Payback at Morning Peak (28 page)

Maybe this panning business was just too much of a distraction, keeping him from his pursuits, or maybe it was the other way around and his dogged quest for justice kept him from making his fortune. In any case, he was dispirited. He lifted a lone rock to his eye, wondering if the answer might be hidden in the hard interior of the ancient piece. To his surprise, a small glitter was attached to the rock.

He retrieved his leather bag with its pitiful layer of gold dust sprinkled along the bottom and tried to chip the sparkle from the rock with his fingernail into his cache. It wouldn’t budge. Jubal took the stone to the streambed and tried washing the mud from it. As the caked dirt came away, he realized the tiny gold particle he’d seen had disappeared and become one with the entire stone. He was holding a gold nugget the size of one of ma’s biscuits.

It didn’t take long for Jubal to break camp. He left his sluice standing in the middle of the stream, a scribbled note impaled on the handle:
This apparatus is my gift to whosoever wants it. May you prosper and may the mountain bear thee fruit—although you would probably prefer gold.

The ride down felt endless. He was anxious to have his nugget appraised. He passed a deserted claim, clothing and equipment strewn about as if a bear had ravaged the camp. Jubal rode on and came upon a man sitting forlornly, head in hands, next to the stream, staring into the distant trees.

“Hello… how you faring?”

The man turned away, seeming not to want to talk.

“Anything you need? Food? What’s the matter?”

The man waved his arm in a limp fashion, as if trying to dismiss Jubal.

“Suit yourself,” Jubal said, and urged Frisk on.

As the path curved abruptly into the trees, the man cried out.

“He robbed me, the bastard, then went off singing some fucking spiritual like he was descended from heaven. That were a month’s work he took. Ahhh, shit.”

Jubal looked back. The shaken worker trampled the ground like a wild man putting out a fire.

He reined in Frisk. “Do you need a ride into town, mister?”

The victim looked up in surprise. “What… what do you want?”

“Do you need help, a ride into the gulch?”

“I’ve worked my whole life, then a ruffian with rotten breath and a nickel-plated shooter takes my savings and tries to bum-diddle me.” He walked toward Jubal, his hands spread. “Can you imagine, I’m forty-five years old and I never felt no man’s hands on me.” He shivered, completely dumbfounded.

“When did this happen?”

“Don’t rightly know, maybe yesterday. Ah, hell, what’s the difference? I’ll ride into town with you, thank you.”

Jubal eased Frisk near to a tree stump and the shaken worker mounted behind him. They followed the trail bordering the creek and hadn’t gone a hundred yards when the man slid off the back of Frisk’s rump.

“I’ll walk, I don’t feel comfortable riding double.” He
seemed embarrassed. “Got to get to the sheriff. See if I can’t get that rotter throwed in jail.”

“What brings you into town, big guy?”

Sheriff Cox seemed surprised to see him. Jubal smiled at the lawman and gestured outside the jail to the prospector from the mountain, sitting slumped on the bench. The two stepped outside just as it started to rain. Main Street was awash, the water starting to form small rivulets. The sheriff held his hand out into the downpour.

“What’s eating at you, pal?”

The man glanced up. “A fellow did me wrong, Sheriff. He surely did. Robbed me like I was a piece of bear droppings. He… Well, never mind. He robbed me, on my claim, of a month’s panning.”

“When did this happen?”

“I been in such a state, I can’t rightly tell you. Probably yesterday.”

Sheriff Cox looked to Jubal. “You’re the third one to come off the mountain with the same tale. You’re lucky.”

“Lucky? How in hell you figure that?”

“The shooter killed two miners and robbed a number of others, including yourself. Yeah, you’re fortunate you didn’t go to battle with that desperado. He’d a killed you sure as kittens are cute. Come on inside and I’ll take a statement from you. What’s your name?”

“Call me sucker.”

Sheriff Cox and Jubal laughed as the sheriff gestured for the man to step into the jailhouse. “Well, Mr. Sucker, please enter.”

As the man described his assailant, Jubal was sure it
was Pete Wetherford. The physical description, the sheer ruthless behavior—it had to be him. Wetherford had cut a path of death and malice through the countryside, and Jubal wondered if it would all lead to him. He had no doubt Wetherford would kill him without hesitation. He would need to stay vigilant.

The street had quite a slope to it, the water rushing along as many small tributaries before eventually melding into one watercourse. The rutted dirt road became difficult, and he was reminded of his hellish ride with Frisk down the raging waters in the arroyo.

As the downpour lessened, Jubal darted across the street, leaping carefully over the beginnings of the small river in the middle of the roadbed, to stand under the awning of the assayer’s shop. The sign above the door read
GOLD APPRAISED AND BOUGHT. PROPRIETOR STEVEN WILLS.
In the window of the door, a
CLOSED
sign with note attached:
Regret, the shop will be closed for several days, sorry. S.W.

Later that day, Jubal heard from the sheriff that the fellow Ed Thompson, who had been dragged into town by his horse, would live.

Jubal and Sheriff Cox had become fairly good friends and, when the rain finally stopped, Jubal asked the sheriff to visit Ed with him. The rain finally stopped, bringing out the sun along with the locals. The shops and stores buzzed with a variety of miners and prospectors, all intent on spending money. Jubal remarked to Sheriff Cox how prosperous the town appeared to be.

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that. Except it also has
a lot of yokels who are flat on their asses, so anytime you have that kind of disparity among folks, you’ll always have trouble. Grousing about wages, unhappy about their lot in life. A kind of constant woe-is-me mentality. You get my drift?”

Jubal thought maybe he understood. “Then you have guys like Pete Wetherford,” he said, “robbing and killing. Makes for an unhappy combination, I guess.” They continued walking along a street with a mix of proper houses and occasional shacks and tents.

The doctor had arranged for Ed to be bedded in a home for the infirm. Ed sat propped up in an easy chair, head swathed in bandages. A shirt open at the front revealed an array of dressings across his waist and chest.

Sheriff Cox sat beside him on a couch. “How you holding?”

Ed Thompson’s eyes darted around the room. “The doctor says I need plenty of rest.”

“Ah-huh. Well, this young’un wants to talk to you. He’s one of the folks who helped you when you slid into town.”

“I don’t feel much like talking, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, dammit,” Sheriff Cox said. “You came into town bullet-shot and whimpering. I want to know what happened.”

Jubal introduced himself to Ed and started to tell him his story. He saw the man’s eyes shift from looking at him to checking his left hand as if he’d never seen it before. “In April of this year, a group of cowardly bastards rode into our meadow, killed my family—”

“Why you telling me all this sad tale? In April I was
up in Alamosa, ranching with Billy Tauson. You could ask anyone. I swear, cross my heart.”

“Who had your vest?”

“What?”

Jubal watched the man’s eyes. “Your vest. It’s very distinctive, what do you call it?”

“My vest? I don’t understand.”

“Your checkered vest was at our farm that day. I saw it, and you were there, too. Don’t deny it.”

“How you gonna act, coming in here at a man’s sickbed making accusations about my behavior? I didn’t do nothing wrong. So I have a colorful checkered vest, so what? It was that crazy bastard Pete Wetherford started it.” The big lummox of a man started crying, head down, fists buried into his eye sockets.

Sheriff Cox got up from the couch and grabbed the man by the chin. “Listen to me… fellow. Look up here at me.”

Ed Thompson finally looked at the sheriff.

“I’ll drag your lanky butt out of that comfy chair and deposit you down at the jail, you understand me?”

Big Ed agreed to cooperate.

Jubal began once again. “Where’s Pete Wetherford?”

“We were heading into Cripple Creek here to try and find Billy Tauson.” Big Ed took a breath. “Supposedly to do some mining. Gold. Hear tell there’s plenty around.”

Jubal thought of the nugget he had squirreled away in his pocket.

“I don’t have no idea where the bastard is. Hell’s fire, he shot me with no warning. I hope he’s in hell.” He tried to shift his weight in the chair. “You got to look after me,
Sheriff. That bully will come into town and back-shoot me sure as heck. Tried to sweet-talk me… then, ah, hell.”

Sheriff Cox nodded, signaling to Jubal they were leaving. He glanced back briefly at Ed Thompson and slammed the door. They walked toward Tom’s office.

“What do you think about all this?” Jubal asked.

“Pete ambushes this phony Big Ed, rides on into town. Stops for a drink at the tented bar, goes up the mountain, kills a couple innocents, robs a handful of prospectors, then what?” Tom arched his brows in mock surprise. “That’s right, you didn’t hear the best part. After all that, he came down here late in the afternoon, tied up the gold assayer, took his stash out of the safe, and rode off with the man’s horse.”

“All this happened in the last few days?”

Sheriff Cox nodded. “The fellow is a handful, I’ll tell you.”

Jubal couldn’t imagine what would get into a human being to get in such a state as to commit so many crimes.
I’ll continue looking. I just don’t know where to start.

“How about I buy you supper?” Tom put his hand on Jubal’s shoulder. “I got a few things to clear up. Meet you five-thirty at the Big Pan.”

Jubal agreed, thanked the man, and walked down Main Street. He felt reasonably certain Wetherford would not have stayed anywhere close to town. He seemed to be a loner, always on the move. He’d be hard to find.
Even when I find him, what the heck am I to do about it? Challenge him to a duel? But some way I will kill him.
He could feel his attitude hardening further.

He continued walking as the shop owners rolled up their awnings, closing for the day.

The man from the post office waved to him as he locked his office door. “Hold on, there, scamp, I got something.” The man darted back inside his office and came back with a letter held high in the air. “This thing’s been reeking up my place for several days. Lord a-mighty. What’s your lady friend do? Write with rose oil?” He seemed to enjoy that he could deliver the letter to Jubal. “You are Jubal Young”—he glanced down at the address—“Terror of the West?”

Jubal couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. The clerk pointed to the penned address on the front of the letter.

Jubal Young, Terror of the West

c/o General Delivery

Cripple Creek (Poverty Gulch), Colorado

The man handed the letter over. “I’d hold on to that old gal, she’s got herself a sense of humor, and a dandy supply of bouquet perfume.…”

Pleased, Jubal sauntered up the street whistling “Clementine.” He found the Big Pan and waited for Sheriff Cox on the wood plank sidewalk. He turned the letter over in his hands several times, touching where she had touched, wanting to open it, yet also treasuring the moment of anticipation.

Dearest Jubal,

Your letters have all gone missing. Rumors are adrift that bears are stopping the U.S. mail trains and rifling through various correspondence searching for ones that are the sweetest.

We all know how bears have a sugary tooth so I’m sure your notes would have been the first taken. You are excused but just
bearly.

Jube, please forgive my attempts at humor. Dad is feeling good, goes to the hotel every day, and is generally back to his opinionated self. Mom sends regards as she works in her garden.

I’m writing primarily because I have a problem. I have to go back to school soon and I don’t see how I can do that without setting eyes on the People’s Purveyor of Peace once more
before I’m swallowed up in academia on the east coast. I don’t really mean to make fun of your quest, but please write.

Marshal Wayne Turner sends his regards. (Just kidding.)

Fondly,
Cybil Wickham

p.s. my bedroom window looks east, I can see Morning Peak, where Daddy told me your family lived. Please hurry back to Cerro Vista, there are people here who miss you.

“You look as if you’re on another planet, youngster,” Sheriff Cox said, startling Jubal. “Is it good news?”

He quickly stood. “Ah, yes, sir. Good news, sure, from my girlfriend, or I should say my could-be, hope-to-be friend. She’s a girl who is more than a just a friend, but maybe not quite a girl, yet. She’s a girl, but not yet a girlfriend.”

“Well, the fact that she can get you to rattle on like that means she’s probably as nuts about you as you are about her. Come on, let’s get dinner, Romeo.”

They were halfway through their meal when Jubal told Tom of his nugget find.

“Holy Jesus, sounds huge. Where do you keep it?”

Jubal patted his pocket and looked around the restaurant. About a dozen miners were enjoying their meals, but no one was close by. He unbuttoned his pocket and glanced once again around the eatery. Unfolding his fist on the table, he revealed the nugget. He placed it on the
black-painted table, where it looked like a ripe moon on a dark night.

Tom reached slowly across the table. “May I?”

“Sure.”

The sheriff held the piece close to the candle on the table.

“I’ve never seen a nugget this big; not many people have. Holy…”

“What do you think it will assay at?”

Tom bounced the piece in his hand. “It feels to be something over a quarter pound. Worth a whole hell of a lot more than just the sheer ounce value.”