Guns of the Canyonlands

Chapter 9

The man who’d been lying down sprang quickly to his feet. He threw his cigarette butt into the fire and faced Tyree, his eyes wary. The cook, his bacon sputtering, carefully placed the fry pan at the edge of the coals and began to rise. He was a tall, lanky man who unraveled like a piece of string, coming together only when he was upright. The third man dropped the grass he’d been using and stayed right where he was, his hand close to his gun.

“Well, Lordy me.” Tyree grinned, looking past the outlaws to where the bull was grazing. “And there he is.” He let his grin grow wider. “Thanks for finding him, boys. My boss surely sets store by that bull.”

For a few moments nobody spoke. The flames of the campfire cast flickering scarlet shadows on the faces of the men across from Tyree. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him, glittering like ice in the dark hollows of their sockets.

The man who’d been grooming the horse stepped closer. He was of medium height, a redhead, dressed in dusty range clothes. He wore two guns in crossed belts, a showy mode of carry that was seldom seen.

“Mister,” he said, “we’ve laid claim to that bull. Now, if you want to keep on living, you just turn and walk on out of here.”

Tyree did not allow his grin to slip. “Sorry, boys, but you seem to have made a mistake. See, that’s my boss’s Hereford and he told me I had to bring him home right quick. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just dab a loop on him and be on my way.”

Again a tense silence stretched between the four men, taut as a fiddle string.

The three rustlers were sizing up Tyree, taking his measure, and he knew what they were seeing. There was nothing in Tyree’s appearance to intimidate these three, and the contempt in their eyes told him they’d summed him up and had found him wanting.

The redhead turned to the man who’d been frying the bacon. “Jed, what do you think?”

“I think we kill him and be done.” The man called Jed grinned, a sudden recklessness in the look he threw at Tyree. “Hell, the bacon is burning, so it’s high time we ate.”

Then he went for his gun.

Jed had barely cleared leather when two of Tyree’s bullets smashed dead center into his chest. Jed staggered, his lips peeled back in an ugly, defiant snarl. His gun dropped from his hand and he turned away, out of the fight.

Tyree ignored the dying outlaw and concentrated on the redhead who had shucked both guns and was firing, streaks of orange-red flame slashing across the darkness. A bullet burned across Tyree’s right cheek as he slammed a shot at the redhead, then another. Hit hard, the man screamed and went down, blood blossoming scarlet on the front of his shirt.

A bullet tugged viciously at Tyree’s sleeve. The third outlaw steadied himself for another shot and both men fired at once. The rustler’s bullet spitefully split the air next to Tyree’s ear, but Tyree’s own Colt bucked and the round smashed into the man’s right shoulder. The rustler cursed and took a couple of steps back, his gun hanging loose in an arm that no longer had the power to lift it.

“Don’t even think about trying,” Tyree snapped as the outlaw tried to throw his Colt to his left hand. “Make the shift and I’ll drill you square.”

It was over.

The wounded outlaw swore savagely, his face a twisted mask of disbelief and hate. He dropped the gun and stepped away from it. “Damn you,” he yelled, pain hacking at his voice. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Chance Tyree.”

Recognition dawned in the outlaw’s face and his stunned jaw hung slack. “Heard that name plenty of times. They say Clay Allison once backed off from you.”

Tyree nodded. “That’s what they say.”

“We never stood a chance agin’ you, did we?”

His face bleak, Tyree answered, “There were three of you and you were ready and I reckon you could have done better. But as soon as you drawed down on me, you were bucking a losing game.”

“My name is Roy Will, and that’s my brother Jed lying there with two of your bullets in his chest,” the rustler said. “Is he dead?”

“As he’ll ever be.”

“Then I swear to God I’ll kill you for this, Tyree. One day I’ll catch up with you and kill you, even if it takes me the rest of my life.”

“Which won’t be long, boy,” Luke Boyd said, stepping from the shadows into the circle of the firelight. “On account of how I plan to hang you right here and now from the nearest tree.”

“No, Luke.” Tyree’s words were soft spoken, but they cut like a knife across the silence that followed Boyd’s statement. “Seems to me, there’s been enough hanging around here already.”

The old rancher looked shocked. “But, Chance, that’s what we do with no-good rustlers in the canyonlands.”

Tyree was suddenly tired, sick of all the dying that lay around him. “Luke, Lorena told us that Quirt Laytham and Sheriff Tobin have declared open season on rustlers. Take him into Crooked Creek and let those two deal with him.”

Boyd seemed uncertain, but when he met Tyree’s eyes and saw their hard, determined light he let it go. “Well, if you say so, but I’d rather string him up my ownself.” He glanced around the camp. “I heard this one say his name was Roy Will. Who are the other two?”

“The man by the fire is Jed Will, this one’s brother. The redhead over there, I don’t know his name.”

“Trace Henderson,” the man called Roy said. “Out of Blanco County, Texas. Ran with Jesse Evans for a spell and killed his share.”

“Well, his killin’ is done,” Boyd said. “And good riddance I say.”

Owen Fowler led the horses into camp and looked around him, his face pale with shock. “Are they . . . are they . . . ?”

“Yup, Owen, both of them are dead as rotten stumps,” Boyd said, rising from where he’d been kneeling beside Henderson.

“Then we have to bury them,” Fowler said, a man who couldn’t come to terms with the destruction around him desperately latching on to something he did understand.

“Need a shovel for that, and we don’t have one,” Boyd said. “I saw a cave back in the arroyo. We’ll lay ’em in there. Good a place for their kind as any.”

Tyree kneeled by the fire and placed the fry pan back on the coals and shook the bacon. “Let’s eat first,” he said. “No point in letting good grub go to waste.”

Tyree and the others rode back to the cabin with their prisoner under a moonlit sky ablaze with stars.

When he was a ways off, Boyd yelled to Lorena that he was coming in, and the door swung open a moment later, throwing a rectangle of light onto the porch. The girl ran into the yard.

When her father dismounted, Lorena threw herself into his arms. “Pa, where were you? I’ve been so worried.”

“Later, child. I’ve got a wounded man here.”

“Who?”

Lorena’s alarmed eyes went directly to Tyree, but he smiled and jerked his thumb at Roy Will. “Not me, him.”

Had he seen real concern in Lorena’s face? Why, when her father said someone was wounded, had she looked for him first? It could, Tyree decided, mean nothing. Or everything.

Fowler volunteered to unsaddle and feed the horses. Tyree followed Lorena and her father into the cabin. As the girl began to wash blood from the outlaw’s shoulder, Boyd told her what had happened, sparing none of the details.

Lorena stopped what she was doing and looked at Tyree, an expression of horror crossing her lovely face. “You killed two of them?” She glanced at Will’s shattered shoulder. “And you did this?”

Tyree nodded. “It was either them or me. It was a mighty sudden thing and I didn’t have time to study on it.”

Lorena continued to look at Tyree for a long moment, a tangle of confused emotion in her eyes. She’d been born and raised in the West, and she knew well what happened to rustlers when they were caught. But now, seeing it up close in all its bloody reality, she was obviously struggling to come to terms with what had happened.

“Chance did what he had to do, Lorena,” Boyd said mildly. He pointed at Will, who was sitting with his head bowed, sullen and silent. “Him and the others were taking my bull and they were willing to fight to keep it.”

Lorena struggled to regain her composure. “Is this what it means to be a named gunfighter, Chance? Am I seeing the true, cruel reality behind all the dime novels? In a single instant to have the ability to cut down two men and smash another’s shoulder to pieces?”

Though aware of the barb, Tyree smiled. “Yes, that’s what it means. That and other things.”

The girl lifted her head high. “Then I hope to God I never meet another gunfighter. There isn’t a Hereford bull in the world that’s worth the lives of two men.”

“I’m with you there,” Tyree said, nodding toward Will. “But maybe him and the other two should have thought of that before they stole it.”

“That’s what I say, boy,” Boyd agreed. The rancher put his hand on Tyree’s shoulder. “Do you recollect my telling you to ride on once you were well enough? Well, that don’t go no more. You played the man’s part today, Chance, and I’m beholden to you. Stay on here as long as you want.”

Whatever Tyree was about to answer was lost as the door opened and Fowler stepped inside. “I rubbed down the horses and fed them,” he said. “Turned the rustlers’ mounts into the corral. Rubbed down your paint too, Lorena. He was lathered up some.”

The girl nodded. “I went riding just before sun-down. I was about to go see to him when you all came back.”

Fowler nodded toward Will. “How is he?”

“His shoulder is bad,” Lorena said. “I think the bullet is still in there. I’ve done all I can, but he needs a doctor.”

“He’ll see one tomorrow,” Boyd said. “At first light I’m leaving with him for Crooked Creek.”

“And I’m coming with you,” Fowler said.

Tyree looked at the man, his face alarmed. “Owen, do you think that’s wise? Quirt Laytham means to kill you, and Sheriff Tobin won’t lift a finger to save you. Those two are in cahoots, tighter than Dick’s hatband.” Ignoring Lorena’s annoyed frown, he added, “Owen, you stay here. I’ll ride into town with Luke.”

Fowler shook his head. “No, Chance, this has been going on for too long and it’s got to stop. Tobin is a sorry excuse for a lawman, I admit, but I’m going to demand he bring in the United States Marshal. Let the marshal investigate Laytham’s claim that I’m rustling his cattle.”

“Owen,” Lorena said quickly, “I’ll talk to Quirt. I’ll get this whole sorry mess cleared up. I’m still sure there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”

Fowler’s smile was slight. “Thanks for the offer, Lorena, but I still think I’ll put my trust in the U.S. marshal.”

Tyree was about to object again, but Boyd cut him off. “Chance, I’ll be with Owen in Crooked Creek. People know me in town; they’ve known me for years. Nothing will happen to Owen so long so I’m with him.”

Despite his misgivings, Tyree conceded to himself that Boyd had a point. He’d been in the canyon country for over twenty years and by Fowler’s account was well liked and respected. It was unlikely Laytham would try to kill Owen while Luke was with him.

“Besides, Chance,” Boyd was saying, “if Lorena is wrong about Laytham and everything you and Owen have been telling me is a natural fact, you’re a marked man your ownself.”

“I’m not wrong, Pa,” Lorena flared. “I just know I’m not wrong about Quirt.”

“Well, anyhow, it’s settled,” Boyd said. “Come first light, Owen and me will ride this bull-stealing varmint to Sheriff Tobin and have him telegraph the marshal.”

“What are we going to do with him until then, Pa?” Lorena asked. “He’s in bad shape.”

Boyd drew his gun. “I’ll take him to the barn and tie him up good. He’ll be comfortable enough.”

Roy Will, who had been sitting through all this in a hurting silence, stood and turned to Lorena. He gestured at his bandaged shoulder and with the Western man’s inherent respect for decent women said, “I’m much obliged to you, ma’am.”

As Boyd prodded the rustler toward the door, Will’s eyes slanted to Tyree and flashed him a look of implacable, burning hatred. Then he was gone.

Tyree followed Boyd outside, glanced at the night sky and what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

The moon was covered in blood.