The Return of Caulfield Blake (19 page)

“Well, before you do anything else, give me a hand with Marty. Lord, I'm runnin' short of beds.”

“Yes,” Caulie said with a frown. And it was likely to grow worse.

While the doctor treated Marty's leg wound, Caulie sat on a bench outside the house and tried to catch his breath. That last tension-filled hour and a half had taken a toll. He couldn't help wondering what might have happened had not the wash sheltered a nest of rattlesnakes. So often life and death hung on the barest thread of chance.

“Uncle Caulie?” Kate Stewart whispered, breaking him out of his stupor.

“Kate?” he replied, gazing up at her melancholy eyes.

“Are my folks . . . Charlie . . . are they all right?”

“Well, Dix's mendin' well enough. Your ma misses you, but the work keeps her occupied. As for Charlie, well, he's half range mustang and the other half creek mud and river rat. They worry for you and young John.”

“He's better. I thought to join them. Maybe you could . .

“It's better you stay in town,” Caulie told her. “Eve's likely to need help just now.”

“It's going to get worse, isn't it?”

“Maybe. But things are drawin' to a head. Won't be long before we settle this.”

“Yes,” she agreed, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. “But when it's settled, will any of us be left?”

“I trust so.”

“I always thought myself brave,” Kate said, sighing. “But if it were up to me, I'd give Colonel Simpson anything he wants so long as he promises to leave my family alone.”

“That's how men like Simpson grow,” Caulie explained. “They prey on the weak and the disorganized. When he came here, he played on our sympathies, talked of dreams and ideals. Emma Siler sold him land cheap. My pa loaned him stock. Then when the war came, he spoke of patriotism and duty, sent two of his boys off to fight with me and your pa in the cavalry. While we were gone, he bought up land, forced neighbors out of business, grabbed every acre of land left to widows and orphans who had nothin' else to sell for food money.

“Those who saw it happenin' always thought to let things lie. Comanches were a bigger threat. Then the Yanks. So Simpson gobbled up one after another of the small ranches. Then when war ended and we came back, he set his enemies onto the Yank garrisons.”

“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.”