The Return of Caulfield Blake

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “Fine idea so long as the Jenkins boys don’t burn the house down atop ’em.”

  “Well, I guess it’s up to us to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “Your barn’s gone.”

  “I’ve built more bams’n I can remember, Caulie. Don’t you worry yourself over that.”

  “I feel responsible.”

  “You’re not. Old man Simpson’s had his eye on my place for years. Tried to run me off this winter. Kept me from gettin’ horses to market. We made out, though.”

  “We will this time, too.”

  “Hope you’re right. They’ve got us trapped real sweet here. I never liked fightin’ in buildings, Caulie. I’d rather be out there in the open, with the dark on my side.”

  “There’s precious little dark. The barn’s seen to that. Those boys have to know the better part of the county’s seen the fire. Others’ll come along soon. Their time’s about gone.”

  The raiders thought so, too. A second pair raced toward the house. Caulie sent one rushing backward, and Marty killed the other with a clean shot through the lungs.

  “You cornin’ out, Cabot?” Abe asked.

  “Why don’t you come along in like your friends, Abe,” Marty answered. “Let’s see how brave you are.”

  Abe showed no inclination to rush the house, and his companions shared his caution. The rifle fire resumed, but most of it was poorly directed. Suddenly three rifles opened up on the kitchen from short range. Glass shattered, and Marty raced toward the back of the house. As he reached the kitchen door, it flew open, and a dark-hooded stranger stepped into view holding a pistol to the head of young Court Cabot.

  “Pa!” Court cried as the killer turned the pistol toward Marty.

  Caulie whirled and fired. His bullet shattered the gunman’s jaw and tore through the brain. The raider collapsed like a rag doll, and Court scrambled into his father’s arms.

  “Ben?” Abe Jenkins called. “Ben boy, you there?”

  “He’s dead,” Caulie answered. “You’re next, Jenkins.”

  Caulie slipped past the shocked Cabots and crept out the back door. Soon he was out amid the darkness, prowling like a cougar in search of a meal. He clubbed one raider senseless, then fired at a nearby rifle flash. A howl of pain rewarded his shot.

  “It’s time we got clear of this place!” Abe yelled. “There’ll be another day.”

  “They must’ve got some men in here behind us,” another declared. “Let’s get!”

  Two of the bushwhackers grabbed horses and set off for safety. Matt Simpson ordered them to hold their ground, but it was no use. Four men were already dead, and two others lay wounded. Simpson’s band had gotten its fill. They wanted no more of it. One by one they slipped off into the darkness. Finally Matt and the Jenkins brothers departed, too.

  “I never thought we’d hold ’em off, Caulie,” Marty said as he wrapped linen bandages around Court’s bleeding left arm.

  “You boys saved the day,” Caulie told the shuddering youngster. “Your brother got to me in time, and you, son, held the rear.”

  “He got past me,” Court said, his eyes red with fear and pain. Marty raised the boy’s head and gave him a hug.

  “He wasn’t much trouble by then, boy. Now go open the cellar and let your ma out. She’s likely tired of smellin’ onions and turnips by now.”

  Court made his way a foot or so before collapsing. Marty set the boy in a chair and then headed for the cellar door. Caulie knelt beside young Court and listened to the boy’s rapid breathing.

  “You’ll be just fine,” Caulie said, brushing a strand of soft blond hair away from the child’s forehead. “We’ll get you to town. The doc can patch you up just like new.”

  “Will I have a scar?” Court asked as he stared at the bandaged arm. Blood seeped through the dressing, and Caulie frowned.

  “Likely just a bit of one. Big enough to show your friends down at the pond and your grandkids when you’re older.”

  Court tried to smile, but pain flooded the boy’s face. As Eve Cabot led a small boy and girl through the door, Caulie swallowed a great bitterness.

  “You think you can round us up a horse or two?” Marty asked. “The tack’s gone with the barn, but I figure the young ones can ride with us.”

  “I’ll locate some horses,” Caulie promised. “You see if you can stop that bleeding. It’s best we get him to the doc.”

  “That means riding past the Simpson place,” Eve objected. “Don’t you think we can tend it ourselves?”

  “It’d be better to have a doc take a look at it,” Caulie declared. “You let me worry about Simpson.”

  “Marty?” she asked.

  “I’ve been followin’ this man too many years to head my own way now. Eve, see what clothes and such you can round up. We won’t be likely to find much left here when we come home.”

  She immediately started toward the bedroom. Marty took charge of the children, and Caulie trotted outside to track down the horses. In ten minutes he managed to locate a small chestnut mare and a pinto pony. Marty climbed atop the mare, and Eve took the pony. The smaller children sat in front. Caulie set young Court in front of him atop the black stallion. Then they started for town.

  They encountered no difficulty passing the Simpson place. Only a single window showed signs of life, and not a sound drifted through the early morning air. It was a different story in town. A piano played loudly down at one of the saloons, and a trio of cowboys sang along. Caulie headed straight for the doctor, helped Court down, then turned around. He hadn’t ridden five feet before the sheriff appeared.

  “What’s happened here?” the lawman asked. “You’ve got a lot of nerve riding up here in the middle of the morning.”

  “Those horses over at the saloon,” Caulie said. “They look familiar. Some of ’em might be carryin’ the Diamond S brand.”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff said. “Matt and some of the boys rode in to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” Caulie asked. “That what skunks like them do when they shoot little kids, burn barns, and terrorize simple folk? They hung Hernando Salazar this afternoon. You know that?”

  “Dixon Stewart said as much. I spoke to Matt, but he had ten witnesses swore he was mending a saddle at the time.”

  “And tonight? I just followed ’em in from the Cabot place. Young Court’s got a hole in one arm, and the barn’s already a pile of ashes. Can you follow the tracks? There’s a clear trail all the way to Marty’s place.”

  “One track’s the same as another on that road, Blake. I’ll need more’n that to bring a man like Matt Simpson up on charges.”

  “Ten witnesses you say he had? Check and see which ones of them are lying stone-cold dead at the Cabot place right now. I counted four bodies. Shoot, I’ll bet Matt’s still got powder smell to his clothes.”

  “It won’t hold water, not in a real trial.”

  “You mean to do nothin’?” Caulie asked.

  “Nothing I can do,” the sheriff explained.

  “Then I guess it’s up to me to settle this business. You have the undertaker get busy. They’ll be need of coffins. And markers.”

  “Blake!”

  “I’m tired of seein’ my friends and family attacked. There’ll be a price paid for tonight. You tell Matt Simpson that!”

  “Tell him yourself,” young Simpson said, appearing suddenly. “I hear you and your friends have been spreading lies about me. Said I hung some Mex.”

  “Hernando Salazar was a better man than you’ll ever grow to be,” Caulie said bitterly. “Now get out of my way.”

  “You hear him, Sheriff? He’s threatening me.”

  Matt’s companions laughed, but the Jenkins brothers backed away a step. Caulie’s eyes were suddenly wild, and his fingers tapped the handle of his pistol. Only the sudden arrival of a wide-eyed Charlie Stewart prevented bloodshed.

  “Pa says you’d best come along,” Charlie whispered. The boy’s nightshirt was stuffed into a pai
r of oversized trousers, and Caulie couldn’t help grinning. It broke the tension, and he backed away from Matt and the Jenkins brothers.

  “Let’s go, Charlie,” Caulie said, shoveling the boy along in front of him. “There’s been enough death for one night.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Caulfield Blake found Dix’s place converted into a small fortress. The neat shelves of goods in the store had been pushed to one wall, allowing room for the displaced Salazars. Marty and Eve had their children spread out in the kitchen, all save little Court, who remained with old Doc Brantley.

  “Looks like we’ve inherited a world of poor relations,” Dix remarked as Charlie led Caulie into the parlor. “Pretty soon we’ll have half the county here.”

  “Maybe I should go on back to the cabin,” Caulie suggested.

  “Not just yet. We’ve got plans to make. Once the young ones settle down a bit, we’ll bed down in Charlie’s room. I moved Katie in with Rita so Marty and Eve would have a room to themselves. I don’t suppose ole Charlie will mind us imposin’ on him. M il you, son?”

  “I’ll get some blankets,” Charlie grumbled. “If there are any left.”

  “Guess the glamour of cowboyin’ took its toll last night,” Caulie joked. “A floor can be mighty hard.”

  “He’d best get used to it. I figure my ranch is next. I’ll be goin’ out there tomorrow, Caulie. Marty and Roberto will be here to look after the place.”

  “I figured the Salazars would be halfway to Kansas by now.”

  “Headed out sure enough, only old man Simpson sent a pair of riders out to badger ’em. Young Carlos took offense and turned the wagon around. He’s got a lot of his papa in him, that boy.”

  “Hope he doesn’t end up just as dead.”

  “It’s up to us to see he doesn’t.”

  “And just how do we do that?”

  “I figured you’d have a notion, Caulie. You’re better at that sort of thing than I am.”

  Yes, Caulie thought. I am. The solemn look in Dix Stewart’s eyes attested to the fact. The two old friends sat down together, and Dix drew out a crude map of the county.

  “Here,” Caulie said, pointing to a bend in Carpenter Creek. “Simpson’s got to go after your place or Hannah’s next. No matter which ranch he hits, they’ll have to come this way. I remember that place. There’s a narrow path alongside the stream that winds past the ridge. Isn’t room for more than a couple of men to ride side by side. It winds like the creek, and there’s a blind spot perfect for an ambush. A pair of men with rifles could hold off a small army.”

  “There’ll be more than two of you,” Marty said, stepping into the parlor. “I figure I have a say in this.”

  “Others will want to join in, too,” Dix said. “To do it right, we’ll need everybody who can shoulder a rifle.”

  “Maybe,” Caulie reluctantly admitted. “You think Art and Joe will come along? They can follow orders, and they know when to hold their fire.”

  “We’ll gather everyone tomorrow. You figure Simpson will send his boys out by daylight?”

  “If he still has an army,” Caulie said, frowning. “We’ve whittled him down some, though. Even if he sends for help, he’s not liable to have all that many experienced riders left. He didn’t have enough to take on those farmers at Ox Hollow, and he sure won’t have enough to ride down the Bar Double B.”

  “Then I’d suggest we get ourselves some sleep,” Dix said, folding up the map and rising to his feet. “I think we’re goin’ to need it.”

  Caulie slept on the floor in a saddle blanket that night. Dix turned restlessly on the bed across the room. Little Charlie slept quietly, but the muffled cries and nightmare screams from the store split the night often. Each time Caulie imagined the terror knifing its way through the small bodies of children who lacked an understanding of the reasons behind the dark cloud of terror that had fallen upon their lives.

  Caulie passed the better part of the next morning packing supplies on spare horses. Aside from food there were a half-dozen new Winchesters, together with boxes of shells and sticks of dynamite. A little after noon he prepared to ride out to Dix’s cabin above Carpenter Creek.

  “We’ll be along toward dusk,” Dix promised. “Meanwhile, you best have a talk with Marsh. Tell him to keep his eyes open. We could use an extra hand with a rifle tonight, too.”

  “I’ll speak to them.”

  “You watch out yourself, too. A man like Simpson can have his own tricks. The Jenkins boys are still out there, remember?”

  Caulie nodded, then mounted his horse and took the reins of the pack animals. Moments later he was riding eastward down the market road.

  The ride to Dix’s cabin was the same one Caulfield Blake had made a hundred times, but he’d never taken a path so clouded and dark. The charred timbers of the Cabot bam and the vultures circling above Ox Hollow paid witness to Simpson’s outrages. Once Caulfield Blake’s heart had filled with laughter and promise as he rode eastward. Now there was only a grim determination fueled by fury.

  He hid the packhorses in a ravine behind Dix’s cabin and covered the supplies with a blanket and rocks. Once assured all was safely hidden from view, he mounted his horse and headed up Carpenter Creek to the Bar Double B . . . to Hannah and what had once been home.

  She met him at the base of the hill. Her eyes were as he always remembered, bright blue like the summer sky and clear as New Orleans crystal.

  “There’s been more trouble,” he told her without dismounting. “It’s best I speak with Marsh.”

  “I’ll get him,” she said, the smile falling from her face.

  “Hannah?”

  “Yes?” she asked, staring at him intently.

  “You’re lookin’ well. I think I failed to mention that last time.”

  “And you look tired.”

  “Hasn’t been much rest of late.”

  “We saw smoke over to the south. Caleb Cabot rode in last night to warn of riders.”

  “They burned Marty’s barn, shot up the house.”

  “Eve and the children?” Hannah asked. Her face grew pale, and she swallowed a cry.

  “Young Court took a bullet. I got ’em to town. Hernando Salazar’s dead. Riders hung him. Roberto and the family are at Dix’s.”

  “Sounds as if he’s got a houseful.”

  “Store’s now a barracks.”

  “It’s come down to us, hasn’t it?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Come on along to the house then. I expect you’ve got serious business to talk over with Marsh.”

  Caulie nodded and nudged his horse into motion. He followed her slowly. And as he again beheld the house, the porch he had added after the war, the shutters carved from the towering white oaks, he couldn’t help feeling hollow. So much had been stolen, the hopes and dreams and expectations that life had once promised. Now he’d come back to find it still there. And yet though he was close enough to touch the planks, he knew Hannah and the future that should have been theirs were beyond his reach.

  “Marsh?” she called. “We’ve got company.”

  Zach was the first to appear on the porch. He set aside a small barrel and trotted out to greet Caulie.

  “Zachary, go fetch your father,” Hannah told the boy.

  The words had an unintended effect on Caulie and Zach. Both seemed to turn a bit pale, and Caulie’s hands trembled. Before either could speak, Marshall Merritt stepped outside.

  “Never mind, son,” Marsh called. “I heard you, Hannah.”

  Caulie dismounted. Zach eagerly accepted the reins of the black stallion and smiled up at Caulie.

  “I’ll see he gets a good, long drink down at the pond,” Zach promised, “and a carrot for good measure.”

  “Thanks,” Caulie said, touching the boy’s shoulder lightly. He pulled his hand away as he read Marsh’s disapproving eyes. Zach seemed equally confused, and Caulie bit his lip in reproval. He’d never intended to muddle things. He wasn’t entitl
ed. He’d been away all that time, and Marsh had a right to feel for the boys.

  “Why don’t we talk inside?” Marsh suggested. “Hannah can make some mint tea.”

  “I’ve got some lemons put away,” she announced. “I’ll make lemonade.”

  Caulie couldn’t help grinning. Lemons rarely made it as far as The Flat. He hadn’t tasted lemonade for years. He smiled his appreciation to Hannah, then followed Marsh to the small sitting room that doubled as ranch office.

  “So, what news do you bring?” Marsh asked. “Can’t be good by the look of you.”

  “Simpson returned to the hollow. Hung Hernando Salazar. Last night he hit the Cabot place.”

  “I know. Caleb was here till about an hour ago.”

  “You’re likely next.”

  “Why so?”

  “Not a lot of folks left to choose from. He might try Dix’s cabin, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “It’s more than that. Some of us plan an ambush down at the creek. There’s a fine spot for it where the stream bends around that low ridge.”

  “I know the spot.”

  “I count on Dix and Marty, Joe Stovall and Art Powell. We might add a few more from town, but it’d be better if we had more rifles.”

  “It’s not rifles you’re after,” Marsh said, frowning. “You want shooters. We rode with you before. This time if you’re wrong, and you’ve been mistaken before, Hannah and the children could wind up all alone. There are plenty of paths to this place besides the creek road.”

  “Siler’s Hollow is a swamp.”

  “And the creek trail’s a trap. People don’t always do as you expect them to.”

  “I guess not,” Caulie said, clearly disappointed.

  Hannah arrived with the lemonade, and Caulie sipped his as he pondered what to say next.

  “He’s planning an ambush, Hannah,” Marsh explained. “He wants me to come along.”

  “And?” she asked.

  “I think it best to stay here,” Marsh declared.

  “Maybe one of the boys . . .” Caulie began.

  “No!” Hannah shouted. “I never should’ve let them go the last time. That was in the daylight. I know you, Caulie. You mean to wait for them in the darkness like you’d wait for Comanches. I won’t bury my sons.”