The Return of Caulfield Blake (22 page)

“Stop it!” Matt pleaded. “We're finished. Grandpa'll prove more than grateful when he hears you spared me. He might forget a lot of things. He'll never forgive you killing me, Blake. He never forgot what you did to Pa!”

Caulie felt a surge of anger rush through him. Dix was equally relentless. But Marsh Merritt called for a halt.

“He's right!” Marsh argued. “After all, he's little more than a boy himself.”

“He's older'n Charlie!” Dix shouted. “Charlie never asked for any war! Neither did young Court Cabot!”

“And neither did I!” Matt cried, tossing his rifle aside and rising slowly. “It was all Grandpa's doing.”

Caulie felt the power in his hands ebb. The boy standing defenseless beside the fire wasn't the enemy. Henry Simpson was. Dix, for all his anger, could not shoot an unarmed seventeen-year-old.

“Drop your guns, you other two!” Marsh shouted.

The cowboys rose slowly and discarded their rifles. Caulie motioned for Marsh to wait, but perhaps the tall rancher didn't see. Carter followed as Marsh approached the camp. Caulie held Zach back, though.

“Pa?” Zach asked.

“Stay put,” Caulie ordered as he crept closer. Marsh was but ten feet away when Matt held out an empty right hand in peace. At the same time young Simpson drew a pocket pistol with his left and fired.

“Oh, no,” Marsh cried as the bullet blasted its way through his chest. Carter flung himself behind a rock as Matt fired a second time. The two startled cowboys gazed at their grinning companion in disbelief seconds before Dix and Carlos opened up with Winchesters. The first shots flung Matt Simpson back into the fire, his face and chest torn apart by bullets. A second volley struck down Matt's companions.

“Marsh!” Zach screamed, racing through the rocks toward the fallen figure of his stepfather. Carter was already kneeling over the dying rancher's bleeding body. Caulie turned away from them and limped to where Matt lay struggling to free himself from the flames.

“Why?” Caulie asked. “Why?”

Matt never answered. The young gunman's arm was near devoured by flame, and the lifeblood ran down his chest. His eyes fixed in a stare, and a shattered jaw dropped so that his mouth formed a ghastly silent grin.

“Caulie?” Dix asked moments later as he gripped his friend's arm.

“Why?” Caulie asked with blazing eyes.

“Who can say?” Dix mumbled as he dragged Caulie away to where Marsh's still body rested in the sand. “Can't train a dog all its life to bite anything that moves, then expect it to know gentle ways. Simpson twisted that kid, made him wild and unfeelin'. He couldn't wind up otherwise.”

“I guess not,” Caulie said, sighing as he gazed down at Marsh's shattered body. “I never should've given him a chance.”

“It was Marsh's way,” Zach said, reaching up and clasping Caulie's hand. “He believed in second chances. Lord knows he gave Carter and me enough of 'em. Ma, too. He knew she still had feeling for you, but it didn't keep him from coming around. Some held it against us, your helping hang Austin Simpson, but never Marsh.”

“He was a good man,” Caulie agreed.

“And now he's dead,” Carter said, trembling.

“It's best we take him home,” Roberto Salazar said, crossing himself as he knelt beside the body. “There is much to do.”

“We're getting good at buiying friends,” Carlos added. “And fathers.”

“I'll get the horses,” Dix offered. “Give me a hand, Zach?”

“Sure, Mr. Stewart,” Zach said, scampering up the hill.

“I'm sorry, Carter,” Caulie said, grasping the boy's shoulders with weary hands.

“He wasn't much good at this sort of thing,” Carter sobbed. “He should've stayed home.”

“He chose to come.”

“Felt he had to,” Carter said, staring into Caulie's sad eyes. “Don't you see? You were going. He had to.”

Yes, Caulie thought, nodding as Carter helped Roberto lift Marsh's corpse. Carlos brought over a horse, and the Salazars tied the body in place. Then Dix arrived with the other horses, and Caulie mounted the big black.

“I should see to Rita and Charlie,” Dix said, excusing himself from the sad procession.

“I understand,” Caulie said as his old friend departed.

Before the others could start up the trail, the sound of horses attracted Caulie's attention.

“Roberto, get the boys back home,” Caulie called as he turned to meet the new menace. Roberto waved to the boys, but Zach and Carlos held their ground. Before Caulie could run the pair to safety, Henry Simpson and a trio of companions emerged from the trees.

“Hold up there, Simpson!” Caulie called. “Come another foot, and I'll shoot you.”

“You!” Simpson cried out in surprise. “Matt?”

Caulie followed the old man's eyes until they fell on the corpse of his grandson. Henry Simpson turned pale, and the others drew back.

“Blake!” Simpson bellowed.

“There's been enough,” Caulie cried. “We've each got dead to bury. It's time it was ended.”

“It will be ended,” Simpson swore. “Soon!”

Hannah sat on the hillside and waited anxiously for the return of Caulie, Marsh, and the boys. As the faint sounds of gunfire up the creek drifted across the land, a strange sense of foreboding descended on her.

“When is Pa coming back?” Sally asked as Hannah drew the girl onto one knee.

“Before long, Honeybee,” Hannah said, stroking Sally's hair. “Wherever have your brothers gotten to?”

“They went to play with the Salazars,” Sally explained.

Just as well, Hannah thought. She wished she could find some distraction herself. She finally lifted Sally to her feet, then stood and walked back to the house. Marsh always wanted dinner early, and he would likely be starving by the time he returned.

“Dear Marsh,” Hannah thought as she stared out the window toward Carpenter Creek. He'd never been the gallant cavalier like Caulfield Blake. Marsh disliked violence, was grieved when a bobcat or a fox needed killing. Now he'd gone off to war.

The boys had gone, too. Of course, Carter was near as old as Caulie'd been the first time Comanches had raided the valley. But in some ways, Caulfield Blake had been born old, at least on the outside. There was a tenderness, a gentleness to him underneath, but it was scarcely ever gotten to by people. Carter was like that, too.

Zach she could read like the skies. His eyes reflected his feelings. Carter was cautious. Zach would leap into a thing with abandon. Maybe that was what worried her.

Marsh will have the good sense to use his head, Hannah told herself. And Caulie will never lead them into danger. No, they've got two fathers looking out after them. And the thought might have set her at ease had anyone other than Henry Simpson stood against them.

She had potatoes cut and on the boil and greens bubbling away beside them when she heard horses splash through Carpenter Creek. Instantly she took a shotgun from the gun closet and loaded both barrels. She then stepped outside and awaited the riders.

The moment she saw Carter's hollow cheeks, Hannah knew there'd been death. A bundle slumped across one of the horses. In the darkness she could barely make out the faces of the riders, and her heart ached.

“Zach?” she cried out. “Caulie?”

“No, not him,” Carter said as he slowly rolled out of his saddle.

Hannah gazed sadly at Roberto Salazar, then stepped closer to the horsemen. Carter blocked the path.

“Ma, he was right beside me,” Carter explained. “The shooting was supposed to be over.”

“Oh, no,” she cried as she spotted Marsh's checkered shirt.

“Was Matt Simpson, Ma. He hid a pocket Colt. It was all over.”

“Oh, Marsh,” she sobbed, dropping to her knees. “Zach? Caulie?”

“They're coming,” Carter assured her. “Ma, he didn't suffer. It happened so quick I don't think he even knew it.”

“Oh, no,” she cried, weeping openly. “Not Marsh.”

She was still crying when Caulfield Blake appeared. Zach climbed down and raced over to his mother. Caulie remained at a distance.

“Hannah, I'm so sorry,” he told her. “I don't know quite what happened.”

“I told her,” Carter said, turning angrily toward Caulie. “He'd never gone if not for you.”

“Hush, Carter,” Hannah barked. “He went because of us. We were in danger, and he felt he had to protect us.”

“But if
he
hadn't come back . . Carter argued.

“We might all be dead,” Hannah said bitterly. “It's not your father you should call to account, Carter. It's Henry Simpson.”

“My father's up there on that horse,” Carter said, swallowing a tear. “As for Simpson, he's got his own sorrow. Matt's dead.”

Hannah's face grew paler, and she rose to her feet.

“Caulie, he'll come for us now,” she said, fighting to control her trembling hands.

“I know,” he said. “But we've got other business to attend first.”

Caulie, weary as he was, climbed down from his horse and limped to the toolshed. He grabbed a spade and started for the small fenced enclosure where Blakes had always laid their dead to rest.

Zach appeared shortly carrying a pitch torch. He set the torch firmly in place, then reached for the spade.

“See to the horses, son,” Caulie said, resting a heavy hand on the boy's back. “Then see to your ma. She'll need a shoulder to lean on for a time.”

“You've got one, too,” Zach reminded him.

“Wouldn't be proper . . . or right. Leave me to do what I know all too well. I've dug here before.”

“Yes, sir,” Zach said, leaving reluctantly.

Yes, Caulie thought as he watched the dark-haired boy cross the tree-studded ground toward the house. I've buried the best of me here. There, to his right, lay the twin graves of his parents. On the left stood the simple marker etched with Caulie's brother Lamar's name. Lamar lay back in the Tennessee hills somewhere, felled by Yank muskets leading the charge. It seemed a cold, lonely place to die, and so Caulie had set up a stone for his brother on the dear, precious hill overlooking Carpenter Creek.

“Seventeen,” Caulie mumbled as he dug into the sandy soil. “Hardly old enough to die.” Matt Simpson had been seventeen, too. Often life was short. How sad to spend so much of it hating and killing and destroying!

Caulie finished the grave, then pulled the torch out of the ground and hobbled back to the house. The darkness swallowed the graveyard, and except for the torch, the whole world appeared to vanish in the night. Off in the distance lightning split the heavens.

It should storm tonight, Caulie thought as he extinguished the torch in the sandy ground outside the house. It's been a violent day. Why should nightfall change things?

Following a near-silent supper, Caulie slipped outside. He spread a pair of blankets across the porch and reloaded his Winchester.

“Pa?” Zach asked from the doorway. “I've got my bed ready for you.”

“It's best I pass the night out here,” Caulie explained.

“Why?”

Caulie frowned. How could he explain it? He didn't belong in that house, not tonight. In death the place belonged to Marshall Merritt as it never had in life. And Caulie was, more than ever, an outsider.

“Pa?” Zach asked again. “It looks to be a storm brewing. Come along inside.”

“Not tonight,” Caulie told the boy. “It's best I keep watch. And folks would think ill of my movin' in with Marsh lyin' dead in there.”

“Folks? You mean Carter.”

“He's a right to feel pain, Zach.”

“We all do,” Zach said, stepping outside and helping Caulie out of his boots. “I could split the watch with you.”

“No, your brothers and sister will need you near.”

Zach nodded and returned to the house. It saddened Caulie to feel the awful silence descend on him. But it was bound to be.

Caulie slept uneasily. The storm came, but pelting rain and harsh winds were nothing to the uneasiness brought on by the knowledge that Henry Simpson was out there in the distance, even now plotting revenge. Twice Caulie awoke at the crackling of twigs on the ground beside the house. The first time Caulie spied a skunk. The other instance a raccoon prowled the night. In the end, though, Simpson was occupied elsewhere.

“I hope that lasts,” Caulie whispered as he watched the sun break the eastern horizon. But even as he spoke the words, he knew it was not to be.

An hour after daybreak Caulie collected the family and led the way to the graveyard. Carter and Zach escorted their mother, sister, and brothers. The little boys stared at the hole with wide, unknowing eyes. Roberto and Carlos Salazar carried the body, now wrapped in a favorite quilt. The rest of the Salazar clan followed, whispering prayers in Spanish and making the sign of the cross.