The Return of Caulfield Blake (12 page)

“Would you have come?” Caulie asked.

“It's my duty to settle disputes. Now there's been bloodshed on both sides. It's apt to get out of hand. Now you tell me Matt Simpson led these raiders. Matt's just a boy. He's a trifle wild, I'll grant, but he wouldn't go shooting up farmers without a reason. Those Mexicans, the Salazars in particular, are always stirring up folks. If things are so unfair, let 'em go back to Mexico.”

“Their grandfather fought with Sam Houston at San Jacinto,” Dix raged. “Their people have lived in Texas two hundred years.”

“So they claim. I wouldn't put a lot of stock in such talk, though,” the sheriff said, laying loudly. “It's easy to claim you're this and that.”

“You mean like callin' yourself a colonel?” Caulie asked.

“You watch your talk, Blake. I barely kept Matt from pullin' on you th'other day at the hotel. You keep insultin' Henry Simpson, you might find riders cornin' to pay
you
a call.”

“Then when Dix brought me into town, you'd likely call me a troublemaker, too, huh?” Caulie asked. “I'm warnin' you, Sheriff. People won't stand by and watch night riders terrorize their neighbors.”

“Oh? Why don't you go back to your horses up on the Clear Fork, Blake? Leave me to handle things hereabouts.”

Caulie started to reply, but Dix turned him toward the door.

“You were right,” Dix whispered. “There is no law in Simpson. We'll wind up settlin' tilings ourselves.”

Caulfield Blake couldn't complain about coming to town, though. Rita had a true talent in the kitchen, and sitting down to supper at a real table, surrounded by friends, took him back to other, gentler times. But even as he helped little Charlie Stewart clear the supper dishes, Caulie couldn't help thinking that such peaceful interludes rarely lasted long. And whenever he felt safe, secure, the dark storm clouds of war gathered, and he wound up facing the stiffest trials of all.

It was a sobering thought, and Caulie was tempted to ride back to the cabin that night.

“You can't go yet,” Charlie pleaded. “Pa said you can have my bed tonight. I can sleep in a blanket roll, just like a real range cowboy. Tomorrow Ma's goin' to pack us a picnic basket. We can go down to the pond and have a time of it. Besides, you're supposed to tell me about chasing mustangs up on the Clear Fork.”

“I never promised to do that,” Caulie grumbled.

“Well, no, but Katie said you would. You used to tell her stories, or so she says. You ought to do the same for me. I'm half named for you, remember?”

Caulie grinned as the boy stared up with wistful eyes.

“Named for me, you say?” Caulie asked, forcing a stern look to his face.

“Charles Blake Stewart. That's me. The Blake's you, right?”

“Well, I'm not the only Blake to've crossed this range.”

“But you're the one that Pa rode with in the war. Katie told me all about how you saved his life up in Tennessee. You're Zach Merritt's pa, too. Zach and I go fishing sometimes.”

“Well, I guess I'm good for a story,” Caulie said, surrendering. “After all, it's late to ride east.”

“None too safe, either. Men've been waylaid on that road, especially if they tangle with Matt Simpson.”

“And what would you know about that?” Caulie asked.

“People talk,” Charlie said with fiery eyes. “I listen.”

Charlie suddenly seemed much older than his ten years and slender shoulders suggested. Later on, as Caulie spun tales of the buffalo range, of Fort Griffin and The Flat, he felt the boy's hand on a shoulder that had felt no such closeness for half a decade. Caulie shuddered, and Charlie crept closer.

“It's time we got to our beds now,” Caulie announced as he wrapped up the tale. “Wouldn't want to miss that picnic tomorrow.”

“No, sir,” Charlie agreed. “Ma plans to fry a chicken.”

Caulie grinned, then left the room as Charlie began shedding clothes.

“Looks as if you've made a friend,” Rita observed as she met Caulie in the hall. “Does him good. Town's no place to raise a boy.”

“Why don't you go back to the ranch, then?”

“Maybe we will when this Simpson business is over. Things being what they are, I wouldn't feel safe.”

“It's bound to get worse, Rita.”

“Yes, but now you're here. I feel better knowing Dix has someone to depend on.”

“There are others.”

“But no one to lead. It hasn't proven healthy to be a leader in this town, Caulie. Those who've tried haven't lived to count their grandchildren.”

“I feel like I'm bringing a storm down on you all. I had Zach out there with me today. Rita, he's not much older than Charlie there. What is it that hurries men to their deaths?”

“That's easy,” she said grimly. “Henry Simpson.”

Caulie nodded sadly, then walked back down the hall and quietly slipped out of his clothes.

“Uncle Caulie?” Charlie asked as Caulie burrowed his way into the soft feather mattress.

“Charlie?”

“Good night. I'm glad you came back.”

“Night, son,” Caulie said, wishing to high heaven he could say that to Carter or Zach. But it was sometimes too late to mend a fence. The stock had escaped, and most wild things never really take to a halter.

Caulie slept peacefully well into the next morning. By the time he opened his eyes, Rita had exchanged his shirt for a fresh one from the store, and Charlie had put a shine to the battered boots and brushed the dust from Caulie's weather-beaten hat.

“I believe I've fallen into good company,” Caulie remarked with a smile as Rita poured him a cup of steaming coffee. “And now I hear we're to have a picnic.”

“Well, in truth Katherine said we need a holiday. She's been planning the outing for a month. She's got her eye on young John Moffitt down at the livery. I suspect he's to come along. It will do us all some good, though. Town's not so pleasant a place to be as it once was.”

“Has Matt Simpson been by?”

“No, but I suspect he's heard about Dix's visit to the sheriff. Simpson has his spies everywhere.”

“Maybe we should stay close to the store today.”

“Nonsense. We'll only be down at Oak Grove.”

“Oak Grove?” Caulie asked, his hands trembling slightly.

“As I recall, you've cause to remember the place. Wasn't that where you asked Hannah to . . .”

“Yes,” he said, cutting her off.

“Sorry, Caulie. I didn't intend to open up old wounds. Maybe we should choose another spot.”

“It's a good place. Simpson hasn't pried it away from Hannah?”

“She has a memory, too, Caulie. She sold off most of those southern sections, but she held on to the grove south of the market road, the pond, and the pastureland up to Marty's place.”

“Good for her.”

“Good for you, too. That stretch was part of Simpson's price for opening up his dam, you know. Now he's lost his bargaining strength.”

“So he'll try to take it instead.”

“Probably.”

But Henry Simpson had yet to stamp the Diamond S brand on the grove, and that afternoon Caulie, young Moffitt, and the Stewart clan enjoyed a brief diversion. After gorging themselves on fried chicken and sweet com, Katie and her beau wandered off in the wood. Dix and Rita packed up the leftover food, then took a stroll.

“Guess it's just you and me, huh, Charlie?” Caulie asked.

“Oh, they do this all the time,” the boy said. “That's why I bring along some fishing line.”

“Enough for two?”

“Sure,” Charlie said, grinning widely as he pulled two balls of line from a pocket. “Come on. I know the place where the catfish love to hide.”

As Caulie shed his shoes and followed Charlie out onto a fallen oak trunk, he felt as if he'd slipped back twenty years. He and Dix had fished that pond more than once.

“Swimming's fair here, too, though the water's still a little cool,” Charlie explained.

“Water's deep.”

“Cats like it that way in the summer. Pa says it tickles their whiskers.”

Caulie laughed, and Charlie cried out with excitement as his line strained under the weight of a fish.

“You've got one,” Caulie said, watching intently as Charlie played the catfish, then began pulling him in bit by bit.

“Ma fries cats just about as fine as she fries chicken,” Charlie declared as he drew the fish into the shallows before flipping it onto the bank. “He's a big 'un.”

“Sure is,” Caulie agreed. “Think he's got some cousins down there?”

“More'n a few,” the boy said as he ran a string through the fish's gills and tied one end to a small oak sapling. He then returned the secured fish to the water.

They fished for close to an hour before they accumulated four fish. Charlie announced that was enough, flung off his shirt, shed his trousers, and splashed into the pond. The sight of the boy swimming away the afternoon heat was more than Caulie could bear. In an instant he was out of his clothes and in the water as well.

“Race you to that stump!” Charlie challenged, and the dash was on. Caulie closed to within a foot of the blond-haired demon, then eased off so Charlie could win.

“Ah, you gave up,” Charlie complained. “Pa does it, too.”

“Give up?” Caulie complained. “Wore me out, you tadpole.”

Charlie grinned, then hauled himself atop the stump and jumped into the pond. Moments later the boy was shoveling water at Caulie's face. Caulie took a deep breath and lunged forward, capturing Charlie and securely holding the boy in place.

“Am I under arrest, marshal?” Charlie asked.

“Yes, sir, you are,” Caulie said, dragging the boy through the shallows and tossing him onto the bank.

“You're a pretty fair swimmer for an old man,” Charlie remarked as he sprawled out in the soft grass.

“Remind me not to wrestle any more worms,” Caulie said. “It's too exhausting.”

“Fun, though.”

Caulie couldn't help laughing. His grin soon faded as he spied a line of hooded riders cutting across the pasture from the southwest. Instantly Caulie dragged Charlie Stewart behind cover, and the two scrambled into their clothes.

“It's some of Simpson's men,” Charlie declared. “They come to town sometimes that way when they don't want anybody to see who it is.”

“They bother your pa?”

“Once. They ran off some Mexicans. Nobody said it was Matt Simpson, but everybody knows.”

“Sure,” Caulie said, pulling on his boots and buttoning up his shirt.

“You going after 'em, Uncle Caulie?”

“I expect so.”

“Be careful,” the boy said, clinging to Caulie's arm as a smaller Carter had the morning of the hanging. “They shoot people real dead. I've seen it.”

“So have I,” Caulie said, gently pulling away from the youngster. “Don't fret. I've faced 'em before.”

“Pa'll be going with you, won't he?”

“Maybe.”

Charlie gazed down at his bare feet, and Caulie searched for words of comfort. He knew none. Instead he lifted the boy up, slung him over one shoulder, and carried him the fifty yards to where Rita had left the wagon. By that time John Moffitt and Katie were back. Dix and Rita joined them shortly.

“See if you can help this cowboy get his boots on, Kate,” Caulie said as he checked the cylinder on his pistol.

“There are too many of them,” she answered. “Pa?”

“I'm goin', too,” John announced. “I can shoot a rifle.”

Caulie glanced at Dix, who nodded.

“You get along back to town,” Dix told Rita. “Bolt the door, too. They could be headed that way. Give the Simpson place a wide berth. I'll be home when I can get there.”

“Me, too,” John said, gripping Kate's hand before turning away.

“Leave John your horse, Charlie,” Dix said, helping his son into the bed of die wagon. “Caulie?”

“Sure,” Caulie answered, slipping his Winchester out of its saddle scabbard and passing the rifle along to young Moffitt. “Let's go.”

The three riders charged off toward the road, but Caulie soon waved his companions to a halt. Smoke rose from the south, and the three riders turned toward Ox Hollow. All along the way Caulie envisioned a scene of death and destruction. But none of his nightmare thoughts prepared him for the cruel reality he discovered.

The cabins remained as before. The smoke came from a blazing cow barn. Out front the remaining farmers huddled with their children around a single white oak. From a branch hung a long gray object. Riding closer, Caulie saw it was the body of Hernando Salazar.