The Return of Caulfield Blake (20 page)

“Dead? Who? I saw the boys back up the road. That Doyle Opley there with you?”

“And Caulfield Blake himself lyin' back there beneath his horse, Grandpa. You said you wanted him more than anybody. Put the run to Dix Stewart and a couple of boys, too.”

“You mean to tell me there were four of 'em down here, and you lost three good men chasing 'em?” Simpson stormed. “Matt, you've got no sense at all, boy! You were to fire three shots the instant you saw anything!”

“Wasn't time, Grandpa. Blake just popped up from nowhere.”

“More likely rode up the market road like he owned it,” Simpson grumbled. “Four riders, and two of 'em boys. You let 'em shoot your company to pieces, kill the best gun hand on the range, then ride along by without so much as a howdy-do!”

“Grandpa, we shot Caulfield Blake!”

“Oh? And where'd you say you left him?”

“Right there 'neath his horse!”

“Well, this is past believing!” Simpson raged. “You sure it was Blake?”

“I saw him, too, Colonel,” the cowboy standing beside Matt declared. “It was him, sure as the pastor preaches on Sunday.”

“Then he's gone and slipped right through your fingers,” Simpson said, spitting. “He's a snake, that one. I thought for sure my boys killed him the night he hung Austin, but with that one, you've got to make dead sure. He's up there somewhere right now, having himself a laugh at your expense.”

“We'll find him,” Matt pledged, gazing up the hill in Caulie's direction. “I swear it, Grandpa.”

“You'll send more men up there to get killed?” the old man thundered. “Matt, you'll bleed us dry this way. We're no Yank army, and you're no General Grant to throw men away on a bet. No, son, there's a better way. He's afoot. He's going nowhere. For now.”

“Later on he'll head for the Stewart cabin,” one of the cowboys declared. “All we got to do, Colonel, is go on along in front of him.”

Simpson smiled and waved his men on down the road.

“You up there, Blake?” the old man cried out at the surrounding hillside. “Are you? I'm doing myself some riding, Blake. We'll head on along, see how well a house can burn. And as to hangings, we might just see how well boys dance from oaks. Let you know how it feels to watch.”

Caulie felt his insides die as he thought of the army on horseback that would charge Dix's cabin, that would sweep over the hill toward Hannah. He wanted to cry out, and if he'd had a rifle, he would have shot Henry Simpson stone-cold dead. But things being what they were, Caulie swallowed his rage and started toward the cabin. It was miles away, and a sense of urgency drove him along.

“Simpson, if you harm Hannah or my boys, I'll kill you,” Caulie swore as he walked. “I'll kill you!”

It was better than four miles cross-country to Dix's cabin, and every inch of ravine and hillside seemed to hold some hidden peril with which to entrap Caulfield Blake. Briars and cactus thorns tore at his legs. Gopher holes trapped his ankles. And yet he struggled on as though life depended upon it. Indeed, Caulie suspected it did.

When he finally slipped through the barbed wire that marked the eastern boundary of the Diamond S Ranch and began limping the final mile and a half to the cabin, he felt oddly as if eyes were on his back. He never saw anyone, but the sandy soil was torn with hoofprints, and Caulie occasionally glimpsed a flash of steel or a bit of cloth on some surrounding hillside.

Lord, don't let me be too late, Caulie prayed. I've got to warn them.

He hoped young Carlos Salazar was on watch. The boy was still but half fit, but his eyes were those of a hawk. Roberto was steady as well. If only Simpson was cautious enough to allow Dix and the boys to settle in some before the attack. But that was almost more than one could hope for, and Caulie's darkest fear was that he'd stumble upon a scene of utter carnage. He recalled the town in northern Mississippi he and Dix had ridden through back in '64. Someone at a nearby farmhouse had shot a Yank captain from cover, and the bluecoat cavalry had taken its revenge. Animals were scattered everywhere, their hides so full of lead the meat could scarcely be eaten. Women and children cowered in the ruins of their houses. The men swung lifelessly from tree limbs.

They were riding hard, Caulie told himself. No one ever caught Dix Stewart on horseback. Zach and Charlie were quick as lightning. But they had the mules and the packhorse to goad along. It might prove a close thing.

As he crossed one hillside after another, Caulie kept an ear open for the sound of gunfire. He detected nothing more than an occasional stirring in the nearby thickets. Surely Simpson's riders were closing in, but each minute's delay offered Dix a better chance of defending the cabin.

Maybe Zach will head along home, Caulie thought. But more likely the boy would await his father's arrival. Or worse, Zach might race back in hope of locating Caulie along the road. Such a move spelled fast and certain death.

The nightmares reappeared. Caulie tried to blink them away, but pain and exhaustion were tearing at him like the teeth of pursuing hounds. When he finally climbed the ridge above Carpenter Creek and gazed out at the cabin, he was near finished.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The mules grazed on the hillside. Their precious bundles of supplies had already been unloaded. Caulie searched the nearby corral for the packhorse or John Moffitt's pony. Neither was there. Maybe Zach had returned home after all.

Little Charlie was busy drawing water from the well. Rita was a few yards distant, hanging wash on a clothesline. Dix and the others were out of sight.

Wait just a bit longer, Simpson, Caulie thought as he struggled to make his way through the trees and on to the cabin. His legs were nigh numb now, and his blood-streaked face and tom clothes must have given him the haunting appearance of some specter come back to life. Still he felt the eyes on his back, the company of others. He drew out his pistol and reloaded the empty chambers. Any second he expected some horseman to pop out of the trees and deal him death.

It didn't happen. Instead, it was Caulie who emerged from the trees and slowly stumbled toward the cabin.

“Caulie?” Rita cried, dropping her clothespins as she hurried to greet him. “Whatever happened to you? Dix had us all giving you up for dead.”

“There's time yet,” he whispered. “Let's get along to the house.”

“Are they out there?” she asked quietly.

“Probably got us in their sights this instant,” he explained. “Go along. I'll fetch Charlie.”

She turned, plucked her laundry basket off the ground, and started for the door. Caulie, meanwhile, stepped toward Charlie.

“Zach'U sure be relieved,” the boy said as he cranked the windlass and drew the water bucket up from the well. “He went along home with the rest of the supplies. He'll likely come back later with a fresh horse.”

“Better he stays,” Caulie said as Charlie lifted the bucket up and set it on the stone wall of the well. “We've got company.”

“Oh?” the boy asked nervously.

“Let's go,” Caulie said, grabbing Charlie by the arm and starting for the door.

“My bucket!” Charlie objected, breaking loose from Caulie's weak grasp and rushing back to fetch the bucket. Caulie stared in disbelief as the air erupted. Shells slammed into the wall of the cabin, shattered windows and sent the livestock into a frenzy. Charlie barely touched the bucket when it exploded a hundred slivers of oak. Water splashed against the boy's face. He turned and dashed toward the house. Halfway there a blast from the woods tore through his side. Charlie fell like the last leaf of autumn, slowly, delicately, finally.

“No!” Caulie screamed, firing his pistol wildly as he limped toward the boy. Rifles protruded from the notches in the cabin wall, and the ambushers briefly held their fire. Caulie lifted Charlie in a single motion and started back toward the house. The sharp report of a rifle met Caulie's ears as a searing pain tore through his neck. He only just managed to hang on to Charlie while stumbling toward the door. It opened, and Dix helped both man and boy inside.

“Lord, help us,” Dix said as he stared at his small, silent son.

“Dix, I . . .” Caulie started to say. He couldn't manage more, though. Already he could feel the warm flow of blood from his neck. A sharp pain cleared his eyes momentarily, then left his vision hazier than before.

“Rita, look after them,” Dix said, returning to the wall. Only then did Caulie realize the cabin was nearly deserted. The Salazars had gone.

“I've got to . . .” Caulie objected as Rita examined his neck.

“Lie still a moment,” she said, dipping a cloth in a pail of water that rested on the nearby table. “I believe they've taken a slice out of you.”

“Charlie . . .”

“Yes,” she said grimly. “In a moment.”

Caulie closed his eyes a second and allowed her to treat the wound. Clearly he'd been lucky again. An inch to the right, and the bullet might have cut an artery. As it was, the pain and the bleeding would pass.

“There you are,” Rita said as she tied the bandage in place. “You look like the devil, Caulie, but you're in little danger of dying.”

“And Charlie?” Caulie asked as he opened his eyes. Rita was already busy examining the boy. A single bullet appeared to have torn through the boy's side.

“He's small, but I've seen him bounce back from a fever that would have carried anyone else off with it,” Rita said, forcing a grin onto her face. “Go help Dix. That's what's needed. Lord knows I can patch up this child.”

Caulie nodded, then blinked away his exhaustion. Dix pointed to an idle Winchester, and Caulie discarded his Colt. Outside, the shooting continued. Whenever Dix and Caulie paused, one of the encircling gunmen would attempt to close the distance. A tall cowboy with midnight-black hair made a move toward the well. Caulie shot him squarely in the chest. Another tried to rush the privy. Dix fired twice, and the intruder fell.

“Rush 'em!” a voice Caulie identified as Matt Simpson's yelled. The order went unheeded.

“Was one thing when Simpson had hired guns doin' his biddin',” Dix observed. “These ones are poor range cowboys, and they're way over their heads in deep water.”

“I've known a range cowboy or two to shoot well enough to kill you,” Caulie said. “Still, they don't seem too eager. What happened to the Salazars?”

“Rode over to Marsh's place while I went into town lookin' for you. Roberto thought it safer. Was right, it appears.”

“You ever cover up that tunnel leadin' to the corral?” Caulie asked.

“No,” Dix said, pausing to glance at the rug which covered a trapdoor concealing an escape tunnel dug years before in case of Indian attack. “What do you have in mind?”

“Where's the dynamite we packed out from town.”

“Over by the fireplace,” Dix answered. “Caulie?”

“What we need is a bit of artillery. This ought to do the trick.”

Caulie pulled five explosive sticks from a flour sack, then took blasting caps and fuse. He added the dynamite to the sticks already in his pockets, then pulled aside the rug and stepped down into the tunnel.

“Caulie, you be careful,” Rita urged.

“I'll try to be,” Caulie said, brightening as he saw little Charlie's fingers move. “Let's see how Simpson likes this turn of events.”

To call the moldy passageway beneath the cabin a tunnel was to stretch the truth. It was scarcely wide enough to permit a grown man's shoulders to pass, and the years had caused the supporting planks to give way in places. Caulie worried the whole thing might have collapsed somewhere ahead. It was impossible to see anything, and as he crawled along, dragging his aching leg, he could only probe a few feet ahead with the butt of his rifle.

In the end, though, enough of the passage survived to allow him to crawl the twenty yards past the corral to the edge of the woods. The narrow opening at the other end needed widening, and Caulie was forced to claw away at the loose soil with his fingers. Finally he emerged on a slope just behind a large white oak. He blinked his eyes as the bright summer sun assaulted his vision. Then he began examining his surroundings.

The gunfire appeared to be concentrated about a hundred feet to his left, so he slowly circled in that direction. As he beheld a trio of cowboys firing steadily toward the cabin, Caulie attached the first fuse and cap, then lit the end. As it burned away the minutes, Caulie limbered up his right arm. When less than a minute remained of the fuse, Caulie tossed the dynamite. It twirled end over end through the air until it landed with a thud alongside the riflemen. They stared in disbelief, then scattered. Seconds later the air was split by the force of an explosion. Men flew in three directions.

Caulie lit a second fuse and continued. A pair of drovers rushed to rescue their companions. Caulie tossed his second stick so close to one that the cowboy nearly burned his foot on the flaming fuse.