The Return of Caulfield Blake

by G. Clifton Wisler

  “No!” Caulie screamed, firing his pistol wildly as he limped toward the boy. Rifles protruded from the notches in the cabin wall, and the ambushers briefly held their fire. Caulie lifted Charlie in a single motion and started back toward the house. The sharp report of a rifle met Caulie’s ears as a searing pain tore through his neck. He only just managed to hang on to Charlie while stumbling toward the door. It opened, and Dix helped both man and boy inside.

  “Lord, help us,” Dix said as he stared at his small, silent son.

  “Dix, I . . .” Caulie started to say. He couldn’t manage more, though. Already he could feel the warm flow of blood from his neck. A sharp pain cleared his eyes momentarily, then left his vision hazier than before.

  “Rita, look after them,” Dix said, returning to the wall. Only then did Caulie realize the cabin was nearly deserted. The Salazars had gone.

  “I’ve got to . . .” Caulie objected as Rita examined his neck.

  “Lie still a moment,” she said, dipping a cloth in a pail of water that rested on the nearby table. “I believe they’ve taken a slice out of you.”

  “Charlie . . .”

  “Yes,” she said grimly. “In a moment.”

  Caulie closed his eyes a second and allowed her to treat the wound. Clearly he’d been lucky again. An inch to the right, and the bullet might have cut an artery. As it was, the pain and the bleeding would pass.

  “There you are,” Rita said as she tied the bandage in place. “You look like the devil, Caulie, but you’re in little danger of dying.”

  “And Charlie?” Caulie asked as he opened his eyes. Rita was already busy examining the boy. A single bullet appeared to have torn through the boy’s side.

  “He’s small, but I’ve seen him bounce back from a fever that would have carried anyone else off with it,” Rita said, forcing a grin onto her face. “Go help Dix. That’s what’s needed. Lord knows I can patch up this child.”

  Caulie nodded, then blinked away his exhaustion. Dix pointed to an idle Winchester, and Caulie discarded his Colt. Outside, the shooting continued. Whenever Dix and Caulie paused, one of the encircling gunmen would attempt to close the distance. A tall cowboy with midnight-black hair made a move toward the well. Caulie shot him squarely in the chest. Another tried to rush the privy. Dix fired twice, and the intruder fell.

  “Rush ’em!” a voice Caulie identified as Matt Simpson’s yelled. The order went unheeded.

  “Was one thing when Simpson had hired guns doin’ his biddin’,” Dix observed. “These ones are poor range cowboys, and they’re way over their heads in deep water.”

  “I’ve known a range cowboy or two to shoot well enough to kill you,” Caulie said. “Still, they don’t seem too eager. What happened to the Salazars?”

  “Rode over to Marsh’s place while I went into town lookin’ for you. Roberto thought it safer. Was right, it appears.”

  “You ever cover up that tunnel leadin’ to the corral?” Caulie asked.

  “No,” Dix said, pausing to glance at the rug which covered a trapdoor concealing an escape tunnel dug years before in case of Indian attack. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Where’s the dynamite we packed out from town.”

  “Over by the fireplace,” Dix answered. “Caulie?”

  “What we need is a bit of artillery. This ought to do the trick.”

  Caulie pulled five explosive sticks from a flour sack, then took blasting caps and fuse. He added the dynamite to the sticks already in his pockets, then pulled aside the rug and stepped down into the tunnel.

  “Caulie, you be careful,” Rita urged.

  “I’ll try to be,” Caulie said, brightening as he saw little Charlie’s fingers move. “Let’s see how Simpson likes this turn of events.”

  To call the moldy passageway beneath the cabin a tunnel was to stretch the truth. It was scarcely wide enough to permit a grown man’s shoulders to pass, and the years had caused the supporting planks to give way in places. Caulie worried the whole thing might have collapsed somewhere ahead. It was impossible to see anything, and as he crawled along, dragging his aching leg, he could only probe a few feet ahead with the butt of his rifle.

  In the end, though, enough of the passage survived to allow him to crawl the twenty yards past the corral to the edge of the woods. The narrow opening at the other end needed widening, and Caulie was forced to claw away at the loose soil with his fingers. Finally he emerged on a slope just behind a large white oak. He blinked his eyes as the bright summer sun assaulted his vision. Then he began examining his surroundings.

  The gunfire appeared to be concentrated about a hundred feet to his left, so he slowly circled in that direction. As he beheld a trio of cowboys firing steadily toward the cabin, Caulie attached the first fuse and cap, then lit the end. As it burned away the minutes, Caulie limbered up his right arm. When less than a minute remained of the fuse, Caulie tossed the dynamite. It twirled end over end through the air until it landed with a thud alongside the riflemen. They stared in disbelief, then scattered. Seconds later the air was split by the force of an explosion. Men flew in three directions.

  Caulie lit a second fuse and continued. A pair of drovers rushed to rescue their companions. Caulie tossed his second stick so close to one that the cowboy nearly burned his foot on the flaming fuse.

  “Good Lord!” the cowboy screamed, diving for safety. The dynamite blew a hole in the ground ten feet across.

  Henry Simpson himself tried to rally his men. Those not too stunned by the dynamite to listen made a stand of sorts. Caulie tossed two more sticks toward the disorganized drovers, and they scattered like startled quail.

  “Stop, men!” Simpson cried.

  Caulie then threw a stack at Simpson, and the dynamite rolled to a stop less than five yards from the swaggering rancher. Simpson dove to safety, but a companion was simply blown into pieces. The sight of their leader clawing the ground unnerved the others. They raced off in panic after their stampeding horses. Caulie thought to celebrate, but a rifle bullet which tore past his ear warned of other danger. Caulie sought cover.

  “You must be a cat to have this many lives!” Matt Simpson called as he fired again. “I’ll know better next time. I’ll put a bullet right between those accursed eyes of yours.”

  “Won’t be a next time, Matt,” Caulie answered. “You’re only good for shootin’ small boys and jackrabbits. You’re finished, you and that old man of a grandpa of yours. People are tired of you. Your day’s over, Simpson!”

  “No. It’s you that’s finished,” Simpson yelled. “Matt, tend to him.”

  Matt’s rifle opened up a steady, accurate fire, and Caulie limped off down the hill. He wove his way through trees and rocks until he could spot Matt’s position. By that time it was too late. The Diamond S crew pulled out, leaving the silent summer afternoon to devour the lingering smoke.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Caulfield Blake knelt beside a pale Charlie Stewart and listened to the boy’s labored breathing. It was hard to believe a thumb­nail’s worth of lead could tear at a body so. Rita had already dug the bullet from a rib, but even now blood seeped through the cotton bandages.

  “He needs a doctor,” Rita lamented.

  “He can’t be moved,” Dix said, frowning heavily. “God, Caulie, that’s my boy lyin’ there! I can’t just stand by and do nothin’.”

  “I know,” Caulie said, nodding. “I’ll ride out and collect the others. We’ll be by for you around dusk.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You’re done in. Besides, they’ll expect us,” Dix warned.

  “No, they’ll be too busy talkin’ and plannin’ tomorrow. Only it’s tonight they should concern themselves with ’cause there’s not apt to be a tomorrow for some of ’em.”

  Dix nodded grimly. Caulie read his old friend’s mind. It could prove to be the last night for others as well.

  It wasn’t a long ride to the Bar Double B. Caulie didn’t bother saddling a horse. Instead he helped h
imself to a chestnut mare that wandered, bewildered, across the hillside.

  “Your rider won’t be missin’ you, now will he, girl?” Caulie whispered as he climbed into the saddle. Soon he had the animal turned toward Carpenter Creek and the ranch that had once been home.

  It wasn’t an easy ride. Each time the horse jostled him, pain surged through him. Dix had been right. The day had taken its toll. Caulfield Blake was worn down to the bone. But he knew full well there’d never be as good a chance to find Simpson’s crew off guard, to finish the whole business once and for all.

  Carter was the first to see Caulie coming. The boy’s face filled with concern, then relief. Caulie knew he was a sight, with face near black as coal from smoke and debris. Even the once white bandages around his neck were dark as night. He willed away the pain and nudged the chestnut mare onward. Carter rushed ahead to announce the arrival.

  “Caulie, you look worse than when you came back from the war!” Hannah declared as she led Zach out to meet their weary visitor.

  “There’s been trouble,” Marshall Merritt added. “Dix? Rita?”

  “Still at the cabin,” Caulie told them. “Charlie’s been shot.”

  “Oh, no,” Hannah cried. “Bad?”

  “Bad enough. He’s got pluck, that boy, but the Weedin’ hasn’t stopped,” Caulie said, falling off his horse and stumbling into Zach’s waiting arms.

  “Come on, Pa,” Zach said, leading Caulie toward the porch. “Ma, can he have somethin’ to eat?”

  Hannah flew past them toward the kitchen, mumbling to herself so that no one could understand. It was Marsh that spoke instead.

  “You didn’t come here to rest up, did you?” Marsh said solemnly. “You’ve come to get us to go with you . . . after those that did this to you.”

  “Yes,” Caulie confessed. “The Salazars are here, too?”

  “They’ve moved into the hay barn,” Zach explained. “Once you’re cleaned up, I’ll fetch ’em.”

  “No time,” Caulie objected. “I told Dix we’d meet him before dusk.”

  “There’s time,” Marsh said, easing an arm around Caulie’s shoulder and helping him along. “An hour or two. You’re in no shape to lead anybody anywhere just now. We’ll need you for what lies ahead.”

  “Then you’ll go?” Caulie asked.

  “Don’t see there’s much choice,” Marsh declared. “We’re bound to be next. We hit them tonight, or else they come here in the morning.”

  Caulie nodded. Marsh and Zach helped him inside and deposited him on a sofa. Hannah soon appeared with some cold biscuits and slices of ham.

  “I’m going, too,” Zach declared as he worked to remove Caulie’s boots.

  “And me,” Carter added from the kitchen door.

  Caulie wanted to argue, but there was no point. Carlos Salazar would go, and Carter was no younger. In truth, the boys would be needed.

  “You look in need of rest,” Hannah said as she reappeared with a basin of hot water and a cloth.

  “Later,” he told her.

  “Caulie, Marsh says you’ve got two hours left before you need to leave. Eat your food and rest.”

  He tried to grin at her angry face, but fatigue overwhelmed him. He managed to gobble the ham and biscuits. Then he lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

  He barely felt Hannah’s gentle hands washing his face. Likewise he didn’t notice Zach exchanging his filthy, blood­-stained shirt for a clean one. Instead Caulfield Blake drifted on a soft, wonderful cloud. The pain and the fatigue abated, and peace settled over him.

  It didn’t last. He was nudged awake by Zach as the evening shadows fell across the land. The sun was dying in the west. It was time to ride.

  “I saddled the black,” the boy explained. “Carter got your rifle all loaded. The Colt, too. Carlos brought Mr. Stewart over. We’re all ready.”

  “I hate to drag you boys along to this,” Caulie said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I always thought the reason I was fightin’ up in Tennessee was so you boys wouldn’t have to.”

  “Ma always says life is a fight. You’re always wrestling a drought or a flood, chills or fevers.”

  “Yes,” Caulie said, recalling those words. Emma Siler had spoken them two decades earlier when he’d asked for Hannah’s hand.

  “I’ll do like before, stay close to you, Pa.”

  “Good,” Caulie said, touching the youngster’s shoulder. Zach seemed suddenly younger, much too young for the purpose at hand.

  “You ready yet?” Marsh called from outside.

  “Shortly,” Caulie said, buttoning his shirt and stepping into his boots.

  Caulie made his way to the tall black stallion. The horse dipped his head in recognition, and Caulie warmed. It was good having a reliable mount beneath him.

  “I followed their trail as far as the creek,” Carlos said, pointing ahead. “They made for Siler’s Hollow.”

  “So it appears,” Dix agreed.

  Caulie climbed into the saddle and gazed around him at the anxious faces of his companions. Carlos and Zach were intent, but Marsh and Roberto, though determined, were clearly fearful. Carter hung to the rear, his face ashen. Only Dix bore the face of a killer. His eyes were full of fire. Caulie knew that the memory of little Charlie’s groans fed that fire.

  “I’ve got words for you, men,” Caulie announced, riding to the head of the meager column. “We’re headed for battle, pure and simple. I want no reckless charges, friends. You boys stay behind Dix, Roberto, Marsh, and myself. When it’s time to shoot, we’ll let you know. If we’re cautious and quiet, we ought to be able to slip in on ’em Comanche style, catch the whole batch off guard. But if it comes to shootin’, then take your time, aim well, and shoot to kill. Because, my friends, they’ll do just that, and I’ve buried too many friends on this land. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boys answered as one. Marsh nodded. Dix only stroked the cold stock of his rifle. Caulie waved them onward, then set the tall black stallion in motion.

  A mile and a half down Carpenter Creek, Caulie picked up the trail. After another mile, the tracks of two horses broke off from the group.

  “That’s the Simpsons,” Marsh observed, “the old man and Matt. They’ll be up at the house. The others’d be down here.”

  “It’s Simpson I want,” Dix said angrily.

  “Sure it is,” Caulie said, pointing toward the house. “Only not tonight. Look close. That second horse is light. It carries no rider.”

  “Look here,” Zach said, climbing down and pointing to the tracks leading to Siler’s Hollow. “See the horse with the notched shoes?”

  “That’s Matt’s horse,” Carter added. “Johnny Moffitt told me about that. Matt had Ben Ames do it.”

  “A good way to mark your trail,” Dix said, shaking his head. “Not too bright for a man who raids ranches.”

  “Could be that’s the proof we’d need for a sheriff,” Marsh argued. “Maybe we should . . .”

  “Henry Simpson’d claim the horse was stolen,” Caulie objected. “We all know what’s to be done. If young Matt’s down in the hollow, he could well be readyin’ his crew for another raid. We go there.”

  The others muttered in agreement, and Caulie turned to follow the right-hand trail. As he wound along the creek, he motioned for the others to stay back a bit. He scouted ahead. Just below the shattered ruin of the dam a fire blazed brightly. Around it gathered several cowboys.

  Caulie rode back and informed his companions. Then he led the way along a ridge, dismounted, and tied his horse to a nearby oak.

  “Pa?” Zach whispered.

  “Shhh,” Caulie warned. “Follow me single column, and have your guns handy. Wait for the order to fire, though.”

  Caulie hobbled along the sandy trail toward the raiders’ camp. It was barely fifty yards ahead, and the sounds of singing and laughter drifted past. Being downwind was an edge, and Caulie knew he needed every one he could find, what with so green a crew.

/>   The faint light might have concealed Simpson’s camp had not the fire been so substantial. Caulie counted seven blanket rolls surrounding the fire. Four men huddled together playing cards. The other three took turns drinking from a whiskey bottle.

  Such arrogance, Caulie thought as he glared down at them. They sit out here in the open, just waiting for ambush. Have they so quickly forgotten what happened downstream? Well, they won’t have a chance to learn from this mistake.

  Caulie spread out his little company in a crescent. Dix and Carlos took one horn. Caulie and Zach took the other. Roberto, Carter, and Marsh occupied the center. Each crept closer until the camp was surrounded on three sides. The frothing waters of Carpenter Creek blocked escape to the north.

  “If you ask me, Matt, we should’ve brought some dynamite ourselves,” one of the cowboys argued between gulps of liquor. “That cabin’d be halfway to Austin by now.”

  “No, that would’ve been too easy,” Matt said, laughing. “I thought how nice Katie Steward might be to the man who spared her folks. Then it turns out that runt brother of hers is all that’s there with ’em. And Blake stumbles in right when we’re ready to hit.”

  “He’s not human!” a cowboy groused.

  “Maybe not!” Caulie shouted. “Hold yourselves still, boys! You’re covered.”

  “What?” Matt asked, rising to his feet. “Who’s up there? Blake?”

  “Expectin’ me, were you?”

  “Grandpa said you were a ghost, could creep up a man’s spine and steal his hair like a blamed Comanche.”

  “So it’d seem.”

  “How many hands you got there with you? Can’t be many? Or maybe you’re all alone.”

  “Care to find out?”

  “You’ll need an army once Grandpa hears your shots.”

  “You won’t care,” Caulie said coldly. “You’ll be dead.”