The Return of Caulfield Blake by G. Clifton Wisler Page B

chosen the right friends. Somehow the odds didn’t look so bleak as before.
    â€œDix, you’ll be headin’ to town yourself, won’t you? Maybe it’d be best if you go along now. I don’t favor the thought of either one of you ridin’ alone past the Diamond S.”
    â€œSo what’ll you be doin’?”
    â€œTakin’ a ride out Simpson’s way.”
    â€œTo Carpenter Creek?”
    â€œScoutin’ the lay of the land, you might say. I once was a fair Indian scout, remember?”
    â€œIt’s you best do the rememberin’, Caulie Blake. Think back to how that piece of flint got hammered into your hip. Bullet can make a bigger hole, and there are those up that way who’d be paid well for closin’ your eyes.”
    â€œOthers have tried,” Caulie said, spitting at a small, withered com plant. “I won’t make it that easy for ’em.”
    He watched Dix and Perry ride. In truth Caulfield Blake would have felt easier with Dix Stewart at his side, but by now word of Blake’s return would be out. Anyone riding with a hunted man shared the peril, and besides, Caulie had grown accustomed to solitude.
    From the broken hills north of Ox Hollow, Caulie followed the Diamond S fence line past Marty Cabot’s ramshackle cabin and weathered bam. Marty’d never been one to slap paint on lumber, but the place seemed in a worse way than ever. Except for a few chickens out past the bam and a pair of mares in a rail corral, the ranch was deserted.
    â€œLikely Marty’s out workin’ the stock,” Caulie told himself. Even so, that didn’t explain where Eve and the little ones had gone. There were two little boys. The oldest had barely been walking when Caulie’d left. Three daughters had followed, one a year from ’75 on. Hannah had written back in ’78 that Eve had lost the two youngest to winter, though she was now in the family way again.
    Lord, Caulie thought. Marty Cabot’s got kids I’ve never seen. Who would have dreamed it possible when the two of them were boys, chasing jackrabbits through the creek bottoms and alternately pestering Hannah Siler and asking her for favors? But then who would have believed Caulfield Blake could ever ride away?
    â€œYou did that to me, Simpson!” Caulfield suddenly cried. And with ill-concealed rage, he drew out a rope, formed a loop, and threw it over the nearest fencepost. As the frail mesquite wood cracked and splintered, Caulie grinned bitterly. He had more in store for Henry Simpson than tearing down a few fenceposts.
    Caulie crossed the market road, then tore down a six-foot section of fence a mile and a half south of Carpenter Creek. He managed to locate the splices in the barbed wire and separate them. He then wound the loose strands of the devilish wire around the remaining posts so that the gap was safe for riders.
    â€œNo point to layin’ open your feet with those barbs, huh?” Caulie whispered as he stroked the lathered neck of his ebony stallion. “You may have need of those feet, boy. We’re not exactly ridin’ onto friendly ground now.”
    The horse shuddered, and Caulie stroked the animal’s flanks. He’d ridden the stallion long and hard from the Clear Fork, and the wear was beginning to show. He told himself to ease the pace for a few days.
    It didn’t take long for Caulie to tell this was Simpson land. Cattle ran everywhere. Soon it was possible to see the new lake that flooded Siler’s Hollow. Several hundred head watered in the nearby meadows. Caulie ignored them. His eyes focused on the dam.
    It was more substantial than he first thought. Most dams were formed by piling logs up, then adding long stems of buffalo grass, rock, and sand until a wall of sorts formed. Soon debris and mud accumulated, and the water flow was halted. During the war Forrest’s cavalry had often blasted such makeshift dams to bits