Payback at Morning Peak by Gene Hackman Page B

depart.
    Jubal shook his head.
    “He said, ‘I have my doubts.’ “The judge walked off the porch down the newly painted steps. “I am jesting with you, Jubal. They were speaking of a sherry, a fine drink, and whether it was in fact as advertised. It was a subterfuge, a ruse. You say you’ll stay, but you say it perhaps a mite too quickly.” The judge tipped his hat to Jubal and smiled.
    Maybe so, maybe Jubal tended to agree with adults and tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. Was that dishonest? He found himself in peculiar circumstances. He liked the judge and hoped he wouldn’t have to disappoint him.

    Excitement descended in Cerro Vista the next day when U.S. Marshal Wayne Turner arrived. The man questioned almost everyone who had any knowledge of the Young family killings and the shooting of the sheriff and Deputy Ron.
    Jubal took note of him as he arrived at the hotel—a thin fellow dressed in business attire, a dark suit and vest, the gleaming badge tucked just inside his coat. He came and went with a decided self-awareness, which made Jubal anxious as he approached the marshal, who was sitting on the hotel porch having a cup of coffee.
    “Good day, sir, excuse me, but I work here.” Jubal thought maybe he should mention his employer’s name. “For Judge Wickham.”
    No response.
    “He hired me. I do odd jobs and such. I wondered if maybe I could have a few words with you?”
    Turner looked to Jubal. “You’re the Young family survivor, and are a bit perplexed we haven’t spoken, because there’s something you feel is important to add to this investigation. The sooner I question you, the sooner you’ll feel better about the deaths of a couple of those ne’er-do-wells.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Why did you take it upon yourself to shoot those men? Wouldn’t it have been more prudent to scamper into town and collect the sheriff?”
    Turner didn’t wait for an answer, which was good, because Jubal had none. “Youngsters like you are always taking the law into their own hands and the results are always, without exception, disastrous. You’re a child trying to be a man. You should be left to your toys. You made a foolish mistake and probably cost several lives.
    I’ve interviewed the deputy and talked to the judge. The deputy puts you square in the middle of all this.”
    The marshal continued, “The two townsmen who accompanied the lot of you out to the farm said you were standoffish, somewhat excitable. They said you were wanting to get after the victim they found who was hurt, that you wouldn’t let him finish his story. Then, while they went back up to retrieve one of the bodies, you beat the hell out of him. An article of intrigue is what you are. You approached me, hat-in-hand polite, with your ‘excuse me, I work here, Judge Wickham hired me’ bullshit. So what’s that supposed to mean? Just because the judge hired you doesn’t make you a saint. I’ll talk to you when I am good and ready. If you work here, trot inside and get me more coffee.”
    Jubal took the cup to the kitchen and refilled it, adding sugar and a great glob of his own saliva. With the tainted coffee in hand, he left the kitchen and started toward the porch, but he hadn’t even gotten twenty feet when he realized he couldn’t do it without regretting it. He went back to the kitchen and put the cup in the sink.
    “What’s you doing, compadre?” said one of the kitchen workers. “I just saw you pour that.”
    “I think it’s cold, I need to pour a new cup… to start over.” To start over. What an idea. Was that even possible?
    After he delivered the coffee to the marshal, Jubal stood on the porch of the hotel, listening to a trumpeter playing a scratchy spiritual. The musician’s lament was followed by a choir of seven singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” A flat black buckboard led the sad parade, a pine casket on the bed, festooned with flowers. A man in a battered silk hat drove the two