Payback at Morning Peak Read Online Free PDF Page A

of his family. Not asking safe passage for himself, wishing only for an opportunity at revenge.
    He rose as quickly as his injured hip would allow and made his way back down the mountain toward his bridge, making as much noise as he could without sounding intentional. At one point, he let out a loud cry of pain, his wounds lending reality to his ruse. He skirted the fallen log bridge.
    When he finally reached the other side, he could hear them approaching. It sounded as if they were at the summit and on their way back down. He had only minutes as he slid down the far side of the ravine under the log onto a rock ledge. An errant branch he’d seen earlier pointed down. He could hide under its foliage and be ready when the men arrived.
    They came with a vengeance, cursing and undisciplined. The pitch-pine torch was held high by the Indian, its glow dancing through the tree branches, casting a pasty, evil pall on the men’s faces. They panted, angry, gathering at the base of the log. The Indian held the rag that Jubal had hung on the prickly branch. The gray-haired man took the bloodied cloth from him.
    “That little bastard’s been hit,” the man said. “He can’t get far. Let’s skirt on around this gully and light out after him.”
    They started to move.
    “Hey, Chief, hold that torch,” said another. “I’m gonna save some shoe leather.”
    “Not good,” answered the light bearer.
    “Just hold it, redskin.”
    “I’ll go, too, Pete.” This from the squat Mexican.
    “Bueno, Jorge. Andale.”
    They were taking the bait. Jubal had already eased his rifle barrel between the heavy branch above him and the fat part of the log. He stayed below the log, his makeshift lever ready.
    As the men took their first tentative steps on the log, Jubal added his weight to the stock of the rifle. The log held steady. In order to get the proper leverage, he would be forced to raise himself just out of his shelter.
    He watched as the dancing torch lit the outlines of the two men, who were nearly halfway across. Jubal crouched and applied all of his strength onto the rifle.
    With a crack and a groan, the log stirred slightly, rolling a few degrees away from Jubal. Its immense weight caused it to stop, then rock back toward him.
    “Jesus Christ, Pete, what did you do?” The Mexican grabbed his friend Pete as they both fell to their knees.
    Their arms windmilled in the air as Jubal applied more pressure, working with the momentum of the log. Struggling for purchase, Pete made a grab for the trunk as his buddy yelled, trying to grip the air while plunging headfirst down the chasm. Pete held on for only seconds until his weight forced him to slip around under the log, his fingers digging at the soft bark. Jubal eased back into the foliage, hoping he hadn’t been seen.
    “You bastard, I’ll—” Pete called out to his friends. “Help me, Al. Dammit, I can’t hold on. For God’s sake. He’s here. I can’t—”
    By this time one of the other men had leapt into action, straddling the trunk and inching his way out to help. Jubal heard the other men shouting encouragement as Pete grasped at the log’s decaying bark, trying to swing one of his legs back up and over it. He finally succeeded, gasping for air.
    “You gotta git this bastard. Oh, God, help me.” Pete had one leg looped over the log, his head flopped back, while his arms hugged the fallen tree like a newlywed. He regarded Jubal upside down. “We did your mother, boy. If I live through this I’ll do you, too.” There was a sickening sound of bark peeling away from the log as Pete, clawing away with his hands, headfirst began what Jubal thought would be the last long moments of his life.
    Jubal listened carefully as Pete fell, grasping at overhanging rocks and shrubs on the side of the canyon, cursing friends and family on the way down. He also thought he heard him call out “little bastard,” but maybe not.
    For the first time, the rocky outcropping where Jubal