Free Payback at Morning Peak by Gene Hackman Page B

shortcut down the rim of the canyon, when Jorge slipped and pushed me along with him for one hell of a ride.”
    Jubal felt an impulse to bust in and expose the truth of Wetherford’s made-up tale.
    “I grabbed some rock and brush along the way. I don’t think the Mexican was so lucky. Give me some water. I’d be obliged.”
    Jubal stepped forward with his canteen. Now he wanted the man to see him. He opened the cloth-covered water carrier to Wetherford’s mouth.
    The man took a long pull, then looked up at Jubal. “Thank you, I’m—” Startled, he blurted out, “What the hell?” Pete Wetherford sat up from his resting spot and pointed at Jubal. “I’m gonna kill you, you rotten bastard.” He struggled to rise from his seated position.
    “Rest easy there, pardner.” Judge Wickham held Wetherford off with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re not killing nobody anytime soon. We’re gonna make a carrier for you and take you down to the wagon.” He motioned for several of the men to look for branches to make a bearer for the stricken Pete Wetherford.
    Morton stood with hands on hips. “Afore we all pitch in to save your sorry ass, why don’t you tell us what you were doing out here in the loneliness?”
    With a withering glance at Jubal, the desperado spun more of his tale. “It’s like I said. We were all hunting, having a good time, when this brat what’s staring so hard at me, his father, I assume it were his father, chased us up here into the hills.”
    Jubal couldn’t restrain himself. “He was already dead and you know it—”
    “Let him tell his story, son,” interrupted the judge. “Every word out of his mouth buries him further. Go on, Wetherford, tell your tale.”
    The injured man winced as the two townies lifted him onto the makeshift stretcher. “The reason I blabbed about that youngster was on account he looks like his pa and in my state of pain, I guess I got confused.” He paused. “Like I said, we were hunting—Jorge, ole Billy Tauson, several others—when all of a sudden shots were fired.” His eyes darted from one rescuer to another. “We all ducked down and called out like proper folk that we were just hunting and whoever was plugging away at us should hold off and let us explain.” He stopped for a time, as if reliving the event. “Jorge got real Mexican and insisted on running across this falling tree to get after the farmer.” He pointed up to the log bridge. “But I told him to let me go first to try it out ‘cause I didn’t want nobody to get hurt. He followed me, and then, like I said, he slipped and a week later you all show up and that’s about it. I sipped water that were trickling down the rocks or I’d a been a dead one. At night, the coyotes would come yip-yipping, sniffing ‘round Jorge’s body. Nothing I could do. Soon as the sun went down, damn. It were cold as a well-digger’s ass.”
    Jubal trailed along as Judge Wickham and the group started down the steep canyon. “Other than the part about it being cold, he’s lying, sir. My pa was never up here, and I doubt my father ever got a round off during the whole melee. I found his rifle burnt all to heck in the cabin.”
    They walked a few minutes more. “Can I ask him just one question, Judge?”
    The judge nodded. Jubal eased his way alongside the stretcher as they made their way down the steep descent. “First of all, Mr. Pete, it has only been a few days—not a week—that you’ve been here. Secondly, you say my pa took a shot at you.”
    Pete grunted, “Yes.”
    “Was that before or after you hung him from the barn and set him on fire?”
    He looked to make sure the sheriff and judge weren’t within earshot. Pete hissed, “Recollect what I said up there at the tree, boy? What I did to your mother? I did that to your baby sis, too. And what I promised I was gonna do to you?” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll do, in time, as soon as my bones are knitted. I’ll be looking for you, boy,