The Return of Caulfield Blake by G. Clifton Wisler

Bedford Forrest taught me that much.”
    â€œYou haven’t been down there,” Dix argued. “You don’t know. Simpson expects that. He’s got men waitin’, eager to ambush anybody who sets foot on that dam. There are always three or four of ’em up there, and they carry their guns loose and easy, like they know what they’re about.”
    â€œWe’ve dealt with worse,” Blake said, laughing. “Why, I remember we rode through half a regiment of Ohio cavalry back in Tennessee, and they were nothin’ to those Comanches back in ’sixty-six.”
    â€œThat was a long time ago,” Dix reminded Blake. “We were young. The most I ride anymore’s from here to town and back. I’ve got responsibilities, too. So does Marty.”
    â€œSo what will you do, sell out?”
    â€œTo my knowledge, Simpson isn’t making any offers,” Perry said, shuffling some papers into a small valise. “I don’t see you have any choice. Destroy that dam or . . .”
    â€œGive up?” Blake asked. “Not on your life. I’ve never been much good at surrenderin’. Tell you what, Jefferson Perry. You keep filin’ those papers of yours down in Austin. Go to Washington if you have to. As long as Simpson knows you’re tryin’, he’s apt to ease his guard a bit. Meanwhile . . .”
    â€œYes?” Dix asked.
    â€œWe’ll round everybody up, have a talk. And who knows? Some dark night when the moon’s all gone, an old rebel might just ride down and pay a visit on Henry Simpson’s dam. Could be that rebel just might take a couple of Texas candles along with him.”
    â€œTexas candles?” Perry asked.
    â€œDynamite,” Marty explained as he threw his hat in the air. “Whoopee! Caulie, I’m glad you came back. Don’t know how much good you’ll do with this, but you sure make things interestin’.”
    Blake received a somewhat different response later that morning when Dix Stewart led the way to Ox Hollow. It was hard to imagine a more miserable stretch of farmland anywhere in creation. Boulders three feet tall peppered every hillside, and gullies etched the sandy soil as if some giant hawk had clawed the ground in anger. The few trees were mostly scrub mesquite or gnarled junipers, good for little save fenceposts and stove wood. And yet a half-dozen Mexican families managed to eke out a living planting vegetables and a few acres of sweet com.
    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.
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œNot 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.”
    â€œIt’s Simpson sends those night riders,” Dix objected. “If we band together . . .”
    â€œAh, 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.
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œYes, we