The Return of Caulfield Blake by G. Clifton Wisler

Author:G. Clifton Wisler
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590772683
Publisher: M. Evans & Company
Published: 2014-04-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The question which flooded Caulfield Blake’s mind was where Simpson’s hooded riders would strike next. He was tempted to return to town with Dix Stewart, but it seemed unlikely even Simpson would so openly defy the sheriff as to raid Dix’s store. Marty, on the other hand, was isolated. And Hannah . . . well, Simpson’s whole ranch lay between the Bar Double B and help.

“What good can you do up at that cabin, all alone as you’ll be?” Dix asked as Caulie turned his horse northward.

“I’ll be at hand should riders head up Carpenter Creek. The stream’s too swollen to be crossed just anywhere at present. Anyone hitting Hannah’s place will have to come by way of the cabin or else slosh through half of Siler’s Hollow.”

“And if Simpson decides to hit the cabin itself?”

“I’ll be ready,” Caulie said, his eyes flashing with a fire brought on by the memory of Hernando’s dangling corpse. “Get some of that dynamite ready, Dix. We might just have a surprise in store for Mr. Simpson.”

Dix frowned at the notion of raiding the Diamond S, but he nodded his understanding.

* * *

As night fell, Caulie dozed lightly on the floor of the cabin. Two loaded Winchesters stood at arm’s length. His dreams filled with recollections of death, of friends swept away by musket fire during the war, of a father slain by Comanche arrows. He awoke a little after midnight to the sound of flapping wings. A great homed owl had swept down onto the porch to snatch a small rabbit in its claws.

“What’s this?” Caulie called.

The owl peered toward the cabin, its eerie eyes probing the darkness like two foreboding circles. It uttered a chilling cry, and Caulie recalled how Indians deemed an owl’s call a poor omen.

“Go away, owl,” he told the bird. “You’ve saddled me with enough bad luck for twenty men. Go haunt someone else.”

The owl sank its claws into the rabbit until the life flowed out of the little ball of fur. Then the great bird flapped off into the trees.

“You’re not the only one to hunt by night,” Caulie whispered. “I’ve done my share of stalkin’ and killin’ in the darkness.” He knew there would be more yet to come. Henry Simpson wanted stopping, and the night was always the ally of the weaker force.

Darkness was also a perfect shield. Its mists cast spells, or so it seemed to Caulfield Blake. Down by the Colorado a world of shadows, real or imagined, haunted the river. Many a time he’d spun tales of ghosts and Comanche spirits that terrified the boys. They often seemed all too true.

Caulie remembered those stories as he drifted off. Death and despair seemed to smother the air. And when a horse raced up the hill, Caulie rose instantly and huddled beside the front window with one of the Winchesters.

“Who’s out there?” he called.

“Mr. Blake?” a shaky voice answered.

“I know who I am,” Caulie replied angrily. “Who’d you be?”

“It’s Caleb, Mr. Blake. Caleb Cabot.

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