Payback at Morning Peak (11 page)

A trail of blood led to Ron’s desk, where the door to the back room had been left open. The deputy must have been in the cell area. Jubal stepped through the portal and eased into the barred confines unnoticed.

He saw Wetherford’s open cell door, the key on a large steel ring still in place in the lock.

The sound of someone crying came from the back cell, next to where he had spent the night. As he eased his way down the short hallway, he could see blood splattered in front of the Spanish woman’s cell.

“Maria, it’s Jubal. Do you remember me?”

“Yes,” she mumbled between her gasps. “Can you please to help me?”

“What happened here?”

A long pause. “I don’t know.”

Jubal stood by the bars, looking at the forlorn woman. She sat on the floor in the corner of the cell, her hands grasping her knees.

“Can I get you water?”

“No, thank you.”

Jubal thought the voices in the outer office had gotten even louder, sounding as if they were ready to move Ron. The deputy led the chorus, shouting instructions on how to ease his pain.

Jubal directed his attention back to Maria. “Guess they’re helping Ron.” Jubal watched for her reaction. “Who shot him? How did it happen?”

“Fat Ron stood there.” She pointed to the corner of her cell next to the bars. “Near the wall of the hombre who came to jail all banged up. I, having to do my daily thing.”

“Your daily… thing?” Jubal didn’t know what else to say.

“I was doing him like I did ever’day. Him and stinky-man sheriff.”

Jubal still couldn’t find the words.

“The hombre next door, Mr. Petey, he reach over to grab Deputy Ron’s gun and said to him to open his cell or he was gonna shoot him to death. Well, Ron was soiling himself and unlocked Petey’s cell. I beg him to let me out, too, but he just shoots Ron and runs out. It was so loud. Then I’m hearing more
pistola
rounds, then nothing.”

Again, Jubal found himself stunned, trying to grasp
how all of this had happened. Even so, in the midst of all the unnecessary pain, Jubal realized there was one thing he could do to help.

Maria continued her moaning but got distracted when Jubal turned the key in her cell door. He swung it open.

“Quietly,” Jubal said. “Do you understand? People in the office are tending to Ron. More are outside. Stay alongside me and don’t speak.”

The diminutive woman nodded and began to creep alongside Jubal as they made their way through the throng. They were lucky to be swept outside as the townsmen hoisted Ron onto a stretcher and whisked him away. Jubal and Maria walked unnoticed into the street.

They made their way along a back alley, and the young woman wept. “Thanks to you, señor.
Muchas gracias.”

“Do you have a place to stay? What will you do?”

“I have
amigas
who will take me.”

Jubal knew there couldn’t be much he could say to her. “Good luck to you, Maria.”

The woman turned and slipped down a dark lane between two buildings. At the corner she clasped her hands together as if in prayer, called out,
“!Muchas gracias!”
and disappeared into the shadows.

Sitting on the porch of the hotel, Jubal watched people stream past the jail area, there being, he figured, a morbid curiosity about the death of the sheriff.

Bufort Morton had died in the street. He had, much to Jubal’s surprise, a family—and, from the reactions of the gawkers, quite a few friends. Or if not friends, acquaintances.

Jubal wondered if he would have to hold himself somewhat responsible for the man’s death. If he had simply left his canteen with Ty Blake at the crossroads and ridden off, none of this would have transpired.

He scolded himself for living in the what-if world again. Then he scolded himself again for stalling. He had to make a decision. Not about whether to trail after Wetherford and Tauson, but how to treat Judge Wickham. The man had been forthright with Jubal and deserved an explanation of why Jubal needed to leave. After all, he said
he was restricting Jubal to the town until further notice. Otherwise, Jubal could simply pack up and go, although the expression “pack up” might be a bit grand when describing his possessions.

“Why would I consent to lifting my ban on your traveling outside town limits?” the judge asked Jubal. “I have said to you it’s still under investigation, your part in all this.”

Jubal sat politely, hands clenched in his lap. They were once more on the porch of the hotel. “With respect, sir, I don’t believe you think I did anything wrong in the recent… tragedy. Am I right?” There was no answer, so he continued. “As I said before, I don’t intend to break the law. I am the only one who knows these fellows as a group. I can point them out.”

“Good. There’s a U.S. Marshal coming up from Albuquerque, should be here soon, and you can describe in detail to him exactly what transpired.” He looked at Jubal. “It’s true, I don’t think you’re culpable in these misdeeds, but—and this is important—you should mind your manners, son. I mean that in a number of ways, not just in a legal sense. I have put you on informal status, meaning I have not drawn up a document stating your being bound to this township—a restraining order, if you will. Let’s stop beating around the teepee here, son. You’re a proper young man. I also believe with the proper education and resolve you could make something of yourself.”

Jubal dropped his chin. This act of concern made him uncomfortable. “I’ll do as you asked, sir, and will stay in town. Although I don’t agree with your order, I respect you and your judgment, and thank you for the
encouragement. I know I need additional schooling. When we moved from Kansas, that was pretty much it for any formal book learning. Ma schooled sis and me each day. She taught in Kansas City and when we came out here she set up a curri… cure…”

“Curriculum.”

“Yes, sir, my sis was very bright. She finished enough reading to have graduated high school, even though she was still real young.”

“And you?”

“I completed my studies as far as high school and was given extra reading to do.”

“Having been shaken by your last literary revelation of Cervantes, I hesitate to ask. But curiosity rules the day.

Such as?”

Jubal hesitated, not sure of the right response. “Melville, sir, he wrote a tale about the sea. My pa was a fisherman when he was young. I don’t mean he just went fishing, he fished for a living. Anyway, I liked to read him. Poe was a favorite of my ma’s. I liked his stories. ‘The Raven,’ and the one about the man who was sealed up in a tomb.…”

“‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”

“Yes, sir, that one, and, uh…” He hesitated, realizing the story of Edmond Dantès had a similar theme to Poe’s tale.

“It’s about revenge, is that why you like it?”

Jubal blushed. He wasn’t sure why he liked that particular story. It did have a bizarre cruel justice to it, but he had read both stories long before the events at the farm.

“Keep reading, son. It’s good for the soul.”

Jubal wondered if he should mention the long Dumas opus, but maybe for now he would keep the Count and his revenge to himself.

“Have you given any thought to what I asked about you staying on at the hotel as a handyman?”

“Sir, under the circumstances, if I’m not allowed out of the yard—”

“No, no, no. I never said ‘not allowed out of the yard.’ “He smiled. “I said ‘township’—you’re a bit provocative, aren’t you?”

“Well, no, sir.” Jubal now felt confident in his newfound friend. “I don’t mean to provoke, I’m much appreciative of your thoughtfulness. I’ll stay on as long as you’ll have me.”

They parted with a handshake.

“Remember what Montressor said to Fortunato?” the judge said as they turned to depart.

Jubal shook his head.

“He said, ‘I have my doubts.’ “The judge walked off the porch down the newly painted steps. “I am jesting with you, Jubal. They were speaking of a sherry, a fine drink, and whether it was in fact as advertised. It was a subterfuge, a ruse. You say you’ll stay, but you say it perhaps a mite too quickly.” The judge tipped his hat to Jubal and smiled.

Maybe so, maybe Jubal tended to agree with adults and tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. Was that dishonest? He found himself in peculiar circumstances. He liked the judge and hoped he wouldn’t have to disappoint him.

Excitement descended in Cerro Vista the next day when U.S. Marshal Wayne Turner arrived. The man questioned almost everyone who had any knowledge of the Young family killings and the shooting of the sheriff and Deputy Ron.

Jubal took note of him as he arrived at the hotel—a thin fellow dressed in business attire, a dark suit and vest, the gleaming badge tucked just inside his coat. He came and went with a decided self-awareness, which made Jubal anxious as he approached the marshal, who was sitting on the hotel porch having a cup of coffee.

“Good day, sir, excuse me, but I work here.” Jubal thought maybe he should mention his employer’s name. “For Judge Wickham.”

No response.

“He hired me. I do odd jobs and such. I wondered if maybe I could have a few words with you?”

Turner looked to Jubal. “You’re the Young family survivor, and are a bit perplexed we haven’t spoken, because there’s something you feel is important to add to this investigation. The sooner I question you, the sooner you’ll feel better about the deaths of a couple of those ne’er-do-wells.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Why did you take it upon yourself to shoot those men? Wouldn’t it have been more prudent to scamper into town and collect the sheriff?”

Turner didn’t wait for an answer, which was good, because Jubal had none. “Youngsters like you are always taking the law into their own hands and the results are always, without exception, disastrous. You’re a child trying to be a man. You should be left to your toys. You made a foolish mistake and probably cost several lives.

I’ve interviewed the deputy and talked to the judge. The deputy puts you square in the middle of all this.”

The marshal continued, “The two townsmen who accompanied the lot of you out to the farm said you were standoffish, somewhat excitable. They said you were wanting to get after the victim they found who was hurt, that you wouldn’t let him finish his story. Then, while they went back up to retrieve one of the bodies, you beat the hell out of him. An article of intrigue is what you are. You approached me, hat-in-hand polite, with your ‘excuse me, I work here, Judge Wickham hired me’ bullshit. So what’s that supposed to mean? Just because the judge hired you doesn’t make you a saint. I’ll talk to you when I am good and ready. If you work here, trot inside and get me more coffee.”

Jubal took the cup to the kitchen and refilled it, adding sugar and a great glob of his own saliva. With the tainted coffee in hand, he left the kitchen and started toward the porch, but he hadn’t even gotten twenty feet when he realized he couldn’t do it without regretting it. He went back to the kitchen and put the cup in the sink.

“What’s you doing, compadre?” said one of the kitchen workers. “I just saw you pour that.”

“I think it’s cold, I need to pour a new cup… to start over.” To start over. What an idea. Was that even possible?

After he delivered the coffee to the marshal, Jubal stood on the porch of the hotel, listening to a trumpeter playing a scratchy spiritual. The musician’s lament was followed by a choir of seven singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” A flat black buckboard led the sad parade, a pine casket on the bed, festooned with flowers. A man in a battered silk hat drove the two horses in a somber fashion.

A crowd of thirty to forty people trailed the wagon, some singing along with the choir, others holding handkerchiefs to their mouths and weeping. At the head of the procession was a woman all in black, with two small children dressed in their finest, walking uncertainly along the dirt street. The youngest of the two had his head pressed hard against his mother’s hand. Jubal doffed his hat as Sheriff Bufort Morton took his last, slow ride.

When Jubal returned through the lobby, the room clerk called him over, holding out a folded piece of paper. Jubal opened it.

Jubal,

Please come for a light repast at six this evening, if your busy schedule allows. Turn right on Calle Piñon after the hotel. Three doors down on left.

Regards,
Judge Hiram Wickham

This appealed to Jubal. He could use a good meal.

At precisely five minutes to six that evening, Jubal found himself pacing outside the judge’s white picket fence. He had gathered wildflowers in a field behind the hotel and wrapped them in a damp newspaper, and now he looked down at the vivid mix of color forming the haphazard bouquet, much like the ones filling his sister’s basket as she ran across that open field the day she died. Maybe, he thought, that was why he liked them—they were hardy and free like Pru.

“Are you Jubal?” He was startled by a lilting female voice.

He stammered out an answer before having really seen who had called from the doorway. “Ah, yes, ma’am.”

A young woman stepped out from behind the screen door into the orange light of the setting sun. “I’m Cybil Wickham. So pleased to meet you, Jubal. Father said you would be coming. Welcome.”