Free Payback at Morning Peak by Gene Hackman

up.
    “Shoot, boy. How you gonna prove that palaver? Hell’s fire.”
    “That’s enough, Ron.”
    “But, Judge, it’s his word against that ole boy Ty what’s-his-name. Besides, we got us a dying declaration from Ty stating that the ‘son’ did it.”
    “Why was he there?” Jubal asked, trying to be resolute.
    The deputy looked to the judge, who cleared his throat, “Who was where, son?
    “Ty. Why was he at our farm? What were he and the others doing there? Send someone out to Morning Peak up that western slope. See if you don’t find a couple of them with their noses buried in the rocks. What were they doingon my pa’s land? If I killed my family, why would I bring that bastard Ty into town here, can you answer me that? Why? Wouldn’t I just have lit out of there and let him rot? Why wouldn’t I hightail it up to Canada or someplace? It doesn’t make sense. What reason would I have to do such a thing—to bring him in here?”
    “There were an ole boy down in Sonora I hear tell that did his whole family in, cousins and all.” Deputy Ron looked around the room. “Course, he were Mexican, so maybe you can’t rightly tell what he was thinking on.”
    “Deputy, for Christ’s sake, watch your mouth,” replied Judge Wickham. “Where’s Morton?”
    “Over to the hotel, on business, sir.”
    “Well, pry him out of the bar and tell him to organize some hands to go out to the Young property and find those folks in the canyon. We’re going to have to dig up the family also.”
    “Damnation, Judge. What’s to be pleased about stirring with bodies moldering in the ground being eaten on and such? Lordy.”
    “I suspect you’ll do whatever I ask you to do or you’ll go back to cleaning spittoons at Sloan’s.”
    Ron stomped out the door, giving everyone his opinion on the way. “By all rights, Judge, that skinny Storyboy ought to be the one digging. He put ‘em down there.”
    After the deputy’s clumsy exit, Judge Wickham gathered his papers. “Guess we’re forgetting one thing, aren’t we, youngster?”
    Jubal understood and walked himself back to his cell.
    “I am going to hold you to your honor, son, I don’t have a key to lock your cell. What say you?”
    Jubal sat on his hard bunk. “I’m not going anywhere, sir.”
    “Mind you don’t.”
    “If you want, Judge, I’ll go out there with the posse to tend my family. I’d rather that than leave it to Deputy Ron and Sheriff Morton.”
    “That might be best. Maybe I’ll go along, just in case.” The judge tipped his hat.
    Jubal wondered what “just in case” meant.

TEN
    They left at midday, Jubal driving the buckboard. Ron, grousing about the long ride, kept up a steady stream of chatter. “… that feller’s name, Martinez. Something like that. Kilt every livin’ soul in his family at a get-together, never heard nothing like it.”
    Judge Wickham sat beside Jubal. “Never mind about that boor, son. There are people aplenty in this world who are honest, sensitive folk.” He smiled. “Ron just doesn’t happen to be one of them.”
    Seven of them traipsed up the long uphill grade from Cerro Vista to the Young family farm. The sheriff had insisted the doctor come along to have a look at the bodies. One fellow recruited by the sheriff fell asleep in the bed of the wagon, trying to snore away his hangover. A heavy ne’er-do-well named Tiny rode a small Indian paint that struggled with its weighty passenger.
    As they rode into Young’s Valley, the sheriff lookedto Jubal, who in turn pointed up to a small rise north of the meadow. Jubal had piled rocks atop the new graves, marking them with simple crosses. The sheriff ordered his boys to get started.
    Jubal grabbed a pickaxe and started digging, only to be told by Sheriff Morton to step aside, as he wouldn’t be needed. He glanced at Judge Wickham, who shrugged. Morton and Deputy Ron both took shovels, along with the two townies, and started in.
    Relieved he wouldn’t have to look