Payback at Morning Peak (4 page)

Now to figure out how to entice the renegades onto this tempting bridge.

He wasn’t sure how many there were. He’d counted
five and knew there were more. In the heat of the skirmish he never did get an accurate count of the bastards, but it didn’t matter. This was worth a try.

He took the long way around, not trusting his weakened body to the makeshift bridge. On the far side, fading light peeked out between the clouds. He found a prickly bush cropping up thirty or forty feet from the base of the log. He tore a strip of cloth from the waist of his shirt and snagged it onto a branch, turned, and hustled back to the base of the log.

Taking several steps onto the downed tree, he pried a large piece of flaky bark from it as if someone had stepped there. Turning, he leapt painfully back onto the cliff edge and swept away his footprints.

Jubal limped up the steep rise, knowing that any self-respecting native scout who took the time to examine his tracks would find something amiss, but he hoped the turmoil of the chase and the increasing darkness would make them sloppy. Besides, the tracker was more than likely the one who had shot him with the arrow, so he would dismiss any thoughts of “self-respecting.”

After a hundred yards, he thought he was close to the summit as the canyon began to narrow. If the men saw him from the opposite side it could possibly take them ten minutes to continue to the top and come back down his side of the wide ravine. Sitting on a rock, he watched the torch blink its way up the mountain. Jubal reckoned the Indian would be leading them. Whether he would take the bait at the log was anyone’s guess, but he was hoping at least one of the men would be tempted.

It was difficult to wait. He wanted to shout for the
filthy cowards to come get him, but he resisted the urge. They should be doubtful at first, thinking any noise he made was nothing more than an animal moving in the dark. Then maybe he would give a shout of alarm and perhaps a desperate, noisy retreat.

Pa would say,
Have a plan, son, and be honest with yourself when it goes wayward.
Easier said than accomplished.

The search party’s torches suddenly went black. Had they seen him? Or worse, if they continued up, would he know where they were? He strained to see across the dark chasm, but it was too far away to discern movement. They had long since abandoned their horses, the ascent being too rocky and steep. When he finally gave up on seeing them, he heard rocks in the distance being struck together.

Someone had a flint, attempting to relight. After several tries, the makeshift light bloomed again and Jubal could make out bodies gathering. They had continued moving in the dark and were much closer, at least a hundred yards farther up the mountain.

Jubal picked up a stick from the ground and waited, taking slow breaths to force calmness, to deal with the pain in his hip. After a few minutes more, the men were nearly parallel to his spot near the ravine edge, probably forty yards, by a direct line. It was now or never.

He snapped the stick atop his knee with a mighty tug, then dropped behind a large stone.

The torch holder stopped and moved the fiery light in an arc over his head, trying to distinguish the distant sounds and shadows.

Jubal sensed them looking in his direction. Would they think the sound was an animal? They waited, not
moving. With difficulty, Jubal pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could, sitting as still as possible. He said a silent prayer that included the souls of his family. Not asking safe passage for himself, wishing only for an opportunity at revenge.

He rose as quickly as his injured hip would allow and made his way back down the mountain toward his bridge, making as much noise as he could without sounding intentional. At one point, he let out a loud cry of pain, his wounds lending reality to his ruse. He skirted the fallen log bridge.

When he finally reached the other side, he could hear them approaching. It sounded as if they were at the summit and on their way back down. He had only minutes as he slid down the far side of the ravine under the log onto a rock ledge. An errant branch he’d seen earlier pointed down. He could hide under its foliage and be ready when the men arrived.

They came with a vengeance, cursing and undisciplined. The pitch-pine torch was held high by the Indian, its glow dancing through the tree branches, casting a pasty, evil pall on the men’s faces. They panted, angry, gathering at the base of the log. The Indian held the rag that Jubal had hung on the prickly branch. The gray-haired man took the bloodied cloth from him.

“That little bastard’s been hit,” the man said. “He can’t get far. Let’s skirt on around this gully and light out after him.”

They started to move.

“Hey, Chief, hold that torch,” said another. “I’m gonna save some shoe leather.”

“Not good,” answered the light bearer.

“Just hold it, redskin.”

“I’ll go, too, Pete.” This from the squat Mexican.

“Bueno, Jorge. Andale.”

They were taking the bait. Jubal had already eased his rifle barrel between the heavy branch above him and the fat part of the log. He stayed below the log, his makeshift lever ready.

As the men took their first tentative steps on the log, Jubal added his weight to the stock of the rifle. The log held steady. In order to get the proper leverage, he would be forced to raise himself just out of his shelter.

He watched as the dancing torch lit the outlines of the two men, who were nearly halfway across. Jubal crouched and applied all of his strength onto the rifle.

With a crack and a groan, the log stirred slightly, rolling a few degrees away from Jubal. Its immense weight caused it to stop, then rock back toward him.

“Jesus Christ, Pete, what did you do?” The Mexican grabbed his friend Pete as they both fell to their knees.

Their arms windmilled in the air as Jubal applied more pressure, working with the momentum of the log. Struggling for purchase, Pete made a grab for the trunk as his buddy yelled, trying to grip the air while plunging headfirst down the chasm. Pete held on for only seconds until his weight forced him to slip around under the log, his fingers digging at the soft bark. Jubal eased back into the foliage, hoping he hadn’t been seen.

“You bastard, I’ll—” Pete called out to his friends. “Help me, Al. Dammit, I can’t hold on. For God’s sake. He’s here. I can’t—”

By this time one of the other men had leapt into action, straddling the trunk and inching his way out to help. Jubal heard the other men shouting encouragement as Pete grasped at the log’s decaying bark, trying to swing one of his legs back up and over it. He finally succeeded, gasping for air.

“You gotta git this bastard. Oh, God, help me.” Pete had one leg looped over the log, his head flopped back, while his arms hugged the fallen tree like a newlywed. He regarded Jubal upside down. “We did your mother, boy. If I live through this I’ll do you, too.” There was a sickening sound of bark peeling away from the log as Pete, clawing away with his hands, headfirst began what Jubal thought would be the last long moments of his life.

Jubal listened carefully as Pete fell, grasping at overhanging rocks and shrubs on the side of the canyon, cursing friends and family on the way down. He also thought he heard him call out “little bastard,” but maybe not.

For the first time, the rocky outcropping where Jubal sat seemed perilous. He shivered as a cold wind washed over his skin, and he wondered how much of the man’s ranting the others had heard and if they could separate Pete’s frantic pleading with his all-too-telling giveaway of Jubal’s hiding place.

The men on the other side encouraged Pete’s brother, Al, who had also begun crossing on the log, to ease his way back to safety. Jubal was tempted to give his rifle one last tug for Al, but thought maybe he’d done enough for now. He’d get the others later. He eased the rifle out from between the branch and log and waited for them to move on.

A wave of thunder rumbled through the canyon, awakening him. Light cold rain blew through the cave’s opening. Jubal had waited nearly an hour after the men left the log bridge before making a move, listening to them argue among themselves until their voices faded in the distance. When he thought they were at least several hundred yards past his cave, he made his way carefully back along the edge of the giant crevasse.

Now water dripped steadily onto his hair from the cave’s porous ceiling. He rolled over on the damp earth, a dull, insistent pain radiating through his left side. It came rushing back, the events at his log bridge.

“Jesus, mother of Christ, they both fell. Oh, Christ a-mighty. What in God’s name?” Jubal couldn’t tell who spoke.

“They’re gone. Al, you did the best you could, leave it be.”

“Pete was my brother, Billy. What d’you mean, ‘leave it be’?”

Jubal heard the sound of breaking leaves and twigs as someone walked away.

“I mean leave it. He was drunker than all hell. Now let’s git.”

Al groused as he followed Billy and the Indian to a switchback and then proceeded toward Jubal and the rim of the canyon. As they neared, Jubal tried to press himself deeper into the ravine wall.

“What in God’s name will I tell ma?”

Tell her that Pete, her beloved son, had just participated in the rape and murder of three innocent people, Albert.
Al was
standing above the log looking back at the ravine where his brother and his friend Jorge had fallen.

It was all Jubal could do to keep from firing his rifle from below into the man’s groin. The barrel was pointed the right way, his finger poised on the trigger. But the others were close by and would be on him in a second. Jubal waited.

He would wait as long as it took. Like Edmond Dantès.

Jubal didn’t know how long he slept, whether he was actually rested or if his stupor was due to his current predicament. In any case, he would have to move. He looked around the cave, his sister’s body lying in the leaf-strewn bier, Cotton cuddled into her right arm where he had placed it. He thought on what she had said at the end, about him being kind and funny. In that last moment, she had been thinking of him, and not of herself.

He thought she, being the person she was, would not have sought revenge, but a sort of salvation for her tormentors. But that was her. He had no such thoughts of salvaging anyone.

Crawling to the edge of the shelter’s opening, he gazed at a world of spring torrent. Low in the eastern sky, clouds covered the distant mountains as the sun edged through to wake the dark morning. If the renegades were
still looking for him, he should just sit awhile. The rain would have obliterated any tracks left behind. He felt weak.

Stretching out of the cave’s opening to wash, he looked to the leaden sky and let the water lash his face. Having taken what he thought was his father’s advice to save himself, was he simply trading one immediate hell for a prolonged one?

The image of his bloodied father swaying on his hellish tether returned. Jubal sat at the cave’s opening, his head buried in his hands.

“Jube, let’s take a stroll, son.” Jubal, Sr., had the .22 rifle tucked under his arm. “Your continued hounding of me about this firearm has strengthened my resolve to go slow in the releasing of it. I’ve said this before, Jube. It’s a small-caliber weapon but still very deadly.”

“A firearm is only as good as the brain of the person holding it. Right, Pa?”

“You remembered my little quote, son,” he said with a laugh. “But let’s see what else we can come up with today that might hold you in good stead these coming years.”

Walking deep into the woods, the elder Jubal Young taught his son the finer points of riflery. He finished by saying, “If you’ve learned anything, let it be primarily this. Never, ever, point this weapon at a human being. You hear me? Even in jest.”

Jubal still remembered his father’s final words that day. He thought it ironic that the one thing the older man had warned against had come to pass. When Jubal had
aimed at a human being, it had not been in jest, it had been in a threatening manner, a terrible deadly moment.

He would never be free of it.

Holding tightly to his left side, Jubal raised himself to a seated position. He had drifted off again. The rain had stopped and now a briskness spiked the air, smelling of pine and damp grass. He needed food, not having eaten since the previous day, while on his hunt. He remembered the smoked meat his mother had wrapped in old newsprint, along with a chunk of sourdough bread, and felt a lump rise in his throat. He caught himself and made a vow never to cry again, then immediately realized that making a number of promises to himself didn’t change his predicament.

Though his family was gone, he was alive and in good health, except for a crusted wound on his forehead and a couple of jagged holes in his side that appeared to be mending well. Jubal felt better for the moment, having stated to himself a few simple facts. He smiled, thinking about something his pa had said.
A person has to take oneself to the woodshed from time to time. You got to look inside, tell the truth to yourself.
He bundled Pru’s body into his arms and edged out of his damp shelter.