The Return of Caulfield Blake (7 page)

The men, including a pair of boys who couldn't have reached fourteen, listened as Dix and Jeff Perry explained their plans. The farmers listened in grim silence. Finally a thin-faced man stepped forward.

“Yes, yes,” the farmer said, clearly unconvinced. “Excuse me, but your plans have nothing to say to me and my family. We have no water from Carpenter Creek. Your papers will do nothing for us. We don't have thirsty cows. We have starving children.

“Not so long ago we spoke to you when men came and burned the fields of our cousins on the Colorado River. You did nothing. Now others come and shoot at our little ones. What will you do about this? I tell you. Nothing. You look for help in the wrong place.”

“It's Simpson sends those night riders,” Dix objected. “If we band together . . .”

“Ah, this always sounds so good,” a second farmer broke in. “We are always promised help. And what price do we pay? Our blood. We fight for our land. We die if we must. But we will not ride with you.”

Dix started to argue, but Blake pulled him away.

“He's right,” Blake said. “I know these men. Shoot, Roberto Salazar there helped me drive my first longhorns to market. His pa taught me to rope mustangs. Now, when they settle out here on their own, the same men who promised them a better life stand by and watch Simpson do his best to run 'em off.”

“Yes, we remember you, too,” Roberto said, emerging from the others. “You know my brother Hernando, though he has been away as long a time as you.”

The thin-faced man nodded, and Blake smiled. Hernando had never been one to back away from a fight, and the two had tangled once or twice in younger years.

“My wife,” Caulie began, coughing as he realized Hannah now shared another man's life. “My wife and her ma sold this land to your father.” Caulie continued speaking to the two men with watery eyes. “Your ma helped birth my boys, and it was no easy thing bringin' that pair of howlin' coyotes into this life, believe you me. I'm not askin' you to ride anywhere. I'm just sayin' we've got common cause now as we once did when Comanches did their best to ride us all into the dust. Your papa stood at my elbow the day we killed Little Wolf.

“I'm not makin' a speech or anythin', just remindin' you it wasn't me told you lies. Whatever happens at Carpenter Creek, you know Henry Simpson's bound to call here first. You're closer, for one thing. For another, he's had an eye on this range for years. Emma Siler sold it to old Arturo more to spite Simpson than anythin' else.”

“We know,” Hernando said, producing an old flintlock musket. “We will be ready.”

“Well, you'll accomplish little with that,” Caulie said. “You may not think my words mean much, but Dix has ordered a case of Winchester repeaters. Make one man into ten. I'll see how many I can talk him out of for you.”

“We have no money to pay . . .”

“I didn't say anythin' about selling, did I?” Caulie asked, grinning. “An old friend can make you a loan, can't he? You'll return them when you've finished.”

“I don't take . . .” Hernando began.

“Take?” Caulie asked. “Lord, I've still got a poncho of yours someplace, Hernando. I remember pullin' cactus thorns out of your backside. You borrowed my pants. Don't tell me you're particular about whose rifle you fire!”

“I promise we'll use them to good effect,” Roberto said, clasping Caulie's hand. “You should never have let them drive you off, amigo. Old man Simpson has had the run of the range too long.”

“We'll just have to run him down like a renegade mustang. You keep your eyes sharp, old friends. Simpson hasn't been collectin' shooters out there for the hang of it.”

“Yes, he hates us plenty,” Hernando agreed. “But I never hung his son. You watch out yourself, Caulfield Blake. Some of these fellows Simpson has hired have the eyes of an owl. They shoot real well in the dark.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Caulie promised as he turned away. He motioned for Dix and Jeff Perry to follow.

“All the way over here I was sorry we left Marty at his place,” Dix grumbled “Bein' a neighbor, he has better luck with 'em. That Hernando's a hard case.”

“Maybe,” Caulie grumbled. “But I'd be happy to have him with me in a tight spot. He's right about one tiling, Dix. He won't be runnin'. Get 'em some of those Winchesters. They'll put 'em to good use.”

“I'll do it straightaway.”

“I think it's time for me to head south,” Perry declared, glancing at his pocket watch. “I'll leave the horse at the livery, Dix. With luck, I'll catch the three o'clock coach to Austin.”

“Jeff, you keep out of trouble's shadow. It's dangerous work sidin' with us,” Caulie warned the young lawyer.

“I've known tight corners before, Mr. Blake. You leave me to find my way home.”

Caulie couldn't help smiling. Dix had certainly chosen the right friends. Somehow the odds didn't look so bleak as before.

“Dix, you'll be headin' to town yourself, won't you? Maybe it'd be best if you go along now. I don't favor the thought of either one of you ridin' alone past the Diamond S.”

“So what'll you be doin'?”

“Takin' a ride out Simpson's way.”

“To Carpenter Creek?”

“Scoutin' the lay of the land, you might say. I once was a fair Indian scout, remember?”

“It's you best do the rememberin', Caulie Blake. Think back to how that piece of flint got hammered into your hip. Bullet can make a bigger hole, and there are those up that way who'd be paid well for closin' your eyes.”

“Others have tried,” Caulie said, spitting at a small, withered com plant. “I won't make it that easy for 'em.”

He watched Dix and Perry ride. In truth Caulfield Blake would have felt easier with Dix Stewart at his side, but by now word of Blake's return would be out. Anyone riding with a hunted man shared the peril, and besides, Caulie had grown accustomed to solitude.

From the broken hills north of Ox Hollow, Caulie followed the Diamond S fence line past Marty Cabot's ramshackle cabin and weathered bam. Marty'd never been one to slap paint on lumber, but the place seemed in a worse way than ever. Except for a few chickens out past the bam and a pair of mares in a rail corral, the ranch was deserted.

“Likely Marty's out workin' the stock,” Caulie told himself. Even so, that didn't explain where Eve and the little ones had gone. There were two little boys. The oldest had barely been walking when Caulie'd left. Three daughters had followed, one a year from '75 on. Hannah had written back in '78 that Eve had lost the two youngest to winter, though she was now in the family way again.

Lord, Caulie thought. Marty Cabot's got kids I've never seen. Who would have dreamed it possible when the two of them were boys, chasing jackrabbits through the creek bottoms and alternately pestering Hannah Siler and asking her for favors? But then who would have believed Caulfield Blake could ever ride away?

“You did that to me, Simpson!” Caulfield suddenly cried. And with ill-concealed rage, he drew out a rope, formed a loop, and threw it over the nearest fencepost. As the frail mesquite wood cracked and splintered, Caulie grinned bitterly. He had more in store for Henry Simpson than tearing down a few fenceposts.

Caulie crossed the market road, then tore down a six-foot section of fence a mile and a half south of Carpenter Creek. He managed to locate the splices in the barbed wire and separate them. He then wound the loose strands of the devilish wire around the remaining posts so that the gap was safe for riders.

“No point to layin' open your feet with those barbs, huh?” Caulie whispered as he stroked the lathered neck of his ebony stallion. “You may have need of those feet, boy. We're not exactly ridin' onto friendly ground now.”

The horse shuddered, and Caulie stroked the animal's flanks. He'd ridden the stallion long and hard from the Clear Fork, and the wear was beginning to show. He told himself to ease the pace for a few days.

It didn't take long for Caulie to tell this was Simpson land. Cattle ran everywhere. Soon it was possible to see the new lake that flooded Siler's Hollow. Several hundred head watered in the nearby meadows. Caulie ignored them. His eyes focused on the dam.

It was more substantial than he first thought. Most dams were formed by piling logs up, then adding long stems of buffalo grass, rock, and sand until a wall of sorts formed. Soon debris and mud accumulated, and the water flow was halted. During the war Forrest's cavalry had often blasted such makeshift dams to bits with a keg or two of powder. Simpson's dam appeared to be of rock. Worse, it was close to ten feet thick. A little dynamite might produce a hole or two if planted deep, but that would require a block of time. The three dark-browed gunmen patrolling the dam seemed unlikely to offer any help.

“You never in your whole life made it simple, did you, old man?” Caulie asked. “It was a dark day when your ma birthed you, Henry Simpson.”

But Caulfield Blake hadn't taken on many easy jobs. Hannah never would have written if times hadn't been desperate. Caulie took a deep breath, exhaled, then nudged his horse into a trot. As he emerged from cover, the guards on the dam shouldered their rifles.

“Hold up there!” Caulie yelled. “I come alone—and in peace.”

“Peace?” a heavy voice bellowed out. “What right have you got to peace? Blake, you're on my land. I'd be within my rights to shoot you dead!”

Caulie glared as Herny Simpson rode out past his guards and galloped the fifty feet to where Caulfield Blake sat atop his tall black. The two old enemies stared at each other. There wasn't a hint of forgiving in either man's eyes.

“I've come to speak of the dam, Simpson,” Caulie finally said.

“Oh?”

“You want to talk about rights. When Emma Siler deeded you this range, she made it clear who had rights to Carpenter Creek.”

“Why don't you hire yourself a lawyer?” Simpson asked, laughing to himself. “You once got my boy hung. Maybe you can get my dam broken down the same way.”

“I didn't hang anybody,” Caulie said bitterly. “Austin did the killin', and that was your doin', Simpson. If anybody's to be held account. . .”

“Enough!” Simpson screamed with blazing eyes. “The dam stays. I'll choke that creek till the buzzards pick at all that's left of you, Blake, and your whole accursed family. I'll see you cry for your boys the way I have for mine.”

“You cry?” Caulie asked. “I never saw any tears. You built yourself a reputation on the graves of Matt and Henry, two men who might've made fair soldiers if they hadn't listened to their pa's tales of leadin' charges and dyin' in glory. Then you used Austin to burn out your neighbors, to kill those who got in the way. When the law stilled your hand, you turned the people against me and mine. Well, the shame belongs to me for lettin' it happen, for stayin' quiet back then. I've had a lot of years to think it over, and I'm through playin' it your way. If you think you can hurt me or mine, you're mistaken. Won't be my blood spilled this time around. No, sir.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Matt Simpson said as he led a half-dozen rifle-toting men down from the dam. “You can't fight the whole world single-handed, Blake, You were mighty fierce in town with a sheriffs shotgun nearby. Care to try your hand out here?”

Matt strode forward with a swagger. His arrogant grin and jaunty step reminded Caulfield Blake of other youngsters, poor cowboys who'd spent a year's trail money on fancy spurs and a tall hat. The Colt revolvers which might have won them respect never cleared their holsters. The dark-eyed veterans calmly, coldly killed each and every one.

Caulie laughed, then motioned at the surrounding countryside.

“Blakes and Silers settled this country,” he shouted. “When the world was young, my pa was battlin' Comanches and rattlers out here along the Colorado. You, Simpson, came along when the worst of it was over. You spin your tales and make up your history.
Colonel
Simpson? What regiment did you ever lead? You passed the whole war in your rockin' chair, and you didn't raise an eyebrow when the Yanks won. No, you didn't even complain about the garrisons or the Ohio judges till they raised your taxes. Even then, you were better off than most.

“You, Matt Simpson. Ever ask your grandpa how I come to wear a badge? Was Henry Simpson handed it to me. Was that old man there who sent me out to bring Austin in ahead of the cavalry. He thought the trail could be bought.”

“You're lying!” young Simpson yelled, riding out in front of the others. A pair of bucksin-clad companions followed. Caulie knew both from a run-in back at The Flat. Abe and Noah Jenkins had a reputation for drawing quick and shooting straight. Neither asked many questions other than how much gold a killing might put in a pocket.

“So that's how it's to be, is it?” Caulie asked, yawning. “Seems a bit early for a showdown. You Jenkins boys usually prefer your fightin' after dusk, I hear.”