The Return of Caulfield Blake (13 page)

“They came again,” fourteen-year-old Carlos cried out as Caulie slid down from his horse. “Uncle Roberto was away in the fields. My arm is no good. What could Papa do? They shot him. They they do this! I will kill them all!”

“Could you see any of their faces?” Dix asked.

“They were covered,” Carlos answered, “but we know who it was. I have heard the laugh of Matthew Simpson often. He will choke on that laughter.”

“For God's sake cut him down,” Caulie said, turning his face away from the spinning body of his old friend. “I swear there'll be payment for this.”

“It's no use,” Roberto said, cradling his brother's body as John Moffitt cut the ropes. “They will come again and again. We shoot six of them, and ten return to kill my brother.”

“You can't give up,” Dix cried. “It's Simpson who's behind this, and we'll have to settle accounts.”

“You settle with him,” Roberto said angrily. “I have a brother to bury and children to protect. There's been enough blood shed over this place.”

Carlos gazed sorrowfully at his uncle, and Roberto set Hernando's body down, then led the boy away.

“We're not needed here,” Caulie announced to his companions. “It's best we ride oil.”

Dix nodded, and John Moffitt climbed back atop his horse. The three of them turned and rode toward the Cabot ranch.

The question which flooded Caulfield Blake's mind was where Simpson's hooded riders would strike next. He was tempted to return to town with Dix Stewart, but it seemed unlikely even Simpson would so openly defy the sheriff as to raid Dix's store. Marty, on the other hand, was isolated. And Hannah . . . well, Simpson's whole ranch lay between the Bar Double B and help.

“What good can you do up at that cabin, all alone as you'll be?” Dix asked as Caulie turned his horse northward.

“I'll be at hand should riders head up Carpenter Creek. The stream's too swollen to be crossed just anywhere at present. Anyone hitting Hannah's place will have to come by way of the cabin or else slosh through half of Siler's Hollow.”

“And if Simpson decides to hit the cabin itself?”

“I'll be ready,” Caulie said, his eyes flashing with a fire brought on by the memory of Hernando's dangling corpse. “Get some of that dynamite ready, Dix. We might just have a surprise in store for Mr. Simpson.”

Dix frowned at the notion of raiding the Diamond S, but he nodded his understanding.

* * *

As night fell, Caulie dozed lightly on the floor of the cabin. Two loaded Winchesters stood at arm's length. His dreams filled with recollections of death, of friends swept away by musket fire during the war, of a father slain by Comanche arrows. He awoke a little after midnight to the sound of flapping wings. A great homed owl had swept down onto the porch to snatch a small rabbit in its claws.

“What's this?” Caulie called.

The owl peered toward the cabin, its eerie eyes probing the darkness like two foreboding circles. It uttered a chilling cry, and Caulie recalled how Indians deemed an owl's call a poor omen.

“Go away, owl,” he told the bird. “You've saddled me with enough bad luck for twenty men. Go haunt someone else.”

The owl sank its claws into the rabbit until the life flowed out of the little ball of fur. Then the great bird flapped off into the trees.

“You're not the only one to hunt by night,” Caulie whispered. “I've done my share of stalkin' and killin' in the darkness.” He knew there would be more yet to come. Henry Simpson wanted stopping, and the night was always the ally of the weaker force.

Darkness was also a perfect shield. Its mists cast spells, or so it seemed to Caulfield Blake. Down by the Colorado a world of shadows, real or imagined, haunted the river. Many a time he'd spun tales of ghosts and Comanche spirits that terrified the boys. They often seemed all too true.

Caulie remembered those stories as he drifted off. Death and despair seemed to smother the air. And when a horse raced up the hill, Caulie rose instantly and huddled beside the front window with one of the Winchesters.

“Who's out there?” he called.

“Mr. Blake?” a shaky voice answered.

“I know who I am,” Caulie replied angrily. “Who'd you be?”

“It's Caleb, Mr. Blake. Caleb Cabot. My pa sent me . . . sent me to fetch you. We've got trouble, Mr. Blake.”

Caulie cradled the rifle in his hands as he crawled around to the door. It was hard to see anyone or anything in the shrouded night. Fog hung heavily across the hillside. Finally Caulie located a small boy close to Charlie Stewart's size and age.

“You Marty's boy?” Caulie asked as he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” the youngster said, trembling. “We've got trouble. Get your horse and follow me.”

“What sort of trouble?” Caulie asked, reading the concern in the boy's eyes. “What's happened?”

“Nothin' just yet. Leastwise not when I started out. Some riders came. Pa saw 'em. Me, I'd never noticed, but Pa's got eyes like a hawk. He said to tell you the Jenkins boys were there with Matt Simpson. Some others, too.”

Caulie nodded grimly. Well, at least he knew where they were. By now they were likely shooting bullets and setting Marty's house alight.

“I'll get my horse,” Caulie said, stepping into his boots and grabbing a shirt.

“You get dressed. I'll saddle your horse,” Caleb said. “Just hurry. When I left, the little ones were awful scared.”

Caulie couldn't help sighing. Little ones? Caleb was hardly four feet five, and he was worried about little ones? Caulie threw on his clothes, buckled on his gun belt, and set off for the barn. True to his word, young Caleb had the big black saddled and ready to ride.

“Son, there's no point to you cornin' along,” Caulie said as he climbed atop the horse.

“That's my family back there,” Caleb explained.

“And you'll do 'em a whole lot of good, won't you? You've got no gun. You fetched me. Let me tend to that. You know the Bar Double B?”

“Sure,” Caleb said, nodding.

“Ride out there and tell the folks there what you just told me. Have 'em stay put, though. You, too. I'll bring your family out once it's over.”

“I don't know, Mr. Blake. Pa said I was to bring you . .

“You did a whale of a job of it, too, son. I know you're worried, but trust me to know what's best. Ride along to the Bar Double B. Wait for us there. Won't be so long as it'll feel.”

Caleb nodded and turned his horse northward. Caulie rode south, toward Marty and what was probably by now a desperate fight for survival.

Caulie slapped his horse into a gallop and raced along the darkened ridge toward the Cabot place. Mesquite thorns tore at his arms and face. Rocks slowed the horse. But the surefooted stallion continued. The horse seemed to sense the urgency in its rider's shallow breaths. Caulie crossed the treacherous three miles in half an hour.

By that time Marty's barn lit half the county. The livestock whined anxiously as they fled in every direction. Marty returned the attackers' gunfire from the house. A second rifle flashed from one of the rear bedrooms.

“Give it up, Cabot!” Abe Jenkins bellowed. “We'll burn the house next. All we want is you. Come out, and we'll let the young ones go.”

“Hang yourself!” Marty replied, firing a shot that nearly took Abe's ear off.

“Suit yourself!” Matt Simpson said as he waved his men forward. Two raced toward the house just ahead of Caulie. They were outlined by the flaming barn, and Caulie aimed and fired in a single motion. Both fell in turn, and Abe turned his attention toward the approaching horseman. Caulie raced for the house, then jumped off his horse and ran to the door. Bullets followed his shadow.

“You fool,” Marty said as Caulie slid inside. “That's a mighty fine way to get yourself killed. Where's Caleb?”

“I sent him along to Hannah.”

“That'll be a comfort to his ma. I've got Court back in the kitchen with a rifle. I sent Eve and the little ones down to the root cellar.”

“Fine idea so long as the Jenkins boys don't burn the house down atop 'em.”

“Well, I guess it's up to us to see that doesn't happen.”

“Your barn's gone.”

“I've built more bams'n I can remember, Caulie. Don't you worry yourself over that.”

“I feel responsible.”

“You're not. Old man Simpson's had his eye on my place for years. Tried to run me off this winter. Kept me from gettin' horses to market. We made out, though.”

“We will this time, too.”

“Hope you're right. They've got us trapped real sweet here. I never liked fightin' in buildings, Caulie. I'd rather be out there in the open, with the dark on my side.”

“There's precious little dark. The barn's seen to that. Those boys have to know the better part of the county's seen the fire. Others'll come along soon. Their time's about gone.”

The raiders thought so, too. A second pair raced toward the house. Caulie sent one rushing backward, and Marty killed the other with a clean shot through the lungs.

“You cornin' out, Cabot?” Abe asked.

“Why don't you come along in like your friends, Abe,” Marty answered. “Let's see how brave you are.”

Abe showed no inclination to rush the house, and his companions shared his caution. The rifle fire resumed, but most of it was poorly directed. Suddenly three rifles opened up on the kitchen from short range. Glass shattered, and Marty raced toward the back of the house. As he reached the kitchen door, it flew open, and a dark-hooded stranger stepped into view holding a pistol to the head of young Court Cabot.

“Pa!” Court cried as the killer turned the pistol toward Marty.

Caulie whirled and fired. His bullet shattered the gunman's jaw and tore through the brain. The raider collapsed like a rag doll, and Court scrambled into his father's arms.

“Ben?” Abe Jenkins called. “Ben boy, you there?”

“He's dead,” Caulie answered. “You're next, Jenkins.”

Caulie slipped past the shocked Cabots and crept out the back door. Soon he was out amid the darkness, prowling like a cougar in search of a meal. He clubbed one raider senseless, then fired at a nearby rifle flash. A howl of pain rewarded his shot.

“It's time we got clear of this place!” Abe yelled. “There'll be another day.”

“They must've got some men in here behind us,” another declared. “Let's get!”

Two of the bushwhackers grabbed horses and set off for safety. Matt Simpson ordered them to hold their ground, but it was no use. Four men were already dead, and two others lay wounded. Simpson's band had gotten its fill. They wanted no more of it. One by one they slipped off into the darkness. Finally Matt and the Jenkins brothers departed, too.

“I never thought we'd hold 'em off, Caulie,” Marty said as he wrapped linen bandages around Court's bleeding left arm.

“You boys saved the day,” Caulie told the shuddering youngster. “Your brother got to me in time, and you, son, held the rear.”

“He got past me,” Court said, his eyes red with fear and pain. Marty raised the boy's head and gave him a hug.

“He wasn't much trouble by then, boy. Now go open the cellar and let your ma out. She's likely tired of smellin' onions and turnips by now.”

Court made his way a foot or so before collapsing. Marty set the boy in a chair and then headed for the cellar door. Caulie knelt beside young Court and listened to the boy's rapid breathing.

“You'll be just fine,” Caulie said, brushing a strand of soft blond hair away from the child's forehead. “We'll get you to town. The doc can patch you up just like new.”

“Will I have a scar?” Court asked as he stared at the bandaged arm. Blood seeped through the dressing, and Caulie frowned.

“Likely just a bit of one. Big enough to show your friends down at the pond and your grandkids when you're older.”

Court tried to smile, but pain flooded the boy's face. As Eve Cabot led a small boy and girl through the door, Caulie swallowed a great bitterness.

“You think you can round us up a horse or two?” Marty asked. “The tack's gone with the barn, but I figure the young ones can ride with us.”

“I'll locate some horses,” Caulie promised. “You see if you can stop that bleeding. It's best we get him to the doc.”

“That means riding past the Simpson place,” Eve objected. “Don't you think we can tend it ourselves?”

“It'd be better to have a doc take a look at it,” Caulie declared. “You let me worry about Simpson.”

“Marty?” she asked.

“I've been followin' this man too many years to head my own way now. Eve, see what clothes and such you can round up. We won't be likely to find much left here when we come home.”