The Return of Caulfield Blake Read online

  “Well, I guess I’m good for a story,” Caulie said, surrendering. “After all, it’s late to ride east.”

  “None too safe, either. Men’ve been waylaid on that road, especially if they tangle with Matt Simpson.”

  “And what would you know about that?” Caulie asked.

  “People talk,” Charlie said with fiery eyes. “I listen.”

  Charlie suddenly seemed much older than his ten years and slender shoulders suggested. Later on, as Caulie spun tales of the buffalo range, of Fort Griffin and The Flat, he felt the boy’s hand on a shoulder that had felt no such closeness for half a decade. Caulie shuddered, and Charlie crept closer.

  “It’s time we got to our beds now,” Caulie announced as he wrapped up the tale. “Wouldn’t want to miss that picnic tomorrow.”

  “No, sir,” Charlie agreed. “Ma plans to fry a chicken.”

  Caulie grinned, then left the room as Charlie began shedding clothes.

  “Looks as if you’ve made a friend,” Rita observed as she met Caulie in the hall. “Does him good. Town’s no place to raise a boy.”

  “Why don’t you go back to the ranch, then?”

  “Maybe we will when this Simpson business is over. Things being what they are, I wouldn’t feel safe.”

  “It’s bound to get worse, Rita.”

  “Yes, but now you’re here. I feel better knowing Dix has someone to depend on.”

  “There are others.”

  “But no one to lead. It hasn’t proven healthy to be a leader in this town, Caulie. Those who’ve tried haven’t lived to count their grandchildren.”

  “I feel like I’m bringing a storm down on you all. I had Zach out there with me today. Rita, he’s not much older than Charlie there. What is it that hurries men to their deaths?”

  “That’s easy,” she said grimly. “Henry Simpson.”

  Caulie nodded sadly, then walked back down the hall and quietly slipped out of his clothes.

  “Uncle Caulie?” Charlie asked as Caulie burrowed his way into the soft feather mattress.

  “Charlie?”

  “Good night. I’m glad you came back.”

  “Night, son,” Caulie said, wishing to high heaven he could say that to Carter or Zach. But it was sometimes too late to mend a fence. The stock had escaped, and most wild things never really take to a halter.

  Caulie slept peacefully well into the next morning. By the time he opened his eyes, Rita had exchanged his shirt for a fresh one from the store, and Charlie had put a shine to the battered boots and brushed the dust from Caulie’s weather-beaten hat.

  “I believe I’ve fallen into good company,” Caulie remarked with a smile as Rita poured him a cup of steaming coffee. “And now I hear we’re to have a picnic.”

  “Well, in truth Katherine said we need a holiday. She’s been planning the outing for a month. She’s got her eye on young John Moffitt down at the livery. I suspect he’s to come along. It will do us all some good, though. Town’s not so pleasant a place to be as it once was.”

  “Has Matt Simpson been by?”

  “No, but I suspect he’s heard about Dix’s visit to the sheriff. Simpson has his spies everywhere.”

  “Maybe we should stay close to the store today.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll only be down at Oak Grove.”

  “Oak Grove?” Caulie asked, his hands trembling slightly.

  “As I recall, you’ve cause to remember the place. Wasn’t that where you asked Hannah to . . .”

  “Yes,” he said, cutting her off.

  “Sorry, Caulie. I didn’t intend to open up old wounds. Maybe we should choose another spot.”

  “It’s a good place. Simpson hasn’t pried it away from Hannah?”

  “She has a memory, too, Caulie. She sold off most of those southern sections, but she held on to the grove south of the market road, the pond, and the pastureland up to Marty’s place.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Good for you, too. That stretch was part of Simpson’s price for opening up his dam, you know. Now he’s lost his bargaining strength.”

  “So he’ll try to take it instead.”

  “Probably.”

  But Henry Simpson had yet to stamp the Diamond S brand on the grove, and that afternoon Caulie, young Moffitt, and the Stewart clan enjoyed a brief diversion. After gorging themselves on fried chicken and sweet com, Katie and her beau wandered off in the wood. Dix and Rita packed up the leftover food, then took a stroll.

  “Guess it’s just you and me, huh, Charlie?” Caulie asked.

  “Oh, they do this all the time,” the boy said. “That’s why I bring along some fishing line.”

  “Enough for two?”

  “Sure,” Charlie said, grinning widely as he pulled two balls of line from a pocket. “Come on. I know the place where the catfish love to hide.”

  As Caulie shed his shoes and followed Charlie out onto a fallen oak trunk, he felt as if he’d slipped back twenty years. He and Dix had fished that pond more than once.

  “Swimming’s fair here, too, though the water’s still a little cool,” Charlie explained.

  “Water’s deep.”

  “Cats like it that way in the summer. Pa says it tickles their whiskers.”

  Caulie laughed, and Charlie cried out with excitement as his line strained under the weight of a fish.

  “You’ve got one,” Caulie said, watching intently as Charlie played the catfish, then began pulling him in bit by bit.

  “Ma fries cats just about as fine as she fries chicken,” Charlie declared as he drew the fish into the shallows before flipping it onto the bank. “He’s a big ’un.”

  “Sure is,” Caulie agreed. “Think he’s got some cousins down there?”

  “More’n a few,” the boy said as he ran a string through the fish’s gills and tied one end to a small oak sapling. He then returned the secured fish to the water.

  They fished for close to an hour before they accumulated four fish. Charlie announced that was enough, flung off his shirt, shed his trousers, and splashed into the pond. The sight of the boy swimming away the afternoon heat was more than Caulie could bear. In an instant he was out of his clothes and in the water as well.

  “Race you to that stump!” Charlie challenged, and the dash was on. Caulie closed to within a foot of the blond-haired demon, then eased off so Charlie could win.

  “Ah, you gave up,” Charlie complained. “Pa does it, too.”

  “Give up?” Caulie complained. “Wore me out, you tadpole.”

  Charlie grinned, then hauled himself atop the stump and jumped into the pond. Moments later the boy was shoveling water at Caulie’s face. Caulie took a deep breath and lunged forward, capturing Charlie and securely holding the boy in place.

  “Am I under arrest, marshal?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, sir, you are,” Caulie said, dragging the boy through the shallows and tossing him onto the bank.

  “You’re a pretty fair swimmer for an old man,” Charlie remarked as he sprawled out in the soft grass.

  “Remind me not to wrestle any more worms,” Caulie said. “It’s too exhausting.”

  “Fun, though.”

  Caulie couldn’t help laughing. His grin soon faded as he spied a line of hooded riders cutting across the pasture from the southwest. Instantly Caulie dragged Charlie Stewart behind cover, and the two scrambled into their clothes.

  “It’s some of Simpson’s men,” Charlie declared. “They come to town sometimes that way when they don’t want anybody to see who it is.”

  “They bother your pa?”

  “Once. They ran off some Mexicans. Nobody said it was Matt Simpson, but everybody knows.”

  “Sure,” Caulie said, pulling on his boots and buttoning up his shirt.

  “You going after ’em, Uncle Caulie?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Be careful,” the boy said, clinging to Caulie’s arm as a smaller Carter had the morning of the hanging. “They shoot peop
le real dead. I’ve seen it.”

  “So have I,” Caulie said, gently pulling away from the youngster. “Don’t fret. I’ve faced ’em before.”

  “Pa’ll be going with you, won’t he?”

  “Maybe.”

  Charlie gazed down at his bare feet, and Caulie searched for words of comfort. He knew none. Instead he lifted the boy up, slung him over one shoulder, and carried him the fifty yards to where Rita had left the wagon. By that time John Moffitt and Katie were back. Dix and Rita joined them shortly.

  “See if you can help this cowboy get his boots on, Kate,” Caulie said as he checked the cylinder on his pistol.

  “There are too many of them,” she answered. “Pa?”

  “I’m goin’, too,” John announced. “I can shoot a rifle.”

  Caulie glanced at Dix, who nodded.

  “You get along back to town,” Dix told Rita. “Bolt the door, too. They could be headed that way. Give the Simpson place a wide berth. I’ll be home when I can get there.”

  “Me, too,” John said, gripping Kate’s hand before turning away.

  “Leave John your horse, Charlie,” Dix said, helping his son into the bed of die wagon. “Caulie?”

  “Sure,” Caulie answered, slipping his Winchester out of its saddle scabbard and passing the rifle along to young Moffitt. “Let’s go.”

  The three riders charged off toward the road, but Caulie soon waved his companions to a halt. Smoke rose from the south, and the three riders turned toward Ox Hollow. All along the way Caulie envisioned a scene of death and destruction. But none of his nightmare thoughts prepared him for the cruel reality he discovered.

  The cabins remained as before. The smoke came from a blazing cow barn. Out front the remaining farmers huddled with their children around a single white oak. From a branch hung a long gray object. Riding closer, Caulie saw it was the body of Hernando Salazar.

  “They came again,” fourteen-year-old Carlos cried out as Caulie slid down from his horse. “Uncle Roberto was away in the fields. My arm is no good. What could Papa do? They shot him. They they do this! I will kill them all!”

  “Could you see any of their faces?” Dix asked.

  “They were covered,” Carlos answered, “but we know who it was. I have heard the laugh of Matthew Simpson often. He will choke on that laughter.”

  “For God’s sake cut him down,” Caulie said, turning his face away from the spinning body of his old friend. “I swear there’ll be payment for this.”

  “It’s no use,” Roberto said, cradling his brother’s body as John Moffitt cut the ropes. “They will come again and again. We shoot six of them, and ten return to kill my brother.”

  “You can’t give up,” Dix cried. “It’s Simpson who’s behind this, and we’ll have to settle accounts.”

  “You settle with him,” Roberto said angrily. “I have a brother to bury and children to protect. There’s been enough blood shed over this place.”

  Carlos gazed sorrowfully at his uncle, and Roberto set Hernando’s body down, then led the boy away.

  “We’re not needed here,” Caulie announced to his companions. “It’s best we ride oil.”

  Dix nodded, and John Moffitt climbed back atop his horse. The three of them turned and rode toward the Cabot ranch.

  Chapter Eleven

  The question which flooded Caulfield Blake’s mind was where Simpson’s hooded riders would strike next. He was tempted to return to town with Dix Stewart, but it seemed unlikely even Simpson would so openly defy the sheriff as to raid Dix’s store. Marty, on the other hand, was isolated. And Hannah . . . well, Simpson’s whole ranch lay between the Bar Double B and help.

  “What good can you do up at that cabin, all alone as you’ll be?” Dix asked as Caulie turned his horse northward.

  “I’ll be at hand should riders head up Carpenter Creek. The stream’s too swollen to be crossed just anywhere at present. Anyone hitting Hannah’s place will have to come by way of the cabin or else slosh through half of Siler’s Hollow.”

  “And if Simpson decides to hit the cabin itself?”

  “I’ll be ready,” Caulie said, his eyes flashing with a fire brought on by the memory of Hernando’s dangling corpse. “Get some of that dynamite ready, Dix. We might just have a surprise in store for Mr. Simpson.”

  Dix frowned at the notion of raiding the Diamond S, but he nodded his understanding.

  * * *

  As night fell, Caulie dozed lightly on the floor of the cabin. Two loaded Winchesters stood at arm’s length. His dreams filled with recollections of death, of friends swept away by musket fire during the war, of a father slain by Comanche arrows. He awoke a little after midnight to the sound of flapping wings. A great homed owl had swept down onto the porch to snatch a small rabbit in its claws.

  “What’s this?” Caulie called.

  The owl peered toward the cabin, its eerie eyes probing the darkness like two foreboding circles. It uttered a chilling cry, and Caulie recalled how Indians deemed an owl’s call a poor omen.

  “Go away, owl,” he told the bird. “You’ve saddled me with enough bad luck for twenty men. Go haunt someone else.”

  The owl sank its claws into the rabbit until the life flowed out of the little ball of fur. Then the great bird flapped off into the trees.

  “You’re not the only one to hunt by night,” Caulie whispered. “I’ve done my share of stalkin’ and killin’ in the darkness.” He knew there would be more yet to come. Henry Simpson wanted stopping, and the night was always the ally of the weaker force.

  Darkness was also a perfect shield. Its mists cast spells, or so it seemed to Caulfield Blake. Down by the Colorado a world of shadows, real or imagined, haunted the river. Many a time he’d spun tales of ghosts and Comanche spirits that terrified the boys. They often seemed all too true.

  Caulie remembered those stories as he drifted off. Death and despair seemed to smother the air. And when a horse raced up the hill, Caulie rose instantly and huddled beside the front window with one of the Winchesters.

  “Who’s out there?” he called.

  “Mr. Blake?” a shaky voice answered.

  “I know who I am,” Caulie replied angrily. “Who’d you be?”

  “It’s Caleb, Mr. Blake. Caleb Cabot. My pa sent me . . . sent me to fetch you. We’ve got trouble, Mr. Blake.”

  Caulie cradled the rifle in his hands as he crawled around to the door. It was hard to see anyone or anything in the shrouded night. Fog hung heavily across the hillside. Finally Caulie located a small boy close to Charlie Stewart’s size and age.

  “You Marty’s boy?” Caulie asked as he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” the youngster said, trembling. “We’ve got trouble. Get your horse and follow me.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Caulie asked, reading the concern in the boy’s eyes. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothin’ just yet. Leastwise not when I started out. Some riders came. Pa saw ’em. Me, I’d never noticed, but Pa’s got eyes like a hawk. He said to tell you the Jenkins boys were there with Matt Simpson. Some others, too.”

  Caulie nodded grimly. Well, at least he knew where they were. By now they were likely shooting bullets and setting Marty’s house alight.

  “I’ll get my horse,” Caulie said, stepping into his boots and grabbing a shirt.

  “You get dressed. I’ll saddle your horse,” Caleb said. “Just hurry. When I left, the little ones were awful scared.”

  Caulie couldn’t help sighing. Little ones? Caleb was hardly four feet five, and he was worried about little ones? Caulie threw on his clothes, buckled on his gun belt, and set off for the barn. True to his word, young Caleb had the big black saddled and ready to ride.

  “Son, there’s no point to you cornin’ along,” Caulie said as he climbed atop the horse.

  “That’s my family back there,” Caleb explained.

  “And you’ll do ’em a whole lot of good, won’t you? You’ve got no gun. You
fetched me. Let me tend to that. You know the Bar Double B?”

  “Sure,” Caleb said, nodding.

  “Ride out there and tell the folks there what you just told me. Have ’em stay put, though. You, too. I’ll bring your family out once it’s over.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Blake. Pa said I was to bring you . .

  “You did a whale of a job of it, too, son. I know you’re worried, but trust me to know what’s best. Ride along to the Bar Double B. Wait for us there. Won’t be so long as it’ll feel.”

  Caleb nodded and turned his horse northward. Caulie rode south, toward Marty and what was probably by now a desperate fight for survival.

  Caulie slapped his horse into a gallop and raced along the darkened ridge toward the Cabot place. Mesquite thorns tore at his arms and face. Rocks slowed the horse. But the surefooted stallion continued. The horse seemed to sense the urgency in its rider’s shallow breaths. Caulie crossed the treacherous three miles in half an hour.

  By that time Marty’s barn lit half the county. The livestock whined anxiously as they fled in every direction. Marty returned the attackers’ gunfire from the house. A second rifle flashed from one of the rear bedrooms.

  “Give it up, Cabot!” Abe Jenkins bellowed. “We’ll burn the house next. All we want is you. Come out, and we’ll let the young ones go.”

  “Hang yourself!” Marty replied, firing a shot that nearly took Abe’s ear off.

  “Suit yourself!” Matt Simpson said as he waved his men forward. Two raced toward the house just ahead of Caulie. They were outlined by the flaming barn, and Caulie aimed and fired in a single motion. Both fell in turn, and Abe turned his attention toward the approaching horseman. Caulie raced for the house, then jumped off his horse and ran to the door. Bullets followed his shadow.

  “You fool,” Marty said as Caulie slid inside. “That’s a mighty fine way to get yourself killed. Where’s Caleb?”

  “I sent him along to Hannah.”

  “That’ll be a comfort to his ma. I’ve got Court back in the kitchen with a rifle. I sent Eve and the little ones down to the root cellar.”