Dead on Arrival

63

‘Well, Steve, there she is. Your new home.’

Steve. Jubal Pugh couldn’t get used to that name. Nor could he get used to the fact that instead of residing on four hundred acres in the Shenandoah Valley he now lived in a trailer park in a place called Victor, Montana. Actually, it wasn’t even in Victor but on the outskirts of Victor. All he knew was that he hated Montana, and he hated the trailer he now had for a home.

And he hated this goddamn marshal too. He thought a U.S. marshal would look like a marshal, like that actor Sam Elliott: tall and lanky with a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots. The marshal who escorted him to Victor looked like he should be selling life insurance. He had a pudgy build, a half-bald head, and he wore glasses, for Christ’s sake. The only way you’d know he was a marshal was if he showed you his badge.

But until he could get back on his feet — if there was any way to get back on his feet — Jubal was stuck in Victor. And in some ways it was good that he was. He’d testified at Randy’s trial, and the way Randy had looked at him … well, it was a damn good thing they’d moved him here. Randy had about a hundred cousins, and they were all just as mean as Randy. If they ever found out where he was …

‘Well, Steve,’ the marshal said, ‘it’s time to go meet your new boss.’

‘A scrap yard?’ Jubal Pugh said. ‘That’s the best job you could find for me?’

‘Hey, it’s not like you got a lot of skills, unless you consider making meth a skill. And you’re gonna love your new boss,’ the marshal added. ‘He’s this old Indian guy, big as a horse, and I’ve been told he just hates white people.’