The Return of Caulfield Blake by G. Clifton Wisler

distant Colorado River. By daybreak the worst of the flooding had ebbed, and all that remained was the waiting.
    â€œLife teaches a man patience,” old Calvin Blake had taught Caulie in what now seemed to have been another lifetime. “Waters rise and fall. Seasons come and go. The land survives. The trick is to outlast storm and drought, learn to take each in your stride.”
    Caulie had done his best, but Henry Simpson had ensured it wasn’t enough.
    Now it was Simpson’s turn to pay. Siler’s Hollow had gone from a lake to a swamp, and the frothing water unleashed by the dam had spilled over ten acres of prime grazing land. Cattle, suddenly surprised by the flood, had scrambled to high ground, trampling anything in their path. Those that had been a trifle slow had drowned by the dozens, and dead steers and cows dotted the range.
    Downstream at the Bar Double B, cattle that only a day before had fought over the sandy banks of the Colorado now drank from the sweet surface of Carpenter Creek. Some trees had been uprooted by the floodwaters, and one field was awash, but the precious peach orchard had weathered the raging waters rather well, and the house, being atop a hill, was scarcely bothered.
    Hannah knew even before Zach arrived that the dam had been blown. Why wouldn’t she? Wasn’t it for that very reason that she’d written the letter, called Caulfield Blake back? And now, as she stood on the crest of the hill with Marshall Merritt—her husband—she was less sure of her actions.
    â€œI welcome the water,” Marsh told her, “but little good will come of this. The place to fight was in a courtroom.”
    â€œSome things can’t be settled that way,” Hannah objected. “Dix tried that a month ago. Six months or six years, the case never would’ve come to trial so long as Henry Simpson wished it otherwise.”
    â€œI saw Zachary ride in last night. His face was painted dark, and he wore a black poncho . . . the kind Caulfield used to wear when he was sheriff.”
    â€œYou’re wrong,” she declared. “Zach went into town for me. He gave me the sugar. He would never have . .
    â€œHannah, I’ve done my best to be a father to those boys, but Zach’s never taken me to heart like Carter. Everybody says it. Zach’s a Blake. It can’t be changed by his taking my name.”
    â€œThere’s no disgrace in being a Blake, Marsh. Blakes built this place, built this county. For all his faults, Caulie never gave me cause to think poorly of his name or his family.”
    â€œI wish you’d never written that letter.”
    â€œWe’d’ve starved, Marsh. You’re a good man, and you’ve been as fine a father and husband as there is in Texas. But you and Dix and Marty and the others . . . you could never square off with Simpson.”
    â€œI never backed away from a fight, Hannah,” Marsh said, his face growing bright scarlet. “You seem to think I’m not up to it.”
    â€œNot to beatin’ Simpson, Marsh. To beat that old snake you need somebody who’s not tied to the rules. Caulie will do what’s necessary, no matter who comes to harm.”
    â€œI thought that’s why you asked him to leave.”
    â€œIt is. Back then I needed a husband, a man who’d stand by me, be there for the little ones. But just now we need Caulfield Blake, and I’m glad he’s here.”
    â€œSo’m I,” Zach said, joining them. “You should’ve seen him, Ma. He was everything Dix ever said. I rode with ’em.”
    â€œYou what!” she cried.
    â€œHad to. They needed somebody to hold the horses. Ma, he rides like a general, all stiff and straight in the saddle. He’s got a way . . . like nothin’ can hurt him. He misses us, too. I could tell.”
    â€œHe could’ve gotten you killed, Zach!” Hannah complained. “I can’t imagine