Free Payback at Morning Peak by Gene Hackman Page A

into the dead faces of his family, Jubal drifted away. He sat with his back to them and gazed down into the valley at the devastated house and barn. It seemed all wrong to be back here. He honestly never thought he would see this land again.
    The nightmare kept running, thankfully interrupted by the ignorant ranting of Deputy Ron.
    “Lord, what we got here? Damn, Sheriff. They’s all laying there like mummies taking a sleep.”
    “Ron, shut your face.” The sheriff walked over to Doc Brown, who watched the proceedings with arms folded over his ample stomach. “Doc, what are you thinking? Wanna get down in there or should we pull them out?”
    Jubal rose from his tree-supported seat, trotting across the wide meadow toward the homestead. He didn’t want to be around for this.
    “Don’t be drifting too far off, there, cowboy,” shouted Sheriff Morton. “You’re not out of the woods yet. Not ‘til the doc here tells us how these folk passed. Understand?”
    Jubal waved his arm and continued on until he was out of sight. Arriving at the root cellar, he found that the blackened remains seemed sadder now. The sound of birdsfilled the air, flowers sprouted a kaleidoscope of color, and somewhere out toward Morning Peak a bald eagle echoed his protest into the distant canyon. All the life and beauty served as a contrast, making his family’s destruction all the worse.
    The entourage finally moved down to the homestead and found Jubal. Everyone had grown more reverential, even Deputy Ron.
    “Get up on this buckboard, Storyboy,” said Sheriff Morton. “Lead us into that there valley, canyon, or whatever you want to call it, and show us those other folk, what you killed on your so-called bridge.”
    “We’ll not be able to go the whole way with the wagon, sir.” Jubal took the reins. “We’ll have to walk in the last half mile.”
    Morton grumbled as Jubal coaxed Frisk up the start of the trail. Once they reached the steepest part of the incline, they secured the horses to the surrounding trees and started hoofing it up the canyon’s interior. It took nearly an hour before Jubal thought they were close to being near the log bridge.
    “Somewhere here on the west side of the canyon, sir, that’s where they fell.” He pointed so the sheriff could see the ravine up ahead that dug into the canyon wall.
    “You men spread out, take a look-see.” The lawman stood rock-still. “Hold it. Did one of you say something? Quiet down.”
    They all settled.
    “There it is again. Ah, hell, it’s just a coyote or, no, dammit. Listen.”
    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.

ELEVEN
    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