Payback at Morning Peak (15 page)

As they neared the base of the broad raised land, he wondered what internal struggle of the earth had produced such an unusual form. The mesa sprouted almost straight up from the flat land leading up to it. On the east side he found slabs of rock that formed a number of structures, one resembling an enormous welcoming archway. Someone had built a now-abandoned lean-to against the easterly wall, a rickety structure to house hay and feed. The entry and interior were wide enough for him and Frisk to slide through and turn around, just as the storm unleashed its fury on the landscape.

He stared out at the howling skies for hours. The snow found small crevices in Jubal’s new shelter, the wind swirling annoying flakes around the darkening structure. But he and Frisk were fairly warm and dry. He wondered what Wetherford and his cohort were up to. Would they have had the good sense to look for cover early?

The wind picked up, sweeping across the plain unobstructed. Jubal started a small fire and sat on a mound of hay, contemplating his situation. He felt as if he had several advantages, mostly being that Pete Wetherford didn’t know Jubal was on his tail.

But not knowing his exact location bothered Jubal. Perhaps somewhere northwest of Cerro Vista and certainly
still south of Alamosa. As he leaned against the weathered side of the shelter, weariness took over and Jubal fell almost instantly asleep.

He was awakened by a sound. The wind? Had Frisk moved? Jubal reached over and clasped the horse’s leg between her hoof and first joint. He could feel the animal’s pulse—racing. Was there someone close by? Frisk pulled her leg from Jubal’s grasp and snorted, pounding her heavy hoof into the darkened earth.

Then a rattle.

Frisk danced about in the confined space. Jubal got out Audrey, then took a small branch from the embers and held it in front of himself, finally spotting the snake close to Frisk’s front hooves. The strike, when it came, was incredibly fast, catching Frisk just above the right front hoof.

She pranced about, trying to step on the now-coiled rattler. Jubal fired into the spiraled mass of snake but missed, the bullet ricocheting with a high-pitched whine off a plowshare.

He tucked the gun back under his belt and once again held the smoldering red branch out in front of him. The rattler had retreated back against the rock wall.

Jubal, with his left hand, held the lighted stick as far out from his body as he could get it. Teasing the snake to get its focus on the stick, he reached out to secure the slippery looking reptile behind its head, but the rattler would have none of it. Hissing a warning by lashing out at Jubal’s hand, it struck at open air.

Once again Jubal tormented the snake until he got it to move out of its comfortable form. It slid along the wall for a couple of yards, then once again coiled to take a stand.

Jubal crawled under Frisk’s belly and placed his right hand as close as he dared behind the snake’s head, then tried to distract it once again with the lighted stick—it made an exploratory strike at the branch, then recoiled and waited. Frisk pumped her left rear leg up and down, trying to find the rattler. The snake struck again, reaching out several feet, nearly half its body length, and finding only air once more. As it again tried to recoil itself, Frisk’s heavy hoof caught it squarely on its head.

The reptile thrashed about, then grew still. Jubal grabbed it just below the rattle. Keeping it away from his body, he whipped it out into the storm.

Passing the burning stick close to Frisk’s hooves, Jubal looked for and found two bright red spots where she had been hit.

Knowing it would be the death knell for Frisk if he didn’t do something quickly, Jubal unsheathed his long-bladed hunting knife and attempted to coax Frisk closer to the fire, but she was still too excited. He propped a glowing piece of firewood into the dirt next to her and once again examined the twin punctures on her lower shin. He held the hair away from the two holes as Frisk continued to try and pull her leg out of his grasp.

Jubal stopped and retrieved several lumps of sugar from his pack and gave a couple of them to Frisk. On his knees, he fed the horse with his left hand, holding the knife with his right, making two deft cuts across the twin holes made by the snake. He then massaged the wounds to help discharge the venom.

As he gently tried to get the wounds to bleed, he felt what seemed to be a small thorn buried in one of the
holes. Jubal squeezed until he could pull the object from the wound, feeling a prick on his finger from the thorn’s sharp point. He finally got it free and, in the faint light, realized the semi-curved object wasn’t a stick or a thorn, but a fang.

Jubal squeezed his finger hard and sucked on the tiny hole. Taking the knife, he split the hole into four sections and once again tried to extract any possible toxin. Taking deep breaths of air as his lips bit down hard on the opening, he sucked out as much venom as he could.

If both he and Frisk were poisoned, they would be in serious trouble.

Miles from a doctor and with the snow mounting, they were at least two days from Cerro Vista.

It took a while for Jubal and Frisk to settle down. If there was one snake, there could be more. But he rekindled the warm fire, did his best to tend their wounds, and now could only sit and wait.

Devilish images disturbed his sleep, waking him several times. If he could only substitute these nightmares with a sweet dream… his sister playing in the fields, picking wildflowers, his parents hand in hand, surveying their land. Any good dream would serve.

Jubal and Frisk rousted themselves from their long night, and after he had a breakfast of beef jerky and a tin cup of hot water slightly discolored by a few sprinkles of ground coffee, Jubal gave Frisk grain from the bag strapped behind the saddle. Her breakfast consisted of several cups of cracked corn and oats, much to her liking. Frisk didn’t seem to show any aftereffects from her
encounter with the snake. As far as his health, Jubal was tired, but not sick. He felt lucky. The weariness he could handle.

The day grew misty, not as thick as the day before but still overcast and leaden. The snow drifted in places as high as three feet, but the wind had swept the balance of the plain clear.

Nearly an hour into their journey north, they started to cross an arroyo when Jubal heard a high-pitched whine that seemed to come from the ravine itself, around a bend, about a hundred yards ahead. They moved cautiously, rounding the turn.

In the middle of a narrow trench lay a horse, its head moving slowly, a bone protruding from its left front leg. It must have stepped in a hole, Jubal thought. He looked ahead at the tracks, only one set of prints leading away, and they were deep. Pete Wetherford and his companion were riding double.

They wouldn’t get far in this weather. They had tried to skirt around the drifts piled high against the east wall of the ravine and hadn’t put the horse out of its misery, probably so as not to be heard.
So maybe they do suspect they’re being followed, but certainly not by a boy.
After examining Wetherford’s horse track, Jubal determined they had probably passed that way an hour earlier. The hoofprints in the light snow were just beginning to freeze at the top, where fine crystals had melted to form a soft mound.

He certainly didn’t have a choice where the horse was concerned. He felt bad for her and yet he knew a break that severe would never heal even if he could get her to a vet,
which he couldn’t. He walked Frisk back around the bend and tied her firmly to a juniper, then proceeded back to the stricken animal. There wasn’t any rush. The farther away Wetherford and his friend were, the better.

Jubal sat on a large rock, pistol in hand, waiting. Having spent most of his life on a farm, he had a strong affinity for animals and hated seeing them suffer. The mare tried struggling to her feet, her eyes wide with fear. Jubal cradled her large head and gentled her. He then looked to the darkening skies to the west. A flash of light in pewter-colored clouds. Jubal raised his pistol. As the thunder clapped, he fired.

Frisk tramped about where she was tied. As Jubal approached her, he thought he saw an accusatory look, and as he eased into the saddle, she felt a little less welcoming.

The rain had turned to snow, and Pete Wetherford and Ed Thompson were caught in it. Within minutes, a two-inch blanket covered the open plain. When the weather changed once again, they were well and truly soaked. At long last, a warm breeze coming from the west finally drove away the snow.

“We gotta find a spot to overnight.” Ed bundled his coat tighter around his neck. “I’m frozen and sick of packing double.”

Wetherford ran his hand around his growth of beard. “Nah, can’t you feel that warm air? It’s trailing in from Arizona or someplace hot. Why, hell’s fire, you’ll be stripping off your shirt in no time, bathing in the sun.” He tightened his hands around the reins.

Ed flinched as they rode on. To the west they spotted a small fire, and after another hour they came upon a community of Mexicans who had built a number of adobe
homes along a meandering stream. They headed toward the village, soon closing in on a number of small pens housing goats and chickens behind modest dwellings.

“Let’s pass to the east of them shacks and skirt around, see if there ain’t some lonely places farther on,” Wetherford said.

“What you mean?”

“It might be there’s a house farther out in the countryside that would welcome a couple rain-soaked travelers.” Pete winked and gave a short dirty laugh. They continued to circle the dwellings, staying a half mile to the east and north. After a while the adobe huts were not as clustered, then the line of homes abruptly stopped.

“I can’t get warm.” Ed rubbed his hands together briskly. “Think we left that village wanting for visitors, Pete. Don’t see any more houses.”

“Bet you’re wrong. You have no imagination, boy. There’s always some idiot who wants to be different, thinks if he builds his ramshackle house in town he’ll be just like the rest of the folks. Nah, old Jose built his place on a little hill close by the river so he could see the relatives’ adobe shacks all crowded and nasty in town. Wait and see.”

The river took a turn to the north, ran straight for half a mile, then wound back toward the mountains. Perched on a small rise looking down on the streambed was a shack. To call it a house would be exaggerating; it was more of a makeshift shelter.

“Hola,”
Pete called out as they neared the dwelling. They stopped short of a chicken coop. No answer from the house. Pete tried again.
“Hola. Por favor, comida para dos hombres.”

“What’re you saying?” Ed asked.

“I’m asking for food.” He shouted once again. “We have
mucho dinero, señor. Por favor.”

“There’s nobody here, Pete. Let’s move on.”

“They’re here, wait and see. See the couple horses in that corral and the wash on the clothesline? They’re here.”

They were at the back of the shack. One tiny window looked out toward the chicken coop. “They’ll be coming now,” Wetherford said.

“Why you say that?”

“Have faith, amigo. Ole Pete wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

A woman rounded the corner of the house, the river to her back. With her weathered look, it was hard to determine her age, maybe mid-thirties. Her long plain dress was tattered and worn through at the hips and elbows, a denim apron tied around her slim waist. She was handsome in a manly sort of way, legs firmly planted, eyeing the two newcomers. After shaking her long black hair, she raised a Winchester rifle.
“¿Qué pasa?”

Wetherford, smiling his best toothy grin, worked at making his eyes light up. He raised his hands in exaggerated surrender.
“Comida para mi amigo
and me. I pay
dinero
to you.” He pointed to her, took out several coins, and let her see them.

The woman motioned with her rifle for the men to get off their horse. She allowed the weapon to cradle in her arm with the barrel pointed toward the ground as Wetherford held the money out in front of him as a peace offering. The woman stopped his forward progress with a grunt, looking intently at the money.

Once again she motioned with the rifle for the men to dismount. She rounded the corner of the house and pointed for them to sit next to a rounded adobe fire pit. Propping the rifle next to the door, she disappeared inside while Wetherford and Ed warmed themselves next to the fire. Pete still had the money in his hand when she came out with a bowl of beans, rice, fresh masa, and a pan. She cooked fresh tortillas, wrapped them quickly, then heated the beans and rice and handed the food to the men on a long stick with a paddle shape at the end. They ate their fill, Big Ed continuing to ask for more. Wetherford watched the woman intently and leaned over to Ed.

“She don’t have no man, no sirree. She’s alone. I suspect the master of the house is away, dead, or lying in there sick as a horse. She’s lonely.”

“Don’t do it, Pete.” Ed grew nervous. “We got ourselves enough trouble as it is.” Wetherford ignored him. “Pete, you listening?”

“I heard you. What is it you think I’m gonna do?”

“I just don’t want to be party to no more killing and molesting.”

“Who said anything about killing?” Pete rubbed his stomach as if in gratitude.
“Señorita, por favor, muchas gracias.”
He handed her the money.

She seemed grateful as she counted it.

“Is possible, to sleep,
dor—dorm
—ah, hell, what’s the word for ‘sleep’?” He looked to Ed.

“Don’t ask me, Pete. I
no hably Españo.
”

Frustrated, Wetherford called to the woman and mimed sleeping, his two hands making a pillow next to his head. He pointed toward the house. The woman shook
her head no and went about cleaning up the remnants of the meal. Wetherford dug once again into his pocket and waved more money at her, but she took no notice as she continued her work. The two men finished their food and prepared to leave. The sun was down below the tree line across from the stream, the light beaming through the leaves, making dark patterns on the side of the house.