The Return of Caulfield Blake Page 7

  “Some things can’t be settled that way,” Hannah objected. “Dix tried that a month ago. Six months or six years, the case never would’ve come to trial so long as Henry Simpson wished it otherwise.”

  “I saw Zachary ride in last night. His face was painted dark, and he wore a black poncho . . . the kind Caulfield used to wear when he was sheriff.”

  “You’re wrong,” she declared. “Zach went into town for me. He gave me the sugar. He would never have . .

  “Hannah, I’ve done my best to be a father to those boys, but Zach’s never taken me to heart like Carter. Everybody says it. Zach’s a Blake. It can’t be changed by his taking my name.”

  “There’s no disgrace in being a Blake, Marsh. Blakes built this place, built this county. For all his faults, Caulie never gave me cause to think poorly of his name or his family.”

  “I wish you’d never written that letter.”

  “We’d’ve starved, Marsh. You’re a good man, and you’ve been as fine a father and husband as there is in Texas. But you and Dix and Marty and the others . . . you could never square off with Simpson.”

  “I never backed away from a fight, Hannah,” Marsh said, his face growing bright scarlet. “You seem to think I’m not up to it.”

  “Not to beatin’ Simpson, Marsh. To beat that old snake you need somebody who’s not tied to the rules. Caulie will do what’s necessary, no matter who comes to harm.”

  “I thought that’s why you asked him to leave.”

  “It is. Back then I needed a husband, a man who’d stand by me, be there for the little ones. But just now we need Caulfield Blake, and I’m glad he’s here.”

  “So’m I,” Zach said, joining them. “You should’ve seen him, Ma. He was everything Dix ever said. I rode with ’em.”

  “You what!” she cried.

  “Had to. They needed somebody to hold the horses. Ma, he rides like a general, all stiff and straight in the saddle. He’s got a way . . . like nothin’ can hurt him. He misses us, too. I could tell.”

  “He could’ve gotten you killed, Zach!” Hannah complained. “I can’t imagine why you agreed to . . .”

  “I asked to go,” Zach explained. “He argued against it. Said you’d never abide it.”

  “He was right about that!” she thundered.

  “But I remember you tellin’ Carter and me how you once shouldered a musket and helped Grandma fight off a bunch of Comanches out here when you were just twelve. I figure if you could do that, I’m old enough to do my part, too.”

  “You should have ridden over and told your father,” Hannah said, nodding toward Marshall. “When your granny and I did that, the men were miles away. And remember, we didn’t go looking for those Comanches.”

  “Ma, I . . .”

  “We’ll talk no more of it, Zachary. Go help your brothers with the horses.”

  “Yes’m,” the boy said, turning dejectedly away and starting for the corral.

  Hannah watched Zach kick rocks out of his way. He was Caulie, all right, a wild mustang straining to break free. She would never hold him, not with die world out there whispering in his ear, calling him off to try his hand at this and that.

  “They grow faster’n summer weeds, don’t they?” Marsh asked. “Wasn’t so long ago I could carry Zach and Carter, the both of ’em, around on my back. Now look at ’em! By late summer they’ll be lookin’ me in the eye.”

  “You think I was too short with him.”

  “I never said that, Hannah.”

  “But it’s in your eyes.”

  “I think it’s your place to do what you think best.”

  “But you’d handle it differently.”

  “Are you askin’ me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll go ahead and throw in my two cents worth. The boy barely knows his father.”

  “You’re his father.”

  “I don’t think so. Not after last night. Likely we made a mistake givin’ those boys my name. They’ve a right to their father, to his name and his character. Carter, well, he’s different, but Zach could hardly act otherwise.”

  “He’s in such a hurry to be a man.”

  “Texas hurries ’em along. Hannah, Matt Simpson’s not much older’n Carter. Like it or no, the boys’re in this mess. After last night, there’ll be no peace. Simpson’s bound to hit back. He hasn’t hired all that new help to drive longhorns to market.”

  “I know, and it worries me.”

  “Little point to worrying over it,” Marsh said, taking her hand and leading the way to the house. “What’s bound to happen will. We’ll face it when it comes.”

  Even as Marshall Merritt was speaking, Henry Simpson was at work. Cowboys were rounding up the survivors of his herd while a few men set about tending to the grim task of skinning and disposing of the dead animals. Meanwhile a third band, led by young Matt and the Jenkins brothers, set off toward Ox Hollow. Marty Cabot saw them pass. Soon others were riding.

  “Ma, somebody’s cornin’,” Zach cried as he raced toward the house.

  “Stay inside, Hannah,” Marsh instructed as he took a Winchester rifle down from the mantel. “I’ll see to this.”

  Hannah stood at the front window and watched him go. It might have been more prudent to pull the shutters to, but she didn’t. Instead she opened a small chest and drew out an aging Colt revolver. Caulfield Blake had carried that gun once. She now considered it a kind of legacy.

  “Howdy, Marsh,” Marty called down as he reached the house. “Good to see you still in high spirits, Zach. We’ve got some trouble, my friends.”

  “Simpson?” Marsh asked.

  “In spades. He’s sent his boys after the Mexicans down in Ox Hollow. They crossed my range maybe an hour ago. I already sent Caulie out that way. I thought maybe you and . . .”

  “That’s not really our affair, Marty,” Marsh argued. “They’re way to the south. I can’t very well leave Hannah and the little ones to themselves.”

  “And if we let him, Simpson’ll ride each one of us into the dust. We can’t take turns, Marsh. We’ve got to stand together. Dix got some rifles down to those folks, so they’re apt to give a fair account of themselves. If a half-dozen of us plus a few from town pitch in, we’ll give Simpson’s boys somethin’ to remember. Bloody ’em up proper.”

  “Was this Caulie’s idea?” Hannah asked, stepping out onto the porch. “He sent you, did he?”

  “As I recall, Hannah, it was you did the sendin’,” Marty answered angrily. “Your own ma got those people settled out there. Now they’re in trouble. Well, Marsh? You cornin’ or not? I’ve ridden all the way up here to fetch you. If you’re not ridin’ with me, it’s best I’m off.”

  “Marsh?” Zach asked.

  Hannah noticed the pain in Marsh’s eyes. Always before it had been “Pa” or “Papa” when Zach spoke to Marshall Merritt. Somehow she sensed that would never happen again.

  “Tell Carter to help you saddle the horses,” Marsh said. “He’d best come along as well.”

  “He won’t like that much,” Zach warned.

  “Maybe, but he’ll do it,” Marsh answered gruffly. “It’s time we start pulling together, whether we call ourselves Merritts or Blakes or whatever.”

  Caulfield Blake waited for them on the banks of Carpenter Creek.

  “Pa, we’ve come!” Zach shouted as he raced the bay up alongside his father’s big black. “Got my rifle and everything.”

  “Might be best if the boys stayed out of this,” Caulie said as he read the eagerness in Zach’s eyes. Carter rode more reluctantly in the rear.

  “It’s better they get a taste of it now, in the daylight,” Marsh declared. “Besides, Zach’s already been in it up to his eyeballs.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Caulie said, leading the way southward toward Ox Hollow. “If it’s to be, though, keep to cover, boys. Zach, you stick to my side like fleas on a hound. Carter, you . . .”

  “I’ll stay with my father,” Carter
said angrily. “He doesn’t run out on people.”

  “Hush, boy!” Marty said angrily.

  “Leave it be,” Caulie said, trying to shake off the sting. “He’s got a right to his feelin’s.”

  “And good reason for them,” Carter added.

  “You best save all that anger for old man Simpson,” Marty warned. “Pretty soon he’s liable to be shootin’ bullets at you. Then we’ll find out who sticks and who doesn’t.”

  Carter whirled his horse around so that Marsh lay between himself and the others. Caulie motioned Marty up front, then urged the ebony stallion into a gallop. Soon the little company raced across the broken hills at a fair pace. In an hour’s time they’d crossed the road, joined up with Dix Stewart and a handful of riders from town, and were nearing Ox Hollow.

  The sound of gunfire just ahead led Caulie to turn cautious. He waved the others to a halt, then motioned for Marty to follow.

  “What about me?” Zach asked.

  “You stay with the others for now,” Caulie instructed. “I’m not goin’ any further till I know the lay of the land.”

  Without pausing any longer, Caulie nudged his horse into a slow trot and drew out his pistol. He crossed the low ridge which separated Marty’s place from the Mexican farms in Ox Hollow. Down below two of the farmhouses blazed brightly. The remaining houses spit fire from their front windows at a dozen or so encircling riflemen.

  “We could ride ’em down, Caulie, but they’d likely shoot some of us to pieces,” Marty said, scratching the stubble of his beard. “If we closed in on ’em from cover, we’d have a dandy crossfire goin’ for us.”

  “Take Dix and the men from town,” Caulie said, examining the terrain carefully. “Use the cornfield as cover. See if you can’t catch ’em off guard. I’ll lead the others around to the south. That way we can squeeze ’em to the middle.”

  “They could turn on you, Caulie. You’ll only have Marsh and those boys with you.”

  “I don’t figure ’em to run my way, Marty. If they do, we’ll take our toll.”

  “You can’t shoot ’em all, Caulie. I’ll have Dix go with you. And unless Marsh has lost his eye, he used to be a fair shot with a rifle.”

  “Sure. Now let’s get to it.”

  They returned and divided the small band. Caulie then led Dix, Marsh, and the boys off across the ridge and then back toward the encircled cabins. Caulie dismounted and asked his companions to leave their mounts in a small ravine. Soon thereafter Caulie spied the first of severed dark-shirted marksmen. Each wore a flour sack over his head, but even so, Caulie made out the strutting figure of Matt Simpson in the center.

  “Give it up, you fools!” young Simpson shouted. “We’ve got more coal oil. Won’t be long before the rest of you are fryin’ like your cousins down the hollow.”

  “We go nowhere!” the powerful voice of Hernando Salazar replied. “What right do you have to shoot our cows, burn our homes?”

  “This right!” Simpson declared, waving for his men to resume firing. The front of Hernando’s house absorbed two dozen rapid shots. Pieces of door splintered. The little glass remaining in the windows shattered into fragments. A woman cried, and a child shrieked in terror.

  That’s enough of that, Caulie told himself as he edged closer. He could feel Zach’s nervous breathing as the boy crawled alongside.

  “Wait for me to fire, then shoot,” Caulie whispered as he made his way to a pile of boulders on the edge of a field. It was the last cover available, and it offered a perfect shield from which to open up on Simpson’s raiders.

  “Pa, I never shot at a man before,” Zach mumbled. Caulie steadied the boy’s hands on the rifle, then patted Zach’s shoulder.

  “No real need to think much about it, son. Just shoot in that direction. We’re not here so much to kill as to pry ’em loose from their perch.”

  Caulie swallowed. It was a lie, and Zach’s eyes knew it. Caulfield Blake hadn’t ridden seven miles to chase bushwhackers. He’d come to kill Simpson men, come to make war on young Matt and the Jenkinses and all others who meant to do Hannah harm.

  “We’re ready,” Dix called from behind the far end of the rocks.

  “Then it’s time,” Caulie said, leveling his rifle at the closest of the hooded killers and easing back the trigger. The Winchester spouted flame, and the gunman whirled around and collapsed.

  “Matt, they’re behind us!” a second rifleman called seconds before Dix’s bullet shattered a thigh. “Lord, help us!”

  Young Simpson shouted to the others and started toward the cornfield. Rifles from the house killed a third man, and a fourth went down shortly. Matt’s companions were in a wild panic as they raced toward the safety of the cornfield. At that moment Marty’s men aimed and fired a deadly volley at the oncoming riders. Two more fell, and another clutched a shoulder.

  “What now, Pa?” Zach asked as the confused raiders rushed in a dozen directions.

  “You watch yourself,” Caulie said, pushing Zach’s head back behind the shelter of the boulder. “Fire only if they come by.”

  By now the survivors had reached their horses. Marty’s group continued to fire from the cornfield, and the Mexicans at the farmhouses had rushed out to finish off one lame gunman who’d headed that way. Matt Simpson tossed aside his hood and kicked his horse into a gallop. The Jenkins brothers trailed along behind, and a pair of young cowboys raced to catch up.

  “I know that’s you over there, Blake!” Matt shouted, pointing directly toward the boulders. “You won’t find me as easy to ambush as my father!”

  Caulie aimed and fired, but young Simpson moved away. His Winchester struck the young man’s horse in the ribs, and the horse rose high into the air. Marsh and Carter fired, too, and one of them hit the horse a second time. The animal whined in pain, then fell on one shoulder.

  “Abe!” Matt yelled.

  Abe Jenkins raced by, and Matt Simpson crawled up behind the veteran gunman with a quickness Caulie had rarely seen from a white man. The remaining raiders then headed away, pausing only long enough to set the cornfield on fire.

  “Dix, see if you can get that fire stamped out,” Caulie said before rushing toward the farmhouse. “I’ll see who’s hurt.”

  “Marsh, boys, come along!” Dix cried. “That fire’ll take half the county if it’s not put out quick.”

  Marty already had his crew busy beating down the flames, and Hernando’s youngsters were out there as well. Caulie let them deal with the fire. His eyes were watching Hernando.

  “I thank you for your gift,” Hernando said as he sank, exhausted, to his knees. “If you had not come . .

  “Wasn’t just me,” Caulie explained. “Was Marty saw ’em come. We had lots of help. We didn’t altogether kill off those skunks, but we stung ’em a bit.”

  “Yes, and they hurt us, too,” Hernando said, motioning toward the flames that even now consumed half the little settlement. “They killed Jesus Cortes and his wife. Their little Anita, too. My own boy Carlos is shot. The Rojas family will go now. The Vargases as well. Only Roberto and I will remain, and for how long? Who will die next?”

  “You, me, Simpson. Maybe next time they’ll surprise us.”

  “But there will be a next time, won’t there, amigo?”

  “Seems like there always is.”

  “When our fathers were alive, we would have gone down to Senor Simpson and set him ablaze. Ay, we would have killed him like a mad bull. Even the wolf does not hunt his own kind.”

  “No, that’s left for men. And old man Simpson, well, he’s got an appetite for land. Our mistake was lettin’ him settle here in the first place. Pa thought him to have a bad eye, and he said as much, but you know how softhearted Emma Siler was. Ernest was dead, and I’ll admit Simpson offered a fair price for the land. Now we’re payin’.”

  “You went away once. You came back. Is it so hard to leave the place of your birth?”

  “Hard enough.”

  “Maybe we should all g
o. There has been already too much bleeding.”

  “Maybe,” Caulie agreed. “I’ve read death in Simpson’s eyes. And I’ve never read such greed and hate on one man’s face. There’ll be more dyin’.”

  “Yes. Next time he will come by night.”

  Caulie nodded, then turned away. He headed toward the cornfield, but by then the fire was under control. A line of weary people passed buckets from a well to a pair of men who slung water on the fringe of the smoldering cornfield. Marty and Dix had the others slapping wet canvas against the opposite edge of the fire.

  “Anybody dead?” Dix asked as Caulie approached.

  “The Cortes family. I think they caught the first charge. Hernando’s got a boy hurt. Most of ’em are headin’ out.”

  “Can hardly blame ’em. Even in a good year the corn crop barely pays the bills.”

  “I just hate to see the land go to Simpson.”

  “I think that’s goin’ to be the least of our worries, Caulie. After today, it’s bound to be all-out war. You ready for that?”

  “I’ll have to be. ’Cause Hannah won’t be leavin’.”

  “The boys did just fine today,” Dix observed. “Zach was a little shaky, but that Carter squared up just fine, kept up a steady fire you’d been glad to’ve seen at Johnsonville.”

  “That’s good. Before we’re through, there’ll be need of such talents,” Caulie said.

  “Like as not before Simpson’s finished, I’ll have Charlie firin’ a Winchester.”

  “Maybe Hernando’s right, Dix.”

  “Oh?”

  “He says our fathers would’ve ridden right out there and burned old man Simpson out.”

  “They might’ve tried,” Dix admitted. “That’s Simpson’s game, tiiough.”

  “Dix, we’ve fought Comanches and chased Yank cavalry across half the South. We can deal with Henry Simpson, and we will.”

  Chapter Nine

  Hannah sat on the porch and mended a pair of Zach’s trousers. Whenever she was most nervous, she took to sewing. Usually the work took her mind off her troubles, but all she managed to do this time was prick her fingers and miss stitches.