Payback at Morning Peak (9 page)

The wind moving through the canyon whispered in timed gusts, rustling the few trees and shrubs, fanning the prickly dry mesquite. Then Jubal heard it, too. A faint voice.

“Come on up here, fellows.…”

The men started moving up the lateral ravine. After thirty yards they heard a stronger plea.

“Give a body some nourishment.”

“Lord God a-mighty. Sounds like Petey Wetherford,” Deputy Ron said. He called into the ravine, “Where you at, Pete, you rotten ole two-timer?”

Jubal was sure this feeble voice would be the death of him.

While the group hurried deeper into the ravine, Jubal held back, though he was curious as to how Wetherford would describe having arrived at his present happenstance. By the time he came upon the group, they all stood looking down at the battered form of Pete Wetherford, already spinning his side of things.

“A few of us were hunting, and this damn farmer…” He paused. “He seemed downright crazy.” Wetherford looked around at the gathering to see how his story was being received. “Screaming about doings the rest of us couldn’t understand. Messing with womenfolk, settin’ fires. He was loco. Plumb loco.”

“How’d you get here all busted up, Wetherford?” Wickham asked.

“Who are you, slick?”

“Judge Wickham of the Cerro Vista County seat. Answer my question, please.”

“Well, hell’s fire, ole Jorge and I were taking a shortcut down the rim of the canyon, when Jorge slipped and pushed me along with him for one hell of a ride.”

Jubal felt an impulse to bust in and expose the truth of Wetherford’s made-up tale.

“I grabbed some rock and brush along the way. I don’t think the Mexican was so lucky. Give me some water. I’d be obliged.”

Jubal stepped forward with his canteen. Now he wanted the man to see him. He opened the cloth-covered water carrier to Wetherford’s mouth.

The man took a long pull, then looked up at Jubal. “Thank you, I’m—” Startled, he blurted out, “What the hell?” Pete Wetherford sat up from his resting spot and pointed at Jubal. “I’m gonna kill you, you rotten bastard.” He struggled to rise from his seated position.

“Rest easy there, pardner.” Judge Wickham held Wetherford off with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re not killing nobody anytime soon. We’re gonna make a carrier for you and take you down to the wagon.” He motioned for several of the men to look for branches to make a bearer for the stricken Pete Wetherford.

Morton stood with hands on hips. “Afore we all pitch in to save your sorry ass, why don’t you tell us what you were doing out here in the loneliness?”

With a withering glance at Jubal, the desperado spun more of his tale. “It’s like I said. We were all hunting, having a good time, when this brat what’s staring so hard at me, his father, I assume it were his father, chased us up here into the hills.”

Jubal couldn’t restrain himself. “He was already dead and you know it—”

“Let him tell his story, son,” interrupted the judge. “Every word out of his mouth buries him further. Go on, Wetherford, tell your tale.”

The injured man winced as the two townies lifted him onto the makeshift stretcher. “The reason I blabbed about that youngster was on account he looks like his pa and in my state of pain, I guess I got confused.” He paused. “Like I said, we were hunting—Jorge, ole Billy Tauson, several others—when all of a sudden shots were fired.” His eyes darted from one rescuer to another. “We all ducked down and called out like proper folk that we were just hunting and whoever was plugging away at us should hold off and let us explain.” He stopped for a time, as if reliving the event. “Jorge got real Mexican and insisted on running across this falling tree to get after the farmer.” He pointed up to the log bridge. “But I told him to let me go first to try it out ‘cause I didn’t want nobody to get hurt. He followed me, and then, like I said, he slipped and a week later you all show up and that’s about it. I sipped water that were trickling down the rocks or I’d a been a dead one. At night, the coyotes would come yip-yipping, sniffing ‘round Jorge’s body. Nothing I could do. Soon as the sun went down, damn. It were cold as a well-digger’s ass.”

Jubal trailed along as Judge Wickham and the group started down the steep canyon. “Other than the part about it being cold, he’s lying, sir. My pa was never up here, and I doubt my father ever got a round off during the whole melee. I found his rifle burnt all to heck in the cabin.”

They walked a few minutes more. “Can I ask him just one question, Judge?”

The judge nodded. Jubal eased his way alongside the stretcher as they made their way down the steep descent. “First of all, Mr. Pete, it has only been a few days—not a week—that you’ve been here. Secondly, you say my pa took a shot at you.”

Pete grunted, “Yes.”

“Was that before or after you hung him from the barn and set him on fire?”

He looked to make sure the sheriff and judge weren’t within earshot. Pete hissed, “Recollect what I said up there at the tree, boy? What I did to your mother? I did that to your baby sis, too. And what I promised I was gonna do to you?” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll do, in time, as soon as my bones are knitted. I’ll be looking for you, boy, think on it.”

“How you going to do any of that, Petey? You’ll be swinging like a monkey in the breeze for your crimes.” Jubal walked away as the group made their way down to the horses.

From back in the canyon, Wetherford called out, but Jubal ignored him.

After trekking down the gully floor to the wagon with Pete, the sheriff and Ron, along with the two townsmen, reluctantly went back up for Jorge’s body.

The judge, Doc, and Jubal sat in the shade waiting, none of them wanting to speak. Wetherford continued a nonstop litany, pleading innocence, interspersed with shouts of pain.

“Whoever does me dirt I repay in spades. I’ll find a way to… Ah, hell, somebody move my leg for me, would you?”

They all looked at one another. The judge finally spoke. “Doc, I suppose we ought to make an effort to move that bastard, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it might be the humanitarian thing to do, yes.” He made a cursory search into his black bag. “Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of powders that might make him more comfortable.” He smiled at his little white lie.

Eventually the judge, Doc, and Jubal carried Pete to the wagon and settled him onto his side amid his loud “you bastards are trying to kill me” protestations. Jubal also ignored the man’s “we got ourselves a date, we two,” “what’s your name, skinny boy” threats. Then they all sat back down and continued to stare out at the darkening expanse.

“Judge, I have my findings, is it all right to speak in front of the accused?” the doctor asked.

“I suppose under the circumstances it’s probably fine. Do you want to hear any of this?” he asked Jubal.

Jubal wasn’t sure how much he could take, but nevertheless, he nodded.

The doctor took a writing tablet from his bag and read from his notes. “The older woman died of strangulation and had a number of bruises on her body.”

Jubal wrapped his arms around his knees and squeezed tightly.

The doctor paused. “She was violated.” He spared a glance at Jubal before continuing. “The young girl, your sister?”

Jubal once again nodded.

“She died of multiple injuries, a blow to the head. Ribs cracked, if not broken. Probably bled to death. Violated sexually.”

The doctor’s words were things he knew, but they were made even more difficult when spoken by outsiders.

“The older man, I assume that was your father, of course passed on due to burns to his body. His was, I’m sorry to say, a painful demise.”

The faint sound of Pete Wetherford singing in a taunting fashion came from the buckboard.
“Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)/That sav’d a wretch like me!…”

The judge got to his feet and hurried to the wagon, calling out to the doctor and Jubal. “You both take a walk into the woods, understand? Do it now.”

Jubal and the doctor walked into the heavy forest. They stopped at thirty yards when they heard the loud wailing of Pete Wetherford. It sounded as if the learned judge were beating the hell out of him.

“All right, dammit. I was being foolish. Things got out of hand, we was all drunk. Every man jack o’ them was taking part. Why you getting on me, for Christ’s sake? I can’t defend myself.”

“Could that little girl you molested defend herself?”

Jubal heard the judge working Petey over.

“I swear on all that’s sacred, I never touched her.”

A loud noise, like a tree limb breaking, echoed through the forest.

“I’m a hardworking tradesman, dammit!” Pete yelled at the judge. “Give me a chance to explain!” He paused for a long while. “Yeah, we were all drunk, but the damn
farmer started the ruckus. Listen up, Your Honor. I’m just taking a few days off from my job. I’m a family man and a craftsman.”

“You said that before. Why did you attack those folks back at the farm?”

“No, sir, you got it wrong about that. I live with my older sister and help her take care of her kids and provide for her. I swear, sir.”

Jubal heard the judge’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. It sounded as if he had gotten up close to Pete.

The judge was holding night court.

The doctor seemed to be in disbelief. “I know that fellow deserves some pain, but Lord God a-mighty.” He paced, walking through the dry leaves. “Three murders. How could a soul do that?”

Jubal realized the doctor wasn’t really asking him a question but merely reacting to the facts as he knew them. The doctor had missed the bullet hole in his father’s head. He hadn’t seen it, the burns having hidden the small .22-caliber hole.
Would it have made a difference?
Jubal wondered.
Probably not.

On the long ride back to Cerro Vista, a number of night creatures sang their peculiar songs. A coyote calling to a mate, owls hooting, nightingales chiming in, and, of course, Pete Wetherford. Alternating between damning the human race and pain-wracked rambling about the judge, he had annoyed everyone by the time the troop arrived back in town.

“Sheriff, will it be all right if the youngster stayed the night in the jail?” asked Judge Wickham. “Without it being locked, of course.”

“Why can’t it be locked?” Sheriff Morton asked. “He still killed some folks, as I see it. I don’t abide rogues in my jail who are on a free ride.”

“From the doc’s report, and from what I’ve discerned from our prisoner Mr. Wetherford, I, as a committee of one and the titular head of a grand jury to be convened in the near future, hereby hand down a true bill for our
friend Pete for three counts of murder in the first degree. The young man had nothing to do with his family’s deaths and you know it. The others who expired—Jorge, last name unknown, and Ty Blake—were shot and felled while performing acts of mischief. That’s the way I see it, Bufort.”

“Judge, as you say, you’re top dog here. Guess you’ll do as you damn well please.” Both Morton and Ron seemed annoyed. When the group stopped at the jail, the two townies headed toward Sloan’s for a drink.

Doc Brown, Sheriff Morton, and Ron took Wetherford to the jail and locked him up. Jubal was escorted to his cell, but his door remained wide open on the other side of the wall from the sleeping Maria. He felt sorry for her. With the sheriff and deputy gone all day, she probably hadn’t eaten. For that matter, neither had he.

Jubal stood on the walkway outside the Cerro Vista County Jail contemplating the new morning, a stunning bright spring day, the sky a brilliant blue, the air crisp with a hint of coolness. The day did not match his mood, however, as his back and hip bothered him from sleeping on the hard steel cot. The brightness of the morning, though, convinced him that he should try and make the best of it. He stretched his torso.

Deputy Ron was halfway down the block, lumbering toward the jail with several lunch pails in his hands, probably breakfast. Jubal moved off the sidewalk to the other side of the street, not anxious for his splendid morning to be spoiled by the ignorant lawman.

Sitting on the sidewalk opposite, looking at the jail, he
pondered his next step. Now that Pete Wetherford had been caught, he needed to find the rest of the men who took his family from him, to bring them to the authorities—Billy Tauson, Crook Arm the yellow-stringed Indian, and the others.

“Are you contemplating buying that building, son?” The unexpected voice of Judge Wickham gave Jubal a start.

“Ah, good morning, sir,” he said. “No, nothing as complicated as that. I was just trying to decide how to spend the rest of my life.”

“Big decisions are not usually made while staring at the outside of a jail,” mused Wickham. “On the contrary, jails are made for big decisions to be made inside. For instance, ‘I’ll never do that again’ or ‘I’ve had my last drink’ or ‘Maybe I better make peace with my Maker.’”

Jubal thought the older man was amusing and stood to shake his hand. “I want to thank you, sir, for the way you handled things yesterday and for having an understanding ear. I wasn’t certain anyone was going to believe me. The bast—” He gestured toward the jail, getting ready to categorize the sheriff and his deputy, but thought better of it. “Sheriff Morton and Deputy Ron seemed to have made their minds up about me.”

“A small town like this usually suffers from lack of money to hire good people.” He looked to Jubal. “But the territory will do the best it can until statehood arrives. I pray it’s soon.” He paused, and then said, “I realize this is all early days for you to be talking about your situation, and I sympathize with you and your loss, but could an old man buy you breakfast, son?”

“Truth be known, sir, I just ate. But thank you, I’m much obliged.”

“When I walked up on you,” Judge Wickham replied kindly, “I also saw our mutual friend Deputy Ron carrying breakfast into the jail, so if you ‘et,’ as Ron would say, it must have been one of our resident long-tailed rodents. What say you?”

“Well, sir, long-tailed rodent is one of my favorite things.” Jubal actually did consider the judge’s concern to be genuine. “But maybe a second breakfast might be forced down.”