Payback at Morning Peak by Gene Hackman Read Free Book Online Page B

over my big feet.” He smiled at his wife and clicked his tongue to the horses.
    Jubal wondered what his pa would have done to the guy Pete if he hadn’t been there. He suspected it would have ended very differently.
    As they made their way back to Young’s Valley that evening, Jubal asked his father what had happened.
    “Jube, it’s a case of a man making a number of poor decisions. Billy Tauson is a scoundrel and he runs with a pack of equally rotten ne’er-do-wells.”
    Nearly an hour later, Jubal asked his pa if he would mind stopping for a few minutes.
    “Sure enough, son. I’m sure your ma and sis would appreciate a rest also.”
    While the ladies wandered off, Jubal spoke to his father. “Pa, if you look over my right shoulder, back about a hundred yards just inside the tree line, you’ll see a horse and rider from town, an Injun. I’m pretty sure he was with the others you were having that set-to with.”
    Without looking, Jubal, Sr., answered, “My oldest and onliest son has developed a keen sense. Very good, Jube. Yep, he’s been following us for near to an hour, and as for him being with that group, you’re right again. You’d think if he were a proper scout he would at least not wear such a bright yellow string to hold on his hat. Believe his name is Crook Arm. Peculiar, in a way. They know where we live, why bother to track us? That jackass Tauson—”
    “That’s the tall, gray-haired man?”
    “Yes, he used to own our plot of land. I expect they’re just trying to pester us. One thing’s for sure, they can’t eat us—that’s against the law.”

SEVEN
    The weathered road came to a fork, one way leading north to Colorado, the other west to Cerro Vista. Jubal was tempted to push on north, but he knew he had to tell his story to the authorities, even though he couldn’t truthfully explain the death of his father without getting himself in trouble. His impulse was to ride away from all the carnage.
    But he had to do what was right. He veered west toward Cerro Vista.
    As he approached the fork, a slight movement off to his left at the edge of the woods startled Jubal. A dappled gray mare grazed along the fringe of the tree line, looking skittish, with her reins looped over the saddle horn. Oddly, her rider had left the horse with the reins untied. Jubal walked slowly to the animal.
    “What you doing out here all alone, huh?”
    The horse backed away and whinnied loudly.
    “She needs water, Mr. Rifleman,” came a voice from behind. “Fact of the matter, so do I.”
    As Jubal turned, he saw a young man who seemed close to his own age lying half propped against a ponderosa. A .44-caliber pistol with dirt caked into the barrel and side rested limply in one hand. The front of his flannel shirt was streaked with dried blood.
    “Don’t you concern your mind about this here hogleg, boy. It’s dirty, but it’ll still bust you up to a fare-thee-well, so just hustle back to your buckboard and get me water before I put a round in your chest like you did me.”
    Jubal recognized the young man as part of the group of renegades back at the farm. The gunshot wound in his upper torso was from Jubal’s rifle.
    “Get me some water, dammit. Go on, git.”
    The wounded cowboy seemed weak, and Jubal doubted if he could even pull the trigger, but there was something about his helplessness. Jubal’s rifle lay under the seat of the buckboard, his water canteen hung in plain view on the side of the wagon. He hesitated, then retrieved the water and stepped carefully toward the slumped young man.
    “Just set it down careful-like, boy. Don’t try anything brave, or I’ll open you up. My name is Ty and I’m a shootist.” Trying to muster some bravura, he fell short of a sneer. He held the gun in one hand and struggled with the stopper on the canteen. In exasperation, he threw it at Jubal’s feet. “Open it, damn it. Go on.”
    Jubal opened the canteen and started pouring the contents onto the ground at