“They’re my boys, too,” Caulie argued. “People will expect them to . . .”
“They’re not yours,” Marsh said angrily. “You gave up title when you left this place. Wasn’t you who stayed up nights nursing their fevers or comforting their hurts.”
“I helped ’em get bom,” Caulie said, shaking. “What’s more, I’d see they came to no harm. They mean more to me than . .
“Than what?” Carter asked, marching into the room. “Than life? Is that what you were going to say? Then how come you rode off and left us, huh? We’re not your sons, not anymore.”
“You said that once before,” Caulie said, swallowing his own anger as he read Carter’s. “Maybe I’ve earned that. Maybe I haven’t. But before you go carvin’ me up in your heart, Carter, maybe you ought to consider why I’ve come back. Not for my health. And if you can’t accept me as a father, then at least try to set aside some of that hate. It’ll eat you up, just as it’s devoured Henry Simpson. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”
“I’ll go,” Zach offered. “I can shoot pretty fair.”
“You couldn’t hit a barn from ten feet away,” Carter declared. “You’ll get yourself killed, Zach.”
“No he won’t,” Hannah said, pulling the boys to her. “Because he isn’t going anywhere.”
“Ma!” Zach complained. “I know how to keep to the shadows. They shot Court Cabot. Don’t tell me I’m too young.”
“Do as your ma asks,” Caulie said, fighting to control his quivering hands. “Marsh could be right. You might be needed here.”
“You don’t believe that,” Zach said, slipping away from his mother’s hands and staring angrily at them all. “I’m not afraid. They’ll need help. Ma, is it better for Simpson’s men to come here?”
“I think it’s time you should leave,” Marsh told Caulie. “You brought your warning, and we’re grateful for it. As for tonight, we’ll keep a sharp watch.”
“With luck there’ll be nothin’ to see,” Caulie told them. Then he turned to go. Zach raced over and clung to his arm.
“Pa, you say the word, and I’ll meet you at the cabin.”
“No, son,” Caulie said, gripping the boy’s shoulders. “You heard your ma.”
“But you need me.”
“Maybe she needs you more.” Zach shook his head, but Caulie nodded sternly. “Don’t look as if you’ll never see me again, either. I’ve got a tough hide. I’ll be by again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take care of him, Hannah. He’s got heart.”
“I will,” she promised.
Caulie tried not to think of them as he returned to the cabin. Only now was he realizing how distant they were from his touch. He was closer to little Charlie Stewart than to his own sons! He scarcely knew Carter at all.
As always when his mind flooded with troublesome thoughts, he turned to work. He passed the late afternoon boarding up shutters and cutting gun notches in the walls. High-caliber rifle bullets fired at close range would penetrate the plank walls, but the oak stood a fair chance of shielding them from anyone firing from a distance.
Caulie recalled how his father had erected rock walls to enclose his old cabin. It had been a fine precaution in days of Indian attack. Caulie regretted Dix hadn’t done likewise. The cabin, though stout, would burn like Hernando’s cornfield if a bottle of coal oil were tossed upon its roof.
Personally, Caulie didn’t expect to fight at the cabin. If the ambush proved successful, Simpson’s hooded riders would be finished. Afterward it would be a simple matter to deal with the old man himself, especially if that hothead Matt was in the hands of the sheriff.
Over and over again Caulie envisioned the attack so that when Dix arrived the plan was crystal clear.
“Marsh didn’t come?” Dix asked as he and the others climbed down from their horses.
“No,” Caulie admitted as he gazed at the weary faces of Dix’s companions. Art and Joe were there as expected. Marty Cabot was not. John Moffitt from the livery helped young Carlos Salazar to the cabin. The two youngsters completed the company.
“Not much of a command, eh, Cap’n?” Joe asked. “Four old rebs, a stable boy and a one-armed farm kid.”
“We’ll do,” John declared. “Carlos can still fire his shotgun.”
“It’d be more use in town,” Caulie argued. “What’s become of Marty?”
“His boy took a turn for the worse,” Dix explained. “In truth, I don’t mind him bein’ there with all the womenfolk.”
“This isn’t goin’ to work,” Caulie said, shaking his head. “Six isn’t enough. Somebody’s like as not to get himself killed.”
“Yes?” Carlos asked, blinking away pain as he sat on the porch. “They have killed my father, Senor Blake. They’ve shot me with bullets. Can they do worse? We come knowing the danger. I will fight, and if I must die, then my uncle will see to my mother’s needs.”
“And you, Joe?” Caulie asked.
“Shoot, Cap’n, I’ve been shot at by better men than old man Simpson. If somebody don’t stop those riders, they’ll get around to me and my Sue after a time. It’d grieve me to know I’m not to see her and die girls again, but I figure this is my fight as much as it is yours.”
“Me, too,” Art added. “I stood with you before, Cap’n. You never led us far wrong.”
“What about you, John Moffitt?” Caulie asked. “You forget what Ox Hollow was like? This’ll be worse. Night fights always are.”
“I hope to ranch this land one of these days,” Moffitt said, blushing as Dix’s eyes fixed on the young man’s face. “Katie and I’ve got dreams, too. My pa tells me a man fights for his dreams. Is he wrong?”
“No,” Dix declared. “I just wish he was along to help.”
The others nodded, and Caulie gazed down the creek toward the Bar Double B.
“No point to that, Cap’n,” Joe said. “Let’s go over the plan and get about it. That young Matt Simpson’s been tellin’ people at the saloon all afternoon how he wouldn’t be surprised if some people were to be sorry for things they’ve said to the sheriff.”
“That’s right,” Art added. “Said he himself might be busy around dusk.”
“Then he’s more of a fool that I would’ve dreamed,” Caulie declared. “And he could just be lyin’ through his teeth. We’d better get out there early. It’s like a Simpson to try a ruse or two.”
The ambush site was on Simpson land, and crossing the fences before dark concerned Caulie some. Nonetheless he chose to do so. He set Dix and the others to work building a rock wall across the trail. He and young Moffitt chopped away at the trunk of a tall cottonwood two hundred yards back up the trail. When the riders passed, John would apply the final stroke, and Simpson’s raiders would find themselves trapped by the swollen creek, the steep ridge, the rock wall, and the felled cottonwood.
“Then it’ll be time to die,” Joe Stovall said grimly as he and Art took positions on either side of young Carlos Salazar atop the ridge. Caulie covered John Moffitt near the mouth of the trap. Dix waited behind the stone wall.
And wait they did. It seemed to take an eternity for the sun to drop into the hills to the west. Even then, no riders appeared. Caulie began to worry. Perhaps Marsh was right after all. Maybe Siler’s Hollow was passable. It could be that some Diamond S outrider had heard the chopping, or maybe the cut wire had been spotted. A dozen times Caulfield Blake thought of calling the plan off, leading his companions back to the cabin. But in the end they stayed, and finally Matt Simpson led his hooded raiders along Carpenter Creek.
Caulie huddled in the rocks with John Moffitt as the riders galloped past. There were better than a dozen, and all looked ready for fighting. Caulie wished his own little band was half so eager. When the last of them passed, Caulie tapped his young companion on the shoulder. John rose, swung the ax hard, once, twice, a third time. The cottonwood groaned, then crashed earthward, blocking the path like the bar on a prison door.
“Lo
rd, what was that?” one of the raiders shouted.
“Hold up, Matt!” a second yelled.
It was too late. The sharpshooters on the ridge opened fire, and the trail became the deadly trap Caulie intended. Men and horses fell rapidly as the Winchesters fired steadily into the herd of desperate horsemen. One tried to flee through the flooded creek, but Joe Stovall’s bullet plucked him from the saddle.
From the ridge the raiders were silhouetted against the faint traces of light outlining the western horizon. Caulie could only distinguish targets as riders approached the fallen tree. The first to come into view called out for others to follow. As the rider stripped away his hood, Caulie smiled grimly. Abe Jenkins was forty feet away when Caulie’s Winchester tore the killer from his saddle.
“Abe!” young Matt Simpson cried. John Moffitt fired, but Matt Simpson seemed to lead a charmed life. The bullet killed his horse once again, and Matt tumbled into the creek.
“They’re behind that tree!” Matt called to his companions as he swam toward the far bank of the creek. Two horsemen charged, and Caulie was only able to shoot the first. The second managed to hurdle the cottonwood. And in passing, the raider fired his pistol rapidly and to good effect. John Moffitt collapsed as a single bullet sliced through the back of his shoulder and passed into his chest. A second bullet nicked Caulfield Blake’s left elbow.
“Boy, you all right?” Caulie asked as he wrapped a bandanna around his own wound. “John?”
Moffitt only groaned in answer, and Caulie was soon too busy to do much anyway. Several riders abandoned their horses and plunged into the creek. One yelped in pain as the marksmen on the ridge let loose a volley. The others managed to escape.
Soon the shooting subsided. Those raiders not among the dead or dying huddled near the rock wall and did their best to return the fire from the ridge. Their leader was clearly Noah Jenkins. Noah was a mere shadow of his brother Abe, though, and the three men with him seemed reluctant to fight it out. Finally Noah made a move toward escape, and Carlos Salazar fired his shotgun. The blast tore the killer apart, and the remaining three raiders cried out for terms.
“Toss your guns aside and raise your hands high!” Dix shouted. “Don’t even flinch. We’ve had enough tricks.”
The captive raiders threw down their rifles and raised their arms over their heads. Dix stepped out and took them in hand. Joe and Art then began rounding up the nervous horses and checking the fallen men for signs of life. All but one proved to be dead, and he was bleeding badly from the chest.
Caulie left the others to his companions. He was too busy tearing John Moffitt’s shirt into bandages. The young man appeared to have been lucky, for the bullet only narrowly missed a lung. Even so, the bleeding was enough to cause concern.
“Don’t worry, son,” Caulie said as he worked. “The bullet may have chipped the collarbone a bit, but it passed along through. There’ll be no diggin’ around for it. And the good Lord gave you some blood to spare.”
John did his best to answer, but the young man’s face was pale with shock. Caulie tightened the bindings, then carried the wounded stable boy to a waiting horse.
“Joe, Art, get this kid to town,” Caulie said anxiously. “He’s lost some blood, and the bindings are none too good. Ride fast and hard.”
“We know what to do, Cap’n,” Joe said, gripping Caulie’s arm. “He’ll hold together just fine.”
“Sure,” Caulie agreed. “So what do we do with these three?”
“Sheriff might choose to believe us now,” Dix said. “These two I know from way back. They’re Diamond S hands. Meet Ernie Lambert and Hollis Scales.”
Caulie nodded grimly at the cowboys. They were too frightened to reply.
“Don’t know this one,” Dix went on to say.
“He held the rope when they hung my father,” Carlos said angrily.
Caulie examined the face carefully in the fading twilight. The killer grinned arrogantly.
“His name’s Mott,” Caulie declared. “He used to ride with the Jenkins brothers.”
“That’s right,” Mott said, laughing. “I remember you, too, Blake.”
“Glad to hear you’ve had some experience with hangings. I expect you’ll soon know a good deal more about ’em.”
“And just how would that be? We’ve done nothin’ wrong. You come over on Simpson land and ambush us.”
“You tryin’ to tell us you’re just a bunch of poor cowboys?” Dix asked. “Carlos there can swear you had a hand in his father’s hangin’. What’s more, you weren’t wearin’ those hoods for your health, now were you?”
“Sure we were. Right, boys?”
The cowboys nodded. Caulie’s fierce stare hushed them, though.
“You might just save your hides if you own up to everything,” Caulie declared. “Well? Care to tell the truth?”
“Don’t you say a word,” Mott commanded. “We have friends. By tomorrow we’ll be out on bail. Then we’ll see who settles what.”
“He could be right,” Dix said. Carlos reloaded his shotgun and cocked the hammers.
“You’ll never do it, will you, Blake?” Mott taunted. “I know your kind. You’re death in a fight, but you’ve got no stomach for doin’ it plain ’n’ simple. Go ahead and shoot, boy. Shoot your papa’s killers. Well?”
Carlos prepared to fire, but Caulie pulled the shotgun barrel up so that the blast tore into the sky overhead. The cowboys shrank back, but Mott only laughed.
“We’d best get these three to town before I forget myself,” Caulie said, glaring at Mott in particular. “I might lose my way and leave young Carlos here alone with the prisoners. It’d be a shame if they made a move to escape.”
“A man can sure get himself shot that way,” Dix added. “You load that piece up good, Carlos. You feel the urge, I’d hate for the gun not to be ready.”
“I was born ready, Senor Stewart,” the boy said sourly. “They won’t get veiy far away.”
Chapter Thirteen
Caulie sat outside the doctor’s house with Marty Cabot as Doc Brantley did his best to sew John Moffitt’s torn body back together. Dix and Carlos were still at the jailhouse. Ben Ames, the blacksmith, was there as well, fixing manacles to the legs of the three prisoners.
“I tell you we were on Simpson range, mindin’ our very own business,” Trandell Mott had argued when Caulie and Dix had presented the trio to the sheriff.
“He had this over his head,” Dix had explained, handing over a hood.
“Sheriff, he was one of the men who hung my father,” Carlos added.
“You goin’ to believe a Mex, Sheriff?” Mott asked.
“Before I’d believe a killer,” the sheriff answered. “I’ve got posters from the New Mexico Territory on you, Mott. A man who’s killed once will surely do it again.”
Caulie had nodded with grim satisfaction when the sheriff conducted the prisoners to a cell.
* * *
“How’s young Court?” Caulie asked as Marty stared at the stars overhead. “Dix said he’d taken poorly.”
“He’s feverish. Doc says if his arm doesn’t improve, it’d be best to take it.”
“Lord,” Caulie said, bitterly recalling the butchery performed by the surgeons during the war. “Wouldn’t seem a bit of fever would merit such action.”
“We’ll see. Doc hopes openin’ up the wound may ease the pain. I hope so. Court’s awful little to hurt so much. Did you get ’em all?”
“The Jenkinses. Matt Simpson got away.”
“Then nothin’s settled,” Marty said angrily. “And there’ll be worse still to come.”
Caulie looked away. He hoped not. He sat there, battle-scarred, bloody, exhausted, for close to an hour. Finally Katherine Stewart stepped outside.
“How is he?” asked Caulie.
“John’s asking for food,” Kate said, smiling faintly. “Doc says he should stay here tonight. Tomorrow he can come over to our place. I’ll tend him till he’s well.”
“I’m going to stay with him,” she declared. “Doc says I can help tend Court, too. He’s going to make me a nurse.”
“Well, that sounds like a fair deal to me.”
“Uncle Caulie, tell Ma not to worry.”
“I’ll bet she understands,” Caulie said, lifting Kate’s chin. “Wasn’t so long ago she set her cap for a young man.”
She grinned, and Caulie gave her a hug. Then he turned and headed down the street to Dix’s place. Before he could knock on the door, Rita stepped out to greet him.
“Kate said to tell you she is stayin’ at Doc’s tonight,” Caulie said. “Holdin’ young Moffitt’s hand, I suppose.”
“Will he be all right?”
“I expect so. He’s apt to get good care.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Caulie, you’ve got company.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” she said, leading him along inside. Sitting in the kitchen beside Charlie Stewart and Caleb Cabot was Zach, chewing on a boiled potato.
“Pa, you all right?” the boy said, rushing over and examining Caulie’s bandaged elbow.
“What brought you to town, son?” Caulie asked as he led Zach out the door and onto the porch. “Your ma said . . .”
“We heard the shooting,” Zach explained. “Was Ma sent me. We, uh, we . . . had to know.”
“Sure,” Caulie said, staring away a moment.
“You goin’ back to the cabin tonight?”
“No, it’d be best not to isolate myself. I’ll stay here with Dix. I thought to pay the Simpson place a visit, but we had some prisoners to bring in. John Moffitt needed some tendin’, too.”
“I should’ve been along.”
“Your ma was right. Could be you over at Doc’s right now.”
The Return of Caulfield Blake Page 11