The Return of Caulfield Blake

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “He’s good setting people against each other. Pa told me what happened to you.”

  “And now, when folks begin to see what’s happenin’, there aren’t many of us left to do anythin’.”

  “He’s not won yet.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Caulie declared. “It’s not over yet, not by half.”

  Doc Brantley emerged from the house then, and Caulie turned his attention to the surgeon.

  “I got the bullet,” the doctor explained, “but the wound bled freely. He could still lose that leg if he rushes it.”

  “There’s no need of that,” Caulie assured him. “If you’re short of space, I’m sure I can persuade Joe Stovall or Art Powell to make room.”

  “It’s best he stay with me for now. I’ve got Court in there anyway. Eve and the little ones don’t take up much space.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Caulie said, shaking the doctor’s weary hand. “It’s not altogether healthy to cross Henry Simpson these days.”

  “You keep that in mind yourself, Caulfield Blake. Bullets don’t pay much heed to reputation.”

  Caulie nodded. He might have continued the conversation a bit longer had not a trio of horses thundered down the street. Caulie turned instantly in that direction. Without thinking, he gripped his pistol.

  “Pa?” Zach called out as he jumped off the bay mare and stumbled against his father’s side. “Pa?”

  Dix Stewart and young Charlie arrived seconds later. Charlie grinned and gave a nod to his sister. It was Dix who spoke.

  “What happened? Lord, Caulie, that big black stallion of yours came trottin’ back to Hannah’s. The rifle was still in its sheath. We thought you bushwhacked for certain.”

  “Not me,” Caulie explained. “Marty. It was a close thing.”

  “Marty?” Dix asked. “He’s not. .

  “No,” the doctor answered. “But I’d recommend you fellows quit offerin’ targets to Henry Simpson’s guns.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind, Doc,” Dix said, embracing his daughter, then turning back to Caulie. “Long as we’re all in town, we’ve got need of more supplies.”

  “Won’t be easy gettin’ a wagon by Simpson’s boys again,” Caulie argued. “Maybe we should pack some horses.”

  “I’ve got two mules at the livery,” Dr. Brantley offered. “John Moffitt’s not apt to need his horse, either.”

  “Tom’s got a string of fair saddle mounts, too,” Dix said, gazing down the street. “I’ll see what I can round up in the way of supplies back at the store. Caulie, you collect the horses. I’d just as soon get back as quick as possible.”

  “Yes,” Caulie agreed, turning to Zach. “Son, what brought you along?”

  “You did,” Zach replied. “That black came back to our place. Ma said to ride out and see what had happened. She never said how far.”

  “But I suspect she’ll be vexed that you came to town. It could prove dangerous.”

  “I’ve been shot at before. Remember, Pa?”

  Caulie thought to explain how it would be different this time, riding through country knowing every rise of ground, every boulder-strewn gully might conceal an ambush. But Zach’s eyes were full of the fires of adventure, of youthful daring. There was no room for caution. Caulie was glad the boy wouldn’t be riding alone.

  “Guess we’d best get about our business,” Caulie finally said. “Charlie, why don’t you help your pa with those supplies. Zach here can . . .”

  “Help my pa,” Zach finished, grabbing Caulie’s arm and leading the way toward the livery.

  It took Caulie a quarter of an hour to round up Doc Brantley’s mules, young John Moffitt’s pony, and a packhorse Joe Stovall could spare. Caulie also talked Stovall out of three fresh saddle horses, one each for Dix, Charlie, and himself. Zach agreed straightaway to ride Moffitt’s mustang. Loading the mules and the packhorse with the supplies took slightly longer. After assuring himself Marty would mend and allowing Dix to fill Kate in on her mother’s well-being, Caulie led the small caravan eastward along the market road.

  “I’d sure feel better swingin’ south toward Ox Hollow,” Dix declared. “Seems like we’re askin’ for it, headin’ right past Simpson’s front door as we are.”

  “Maybe,” Caulie admitted, “but Marty couldn’t slip through, and it’s his own land we’d have to cross. I’d rather face Simpson with fresh horses and a shorter distance. Besides, you know they’ve got somebody watchin’ the cabin.”

  “I know,” Dix said, glancing at the boys. “It’s just that we’re not ridin’ the back country, scoutin’ Yanks this time, Caulie. We’ve got. . .”

  “Yes,” Caulie said, cutting his old friend short. “But I couldn’t see leavin’ them in town.”

  “Leavin’ who?” Charlie asked.

  “You,” Zach said, slapping his young companion across the knee. “You don’t have to worry about us, Mr. Stewart. Charlie and I can outride anybody on die Simpson payroll.”

  “You can’t outride a bullet!” Dix told them sternly. “Just do as you’re told, and if we run into trouble, head for the ranch. Fast. And don’t worry about us. Zach, your pa and I were tanglin’ with bushwhackers before you were born.”

  It wasn’t bushwhackers that blocked the trail, though. Fifty yards short of the Diamond S front gate Matt Simpson waited on horseback. He held a Winchester across his knee. Four cowboys flanked him. Caulie recognized one as Doyle Opley, a Kansan famed for his talents with a Sharps carbine, a deck of cards, and a running iron. Ranchers along the Brazos had posted a $500 reward on him.

  “Well, look what we’ve stumbled across,” Opley said, laughing as Matt raised his rifle. “Seems your grandpa was right, Matt. These scrub-brush ranchers’ve lost their caution.”

  “That can get a man real dead,” Matt said, grinning as he fired the rifle over Dix’s head. The horses reared up, and Caulie struggled to hold on to the leaders for the mules.

  “You that eager to die?” Caulie asked, waving for Charlie and Zach to head along down the road. Neither moved.

  “Blake, you don’t understand, do you?” Matt asked. “You’re done for. You won’t slip through our fingers this time.”

  “I suspect that’s what Olie Swain thought, too,” Caulie said coldly. “Found him yet?”

  “We found him,” one of the cowboys said. “Ran afoul of a snake.”

  “Yeah,” Caulie said, grinning cruelly. “Was real enjoyable. I led him right down into those rattlers.”

  Matt’s smile faded, and Caulie eased his pistol out of its holster.

  “Olie was a good man,” Opley declared. “But he wasn’t long on thinkin’.”

  “He’s got a long time to think on things now,” Caulie said, motioning again for the boys to move on. “An eternity.”

  “Enough talk,” Matt Simpson said angrily. “Let’s get this over.”

  “Matt, two of ’em’s just boys,” a cowboy argued. “Now!” young Simpson shouted.

  The first cowboy reached for a pistol, and Caulie shot him dead.

  “Go!” Caulie yelled, tossing the leaders aside and kicking his horse into a gallop. Zach slapped the mules into motion, then chased them eastward. Charlie followed, and Dix pulled the packhorse along behind him. Caulie followed, then turned back to block the path of Simpson’s riders. Matt was firing wildly at the departing horses, and Doyle Opley fought to steady his horse.

  “You’re dead, Blake!” Matt cried.

  Caulie huddled behind his horse’s neck and aimed his pistol. Opley filled the sights, but when Caulie fired, a young cowboy moved into the line of fire. Caulie’s bullet struck the drover in the cheek and toppled him from his horse.

  “After him!” Matt screamed. The remaining cowboy waited for Opley to lead the way, though, and Caulie began his withdrawal. The dust stirred by the sudden charge of his companions had begun to settle, and Matt Simpson’s aim improved as a result. The rifle barked twice in rapid succession. The first shot went wide, but the second struck Caulie’s
horse in the hindquarter.

  Well, Caulie thought as he urged the stricken horse along, your luck finally let you down, Caulfield Blake. Opley, seeing the horse falter, charged. The Kansan fired as he rode, and Caulie shuddered as two bullets tore through the poor horse’s ribs. As the animal went down, Caulie tried to jump clear, but it was too late. The horse landed on him, pinning both legs. Caulie glanced up as Opley bore down on him. The outlaw’s face was agleam. Caulie raised his pistol and fired point-blank. The shot slammed through Opley’s chest, and the killer slumped across his saddle as his horse raced past.

  “Opley?” Matt called. “Doyle?”

  Caulie fought to free his legs, but he knew there was no time. The horses were no more than seconds away. He reached out his left hand and touched the bloody flanks of his dead horse. He then smeared the side of his face with the sticky liquid. He eased his right hand under his hip so that the pistol was concealed.

  “Well, looks like your grandpa’s out three hundred dollars,” the surviving cowboy declared as he gazed down at Caulie’s still body.

  “No, I’d say Grandpa just saved himself that bounty,” Matt declared, passing Caulie by and riding along to where Opley’s horse had come to a halt.

  Caulie meanwhile felt his insides catch fire. He strained to hold his breath. The slightest motion spelled death.

  “What you doing back there, Brad?” Matt called. “Haven’t you seen enough? Come help me get Opley off this fool horse. He’s carrying fifty, sixty dollars.”

  “Ain’t you rich enough, Matt Simpson?” the cowboy asked, laughing.

  “You know Grandpa. He keeps a tight rein on the cash box.”

  The cowboy rode along past, and Caulie gasped for breath. He inhaled a mixture of blood and sweat and dust and air. He held back a cough, then struggled to free his trapped legs. All the while he watched Matt and the cowboy. Both were occupied freeing Opley’s feet from the stirrups. They’d managed to drop the outlaw’s body to the dusty road when Caulie finally kicked free of his fallen horse. As they rifled through Opley’s pockets, Caulie limped into the tangled wood alongside the road. He wormed his way between strands of barbed wire, then hobbled along. He paused atop a small hill and gazed down at the road as a half-dozen riders galloped up. Leading them was Henry Simpson himself.

  “Matt, what’s happened here?” the old man asked.

  “We caught Blake himself down here on the road,” Matt explained, hurriedly stuffing something that must have been Opley’s money in a pocket. “Doyle got him, I suppose. He’s dead.”

  “Dead? Who? I saw the boys back up the road. That Doyle Opley there with you?”

  “And Caulfield Blake himself lyin’ back there beneath his horse, Grandpa. You said you wanted him more than anybody. Put the run to Dix Stewart and a couple of boys, too.”

  “You mean to tell me there were four of ’em down here, and you lost three good men chasing ’em?” Simpson stormed. “Matt, you’ve got no sense at all, boy! You were to fire three shots the instant you saw anything!”

  “Wasn’t time, Grandpa. Blake just popped up from nowhere.”

  “More likely rode up the market road like he owned it,” Simpson grumbled. “Four riders, and two of ’em boys. You let ’em shoot your company to pieces, kill the best gun hand on the range, then ride along by without so much as a howdy-do!”

  “Grandpa, we shot Caulfield Blake!”

  “Oh? And where’d you say you left him?”

  “Right there ’neath his horse!”

  “Well, this is past believing!” Simpson raged. “You sure it was Blake?”

  “I saw him, too, Colonel,” the cowboy standing beside Matt declared. “It was him, sure as the pastor preaches on Sunday.”

  “Then he’s gone and slipped right through your fingers,” Simpson said, spitting. “He’s a snake, that one. I thought for sure my boys killed him the night he hung Austin, but with that one, you’ve got to make dead sure. He’s up there somewhere right now, having himself a laugh at your expense.”

  “We’ll find him,” Matt pledged, gazing up the hill in Caulie’s direction. “I swear it, Grandpa.”

  “You’ll send more men up there to get killed?” the old man thundered. “Matt, you’ll bleed us dry this way. We’re no Yank army, and you’re no General Grant to throw men away on a bet. No, son, there’s a better way. He’s afoot. He’s going nowhere. For now.”

  “Later on he’ll head for the Stewart cabin,” one of the cowboys declared. “All we got to do, Colonel, is go on along in front of him.”

  Simpson smiled and waved his men on down the road.

  “You up there, Blake?” the old man cried out at the surrounding hillside. “Are you? I’m doing myself some riding, Blake. We’ll head on along, see how well a house can burn. And as to hangings, we might just see how well boys dance from oaks. Let you know how it feels to watch.”

  Caulie felt his insides die as he thought of the army on horseback that would charge Dix’s cabin, that would sweep over the hill toward Hannah. He wanted to cry out, and if he’d had a rifle, he would have shot Henry Simpson stone-cold dead. But things being what they were, Caulie swallowed his rage and started toward the cabin. It was miles away, and a sense of urgency drove him along.

  “Simpson, if you harm Hannah or my boys, I’ll kill you,” Caulie swore as he walked. “I’ll kill you!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was better than four miles cross-country to Dix’s cabin, and every inch of ravine and hillside seemed to hold some hidden peril with which to entrap Caulfield Blake. Briars and cactus thorns tore at his legs. Gopher holes trapped his ankles. And yet he struggled on as though life depended upon it. Indeed, Caulie suspected it did.

  When he finally slipped through the barbed wire that marked the eastern boundary of the Diamond S Ranch and began limping the final mile and a half to the cabin, he felt oddly as if eyes were on his back. He never saw anyone, but the sandy soil was torn with hoofprints, and Caulie occasionally glimpsed a flash of steel or a bit of cloth on some surrounding hillside.

  Lord, don’t let me be too late, Caulie prayed. I’ve got to warn them.

  He hoped young Carlos Salazar was on watch. The boy was still but half fit, but his eyes were those of a hawk. Roberto was steady as well. If only Simpson was cautious enough to allow Dix and the boys to settle in some before the attack. But that was almost more than one could hope for, and Caulie’s darkest fear was that he’d stumble upon a scene of utter carnage. He recalled the town in northern Mississippi he and Dix had ridden through back in ’64. Someone at a nearby farmhouse had shot a Yank captain from cover, and the bluecoat cavalry had taken its revenge. Animals were scattered everywhere, their hides so full of lead the meat could scarcely be eaten. Women and children cowered in the ruins of their houses. The men swung lifelessly from tree limbs.

  They were riding hard, Caulie told himself. No one ever caught Dix Stewart on horseback. Zach and Charlie were quick as lightning. But they had the mules and the packhorse to goad along. It might prove a close thing.

  As he crossed one hillside after another, Caulie kept an ear open for the sound of gunfire. He detected nothing more than an occasional stirring in the nearby thickets. Surely Simpson’s riders were closing in, but each minute’s delay offered Dix a better chance of defending the cabin.

  Maybe Zach will head along home, Caulie thought. But more likely the boy would await his father’s arrival. Or worse, Zach might race back in hope of locating Caulie along the road. Such a move spelled fast and certain death.

  The nightmares reappeared. Caulie tried to blink them away, but pain and exhaustion were tearing at him like the teeth of pursuing hounds. When he finally climbed the ridge above Carpenter Creek and gazed out at the cabin, he was near finished.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The mules grazed on the hillside. Their precious bundles of supplies had already been unloaded. Caulie searched the nearby corral for the packhorse or John Moffitt’s pony. Neithe
r was there. Maybe Zach had returned home after all.

  Little Charlie was busy drawing water from the well. Rita was a few yards distant, hanging wash on a clothesline. Dix and the others were out of sight.

  Wait just a bit longer, Simpson, Caulie thought as he struggled to make his way through the trees and on to the cabin. His legs were nigh numb now, and his blood-streaked face and tom clothes must have given him the haunting appearance of some specter come back to life. Still he felt the eyes on his back, the company of others. He drew out his pistol and reloaded the empty chambers. Any second he expected some horseman to pop out of the trees and deal him death.

  It didn’t happen. Instead, it was Caulie who emerged from the trees and slowly stumbled toward the cabin.

  “Caulie?” Rita cried, dropping her clothespins as she hurried to greet him. “Whatever happened to you? Dix had us all giving you up for dead.”

  “There’s time yet,” he whispered. “Let’s get along to the house.”

  “Are they out there?” she asked quietly.

  “Probably got us in their sights this instant,” he explained. “Go along. I’ll fetch Charlie.”

  She turned, plucked her laundry basket off the ground, and started for the door. Caulie, meanwhile, stepped toward Charlie.

  “Zach’U sure be relieved,” the boy said as he cranked the windlass and drew the water bucket up from the well. “He went along home with the rest of the supplies. He’ll likely come back later with a fresh horse.”

  “Better he stays,” Caulie said as Charlie lifted the bucket up and set it on the stone wall of the well. “We’ve got company.”

  “Oh?” the boy asked nervously.

  “Let’s go,” Caulie said, grabbing Charlie by the arm and starting for the door.

  “My bucket!” Charlie objected, breaking loose from Caulie’s weak grasp and rushing back to fetch the bucket. Caulie stared in disbelief as the air erupted. Shells slammed into the wall of the cabin, shattered windows and sent the livestock into a frenzy. Charlie barely touched the bucket when it exploded a hundred slivers of oak. Water splashed against the boy’s face. He turned and dashed toward the house. Halfway there a blast from the woods tore through his side. Charlie fell like the last leaf of autumn, slowly, delicately, finally.