiled?”

Cybil spat in his face and struggled to free herself.

“Al, watch these old farts while I take care of this one.” Pete slapped Cybil hard, knocking her into the hallway.

“Are you some kind of a debauch?” This from someone behind Jubal. “Creeping around Cybil’s house?”

He turned to see Wayne Turner smirking. Jubal held a finger to his lips and whispered, “I just heard Judge Wickham getting angry with someone. I think it’s Pete Wetherford.”

“You’re always hearing and seeing things, aren’t you, shooter?”

“Why the fires?” Jubal gestured with his arm at the surrounding smoke.

“It’s been a dry summer.”

“Three fires all at once?” Jubal cocked his head at the lawman.

Marshal Turner took a step toward the door. He cupped his hands around his eyes, pressing against the
engraved glass panel of the door. He peered in, then suddenly stepped away. “There are two of them. They got Cybil. Get help. Go get the sheriff.”

Marshal Turner leapt off the porch and crouched down, fumbling under his coat for his pistol. A scream came from the back of the house as Jubal tried the knob of the front door—which was locked. He drove his elbow through the etched glass, cleared the broken shards, reached in, and unlatched the door. Moving along the hallway, he could see a shadow against the far wall, someone in the kitchen.

Standing with his back to him at the kitchen entry was Al Wetherford.

Jubal’s first instinct would be a shot to Al’s back, but if the round went through his body, it would endanger whoever was at gunpoint in the kitchen. Jubal saw Al had positioned himself half in and half out of the doorway so he could keep watch on the hallway and the kitchen both.

Jubal eased himself behind the stairs and released the long-bladed knife from its scabbard, hoping his few practice sessions with Mountain Bob would now pay off. Hidden behind the uprights on the banister railing, he waited until Al glanced down the hall. He could hear the angry voice of Judge Wickham as Al turned his head back toward the kitchen.

Moving into the hall, Jubal took a long deliberate stride toward the kitchen door. He threw the knife at the broadest part of Al’s back, but just as the blade completed its first full rotation, Al moved. He had bent slightly forward and down, the knife slicing through the top of his coat collar, ripping open the back of his neck and sticking with
a resounding
thwack
into the door casing. Jubal covered the remaining distance in an instant.

He slipped Ty Blake’s nickel-plated .44 from his waistband and pressed it against Al’s bloody neck. “One little sound from you, jackass, and daylight will come streaming through that pumpkin head of yours. What’ll it be?”

Al nodded and held his weapon chest-high with just his finger. The pistol swung gently by the trigger guard, and Jubal disarmed him.

“I’m hurt bad, pard. I can feel the wetness on my back.”

“You’ll live, it’s just a nick.”

Al moaned.

A lucky throw,
Jubal mused.
Practice made almost perfect.

“Where’s Cybil?” he whispered to Judge Wickham, holding the gun out to him.

Judge Wickham took it and answered quietly, “I heard a scream. It sounded as if it came from out back, by the path.”

“Are you okay holding him, Judge?”

The judge pushed the barrel of Al’s pistol hard into the man’s chest. “I’ll be fine. Careful with Cyb.”

Jubal made his way back out the front entrance, then ran to the side of the house, where he met Marshal Turner creeping along, glancing through the kitchen windows.