From Academy Award winner Gene Hackman, an epic and immersive 19th-century Western novel about family, vengeance, and redemption. Teenager Jubal Young is forced into manhood much sooner than expected when he returns to his family farm and discovers it burnt down, with his mother and sister raped and murdered and his father left for dead. Alone in the world, he buries the bodies of his family and heads west to seek vengeance on the outlaws responsible. With his Pa’s wisdom and memories of his family echoing in his head, Jubal enlists the help of a kindly local judge, determined to set things right. Pursuing his family’s attackers throughout New Mexico’s gold mining towns, Jubal doesn’t yet know how to exact his revenge—but he knows that nothing can stop him in this epic Western odyssey from one of America’s most beloved actors. Gene Hackman was the author of two novels and coauthor of three other novels. He was a two-time Academy Award–winning actor with lauded performances in such films as Unforgiven , Bonnie and Clyde , The French Connection , Mississippi Burning , and The Poseidon Adventure, among others. He lived in New Mexico and died in 2025. Payback At Morning Peak ONE Jubal hiked with abandon through the mountainous forest, cradling the Colt slide-action rifle in his slender arms, proud his father had seen fit to allow him use of the small-bore .22. Not quite eighteen, he was just under six feet, nearly as tall as his father, and did his best to dress like him: whipcord pants tucked neatly into calf-high boots. Two rabbits he’d shot that morning hung from a leather-tooled belt around his waist, a gift from pa. He thought of cleaning them himself but decided he would let ma take care of that little chore. He imagined her proud face when he returned home with them. Rabbit stew would be a welcome change from the tough buffalo meat cured in the family smokehouse. He thought of his sister Prudence, pouting earlier today when ma had told her to stay home, shuck peas, and tend the fire. “Jube gets to have all the fun!” she’d said. “Miss Prudence,” ma had replied, “you’re only fourteen, and it’s best you tend your chores.” Strict but fair. Jubal didn’t mind the company of his sister, though, as they had much in common. Much to Mother Young’s concern, Pru often ventured alone into the forest to hunt berries and wildflowers. The boy topped Morning Peak, seeing Colorado stretching out to the northern end of New Mexico’s Sangre de Cristo Mountains. A late afternoon sun warmed his chapped hands while he marveled at the painted landscape, aspens shimmering as their new spring leaves caught the sun. To the west he could just barely see his family’s cabin, nestled into a meadow lined with fir and limber pine. A gray smoky haze from the log structure filled the small valley, and he knew Pru had been doing her job with the fire. The wind changed, and Jubal’s eyes widened. There was too much smoke. He noticed unusual movement around the house and heard eerie sounds of strange, jubilant voices floating up through the dense valley. His reaction was immediate. Gripping the rifle in front of him to clear the way, Jubal broke into a dead run and began to close the hefty distance to the cabin. He tore through thickets down the canyon, sharp branches ripping at his leather coat as he plowed through the brush. Minutes later, he stopped within shouting distance of the compound, his legs on fire with exertion, his lungs needing air. A pile of bright gingham fabric lay on the earthen courtyard. Like a body. The clothing looked to be his mother’s, her dress cloth flapping with the breeze. Pru’s horse, Butternut, lay near the well, her legs thrashing as a rush of blood flowed from her neck. Jubal counted five men riding on horseback in the courtyard, with several more stirring around the outbuildings and barn. They all seemed determined to celebrate, shouting as if they had achieved a great victory. Trying to control his breathing, the boy slumped behind a massive pine. He wanted this day to start over, wanted to forget the body in the yard, wanted only to run, but Pa would skin him if he didn’t stand as a man. Where was pa? Jubal took several more deep breaths. He moved to his stomach and started to crawl. He’d gone only a few feet when he rolled onto his back, fighting panic, his nose stung by the sharp and disagreeable scent of burnt flesh and manure. He had to keep moving. Rising, he darted between a stand of scrub oak, then bellied down and once again crawled, hiding behind the scattered chamisa. Laughing and drunk, the men staggered around the toolshed and outhouse. One dark-skinned fellow looked different, wearing a feathered, flat-brim leather hat with a bright yellow braided string running under his chin. He carried a bow across his back and a quiver with arrows attached to his belt. He looked familiar, the way he carried himself. The whole raft of them seemed related. Jubal