Payback at Morning Peak by Gene Hackman Read Free Book Online

look at Frisk, Jubal drifted back down the street toward Davis and the land office. He stopped in front of the gun shop to gaze at the assortment of pistols and rifles while hearing the echo of his father’s advice. “A gun, boy, is a tool, and only as good as the carpenter using it. Keep it in mind. They’re not toys and shouldn’t be thought of as such.”
    Having had his fill of weaponry, he moved on, watching the parade of folks, most of them walking on the sunny side of the street. Opposite the land office, his father stood on the sidewalk facing a tall gray-haired man.
    “Hold on, there, friend.”
    Who was Pa calling “friend”? And why did he say it in that way that sounded like he was trying to be calm?
    Jubal’s father took a nonthreatening step toward the man, his palms flattened in front of him in a placating manner.
    This eccentric-looking dude with gray hair and youngish face wore a black duster and shiny, pin-sharp boots. The unbuttoned coat showed off his striped mauve vest and heavily decorated gun belt. A gray flat-brimmed hat with long braided leather strings kept his headgear secured tight under his chin. Even at a distance, Jubal could tell his eyes were colorless and mean. A number of his friends were gathered behind him. Theyseemed disreputable, all mismatched. A couple of Indians, maybe half-breeds, several Mexicans, and four or five white fellows who had adorned themselves with bandoliers draped over their shoulders.
    He turned to survey his hearty band of rebels. One of the most notable, a black-haired desperado with scraggly mustache, kept urging on the leader.
    “Kick his farmer’s ass, Tauson.” The man danced about, showing off for his compatriots. Pulling back his long coat, he cocked his hip to reveal a bone-handled pistol. “Hey, Tauson, let me take care of your light work. You can hold my coat while I trounce that vegetable-peddler.”
    The gray-haired man took offense at his compatriot’s jeering.
    “Shut your hole, Pete, I’m busy.”
    Pete’s audacity fascinated Jubal. The man walked halfway across the street backward, arms stretched to his sides as if in mock surrender, pretending to be afraid.
    “Oh, sweet Jesus, help me in my hour of need.” He put his hands together in the gesture of prayer. “The boss man has spoken and my ass is a-tightenin’, Jesus. Show me the way to salvation and temperance.”
    The rest of the men in the gang enjoyed Pete’s antics. Though Jubal, Sr., took a step back, his son thought a part of him wanted to dive into Tauson and pound his face.
    A shot rang out, and the fancy wooden ball on the arched top of the land office sign went whistling through the air. Pete spun his .44 around his trigger finger and slid the weapon back into his holster. “You ever seen such shooting, Tauson? Why don’t you gun the fellow down? Sooner or later you’re gonna have to do it.”
    Tauson took a step toward the shooter. “Damn your eyes, Wetherford. Stay out of my business. I’ll deal with the sodbuster when I see fit.” The man turned back to Jubal’s father. “You cheated me, mister, that’s the square of it. It doesn’t matter if it were legal or not.”
    Jubal’s father gazed at the sky in apparent disbelief, then walked away.
    The man called out. “I’ll have my day, make no mistake about it. Auction or no, you hear?”
    Jubal caught his father’s attention, who signaled at him with his eyes in a way that said, Stay away. Jubal kept on the far sidewalk as the lanky fellow walked after his father.
    “I’ll be paying you a visit, farmer. So mind your night prayers.”
    Jubal, Sr., hesitated, looking as if he wanted to turn and belly up to the man, but instead he walked away, half smiling.
    The gang continued to argue on the street, Tauson shouting at Pete. “Dammit all to hell. Wetherford, I told you to stay the hell outta my business, you hear?”
    Pete reached down with both hands and cradled his crotch. “Or what?”
    “What do you