The Return of Caulfield Blake (18 page)

“Ready?” the boy asked.

“Lead on, Charlie,” Caulie said, pausing only to wave faintly at the family that he was once again leaving behind. He promised himself it wouldn't be years this time, though. Not if he could help it.

Dix's cabin was a beehive of activity. Roberto Salazar had his family busy felling trees for a makeshift shelter. Rita supervised the unloading of a wagonload of supplies, cooking implements, and clothing. Dix sat on the porch and drank it all in. His bandaged head and bruised face ignited a fire in Caulie's chest.

“I was a fool to have believed it could be otherwise,” Dix said as Caulie dismounted. “You've got the spare guns hidden?”

“Close by. I wish we'd used the dynamite to blast old man Simpson to perdition, though.”

“More likely got you shot. Well, when they come, we'll be ready.”

“Will we, Dix? Or will it be another Ox Hollow? You'd been safer in town.”

“I'd only brought trouble there. Besides, there are too many shadows. We hold the high ground here. And don't forget. There aren't as many of 'em left now.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Caulie said, rubbing his whiskered chin. “Men the likes of Abe and Noah Jenkins can always be found if you search the right places . . . and offer enough gold.”

“I hope you're wrong.”

But Caulfield Blake wasn't often mistaken, and this time was no exception. Even as the Stewarts and Salazars settled in at the cabin, Henry Simpson had riders scouting the countryside. Fences were cut, and cattle grazing on Stewart range were run up Carpenter Creek to the Diamond S. Matt Simpson boldly rode up to the cabin door with a bill of sale.

“You've got to be crazed!” Dix cried.

“Call it justice,” Matt declared. “You've killed Simpson people. You drowned a quarter of our livestock. Just sort of evens things out.”

Caulie rode over to the Bar Double B that night and discovered much the same there.

“A man who'd steal your water and your home isn't apt to mind stealin' some stock,” Marsh said. “Not much we can do. The Simpson's've always got somebody watchin' the house. They ride in threes or fours, well-armed and eager to shoot. If I took Carter, or even him and Zach both with me, those buzzards would swoop down on the house in the blink of an eye. What chance would Hannah and the little ones have? No, they know they've got us in a bind.”

“Yes,” Caulie agreed.

Soon things grew worse. Simpson posted riders on the road. It was impossible to get word in and out of town, much less supplies. When Katie Stewart tried to bring out a load of flour and ammunition, Simpson cowboys sent her walking barefoot back to town.

Perhaps for that reason Caulie was filled with uneasiness when Marty Cabot appeared one day with a wagon full of provisions. New rifles, shotgun shells, and two boxes of Winchester cartridges were hidden beneath trunks of clothing and boxes of cornmeal and assorted food tins.

“I went by way of Ox Hollow, then cut down an old trace east of my house,” Marty explained. “Likely they didn't spot me.”

“Maybe not there,” Caulie said, “but they always have a man or two watchin' us. I don't like it much. You could've got yourself shot real proper, Marty.”

“Couldn't be helped,” Marty explained. “I figured you needed the goods. I brought word on young Moffitt, too. He's better. Gettin' downright feisty with young Kate.”

“And Court?” Charlie asked.

“Be a time yet 'fore he's chasin' you round any creeks, Charlie Stewart,” Marty said, smiling faintly. “He's takin' solid food, though, and the swellin' goes down each day. Evie's still a bit worried, but the boy'll mend. He's a Cabot.”

“Sheriff still sittin' atop that fence of his?” Dix asked. “Or has he sent word of what's goin' on to somebody?”

“Telegraph's down,” Marty told them. “As for the sheriff, nobody's seen him in two days. Word is he took a huntin' trip up north. Maybe to Kansas.”

“The only man with a brain in this whole county,” Rita remarked. “Simpson will have a man wearin' that badge once he finishes with us.”

“He hasn't done that yet,” Caulie reminded her.

“Oh? I wonder why?” Rita asked. “Sure isn't for love of any of us.”

“He's prolongin' the pain,” Caulie explained. “I know him. He enjoys this. But it could turn on him again. It has before.”

“Caulie, stop it!” Rita cried. “Look at us! We're holed up here like scared rabbits. We need help. What use are a few tins of beans and a sack of cornmeal? There are children here! What about Katie and the Cabots in town? Hannah and Marsh down the creek? Who's next?”

“I don't know,” Caulie confessed. “I do know Marty's not ridin' back to town by himself.”

“I'll go,” young Carlos Salazar offered.

“You've got a bad arm and a mama to look after,” Caulie objected. “I'm the one to do it.”

“And who'll return with you?” Dix asked.

“I've ridden worse places alone,” Caulie said with a coldness that chilled his companions. “Why don't I take along a couple of sticks of dynamite, Dix? Might find some use for 'em.”

“Caulie, you be careful,” Rita said, grasping his arm.

“I always am,” Caulie told her, smiling. “You keep an eye out, Dix. They could come up here anytime.”

“I know what to do,” Dix answered. “Once the wagon's unloaded, we'll be set.”

Caulie would have preferred waiting for darkness before starting back toward town with Marty, but delaying would give Simpson time to make plans. The old man was bound to know about Marty's trip. A wagon cut a wide path, and the return trip would offer a hundred chances at ambush.

“It'd be better to borrow a horse, leave that blamed wagon,” Caulie advised.

“It'll be needed later,” Marty explained. “Supplies won't last forever. I'd guess the Bar Double B's growin' short, too. Better for us to make the trip from town than for you to come both ways.”

“You'd have to go back, Marty, just like now.”

“Next time we come, we'll be ridin' out here to stay,” he declared. “Doc Brantley's basement's hardly a place to rear a family.”

“Could be a lot safer.”

“So maybe Evie and the little ones'll stay. I'll bring Caleb along. He's a fair shot.”

“This isn't a fight for children,” Caulie argued. “Marty, there've been enough killed.”

“Too many.”

Caulie nodded. He started to reply when a rifle spoke instead. The bullet splintered the wagon, and Marty instinctively slapped the horses into a gallop. Up ahead a pair of shotgun-toting cowboys stood and fired. The horses reared in terror, but though the blast shattered the air, the animals continued on unharmed. The rifle barked again, though, and Marty slumped across the wagon seat.

“No!” Caulie screamed, pulling his pistol and charging into the tangle of briars and oak saplings where the bushwhacker was hiding. A man stepped out of the way of Caulie's horse, but Caulie managed to slam the barrel of the pistol against the rifleman's forehead. The impact sent the would-be killer flying, and Caulie turned his horse toward the two fleeing figures to his left. As they discarded their shotguns and raced toward waiting horses, a fourth bushwhacker appeared. The dark-browed killer's daunting eyes and easy step halted Caulie's progress. Olie Swain was well-known as a road agent and hired killer up in Young County.

“Don't stop now, Blake,” Swain called as he slithered through the trees, his face half hidden by the barrel of a shiny Winchester. “You're worth two hundred dollars to me.”

“Oh?” Caulie asked, sliding off his horse and darting behind a boulder as Swain fired. “Doesn't seem like much to get yourself killed for.”

“You know how it is,” the outlaw taunted Caulie as he fired a second shot over his head. “Railroads carry all the cash nowadays. Stage doesn't offer much to a man. Who knows? This Simpson fellow says he might even make me sheriff once you're dealt with.”

“Might be a long wait, Olie,” Caulie declared as he concentrated on the broken ground just ahead. Marty's wagon was caught in a tangle of brush two hundred yards down the trail. The horses were close to panic, and Marty was yet to show a sign of life. Swain was somewhere off to the right, slowly and cautiously closing the distance.

Caulie cursed himself for not plucking the Winchester from its saddle scabbard. The Colt was little good firing at any distance, especially through the maze of oaks and junipers.

“Where've you gotten to, Blake?” Swain asked. “Not dead already, I hope. I haven't had any sport from this.”

You will, Caulie thought as he moved out from the rocks. A rifle shot sent him flying to the ground. Two more tore limbs from trees just overhead. Caulie dragged himself down a wash, then turned and waited. Swain's rifle followed, tracing Caulie's movements with a trail of bullets. Swain himself remained a shadow.

Just ahead a nervous rattlesnake warned of its presence. The warm sandstone rocks at the base of the gully were a natural haven for snakes. Caulie took a deep breath and gazed first at the wagon, then back toward Swain.

You're good, Olie, Caulie silently told his tormentor. But this is my game, and I'm good at it. Instead of continuing his retreat toward the wagon, Caulie climbed the steep bank of the ravine and slowly, silently nestled into a natural depression atop the embankment. Moments later Swain darted along the opposite slope. The killer appeared momentarily confused. Caulie thought to fire, but Swain bobbed like a cork on a windswept creek. The movement startled the rattlesnakes, and they stirred restlessly.

“Down that ravine, are you?” Swain finally called, firing wildly down the slope. The outlaw then jumped, landing but a foot from the rocks. Instantly a rattler sprang out, striking Swain's upper leg. A second and a third struck also, sinking their venomous fangs into Swain's arm and side.

“Ahhh!” the gunman cried, shaking off the snakes as another and another crawled out of its lair, each adding its deadly bite. Caulie turned away. He'd known a snakebit man to thrash around in agony for hours. But as the snakes continued to strike out at Swain's writhing arms and legs, adding each time to the poison surging toward the killer's dark heart, the end was not far away.

Caulie had other matters to attend. He found Marty groaning beside the wagon. A bullet had opened up a nasty hole in Marty's left thigh.

“Looks like you won't be goin' anywhere save Doc Brantley's,” Caulie said as he tightened the tourniquet Marty had already begun. “Bleedin's stopped. Think you can crawl into the back of this wagon?”

“If you'll lend a hand,” Marty said, paling as Caulie helped him into the wagonbed.

“I'm only goin' to back the horses a bit,” Caulie said, leading the frantic team out of the dense underbrush. He then steadied the horses and called out to his own mount. The gunshots had sent the big black flying, though, and Caulie reluctantly left the tall stallion to find its own way.

“That was Olie Swain back there,” Marty said as Caulie climbed into the seat and got the team headed back down the trail toward the market road.

“Seems the price on our hides is goin' up.”

“You shot him?”

“No, some friends tended to him.”

“Friends?”

“Rattlesnakes. He's just as dead, though.” Caulie assured his old friend. “For now, rest up and watch that leg.”

Marty nodded, and Caulie concentrated on keeping the jarring to a minimum. The trail was rough and rock-strewn, though, and more than once Marty cried out in pain as the wagon bounded in and out of a hole or over a small boulder.

Once they reached the market road, Caulie left caution to the wind. He set the horses to a gallop, hoping the rapid motion might allow him to escape Simpson's roving eyes.

Lord, I've asked a lot of you of late, Caulie prayed silently, but this is a good man I've got back of me. He's bleeding, and he doesn't need another tangle with Henry Simpson just now. Get us through this, won't you?

Caulie glanced behind him and saw Marty was doing much the same. Perhaps the prayers were answered, for the only sign of life they encountered during the wild four-mile scramble down the road toward town was a lone cowboy near the gate to the Diamond S.

“Hold up there!” the drover called. “Hold up!”

Caulie never hesitated. He slapped the horses onward, then fired a shot as the cowboy started to pursue. The rider halted immediately, and the wagon rushed past undaunted.

When they reached town, Caulie slowed the wagon. He headed directly for Dr. Brantley's house. The doctor emerged from the house, grinning, but the smile faded as he read the panic on Caulie's face.

“You're keepin' me in business, Caulfield Blake,” the doctor complained.

“No, this is Henry Simpson's handiwork,” Caulie said bitterly. “It's apt to get rewarded.”