Guns of the Canyonlands

Chapter 17

Within a couple of days, Sally helping to support him, Tyree was taking half a dozen steps at a time, struggling mightily to keep moving, the devil of impatience riding him. At the end of his second week he was walking almost normally and most of his strength had returned. He left the canyon, shot another deer and gathered wood to cook it, his back giving him little trouble.

A little more than two weeks after he’d been wounded, he rose at first light and saddled the steeldust. It was time to leave.

Tyree and Sally rode in the direction of the Colorado where it flowed through Glen Canyon, turning their backs to the rawboned peaks of the Henry Mountains. The river was low at this time of the year, flowing between large sandbanks; salt cedar, willows and tall reeds grew close to the water’s edge. They splashed across the river without difficulty then headed east, riding through wild and lonely country across miles of untamed land. Wherever possible they kept to the flat, but occasionally climbed benches of reddish brown-and-orange rock onto eroded mesas where junipers stirred and offered their thin shade.

It was in Tyree’s mind to loop north along Hatch Wash and ride directly to Luke Boyd’s cabin. When he voiced his plan to Sally the girl offered no objection.

They topped a mesa streaked with wide swaths of blue-black, the result of leeching mineral deposits, and rode through stands of thriving juniper. Ahead of them the sky was cloudless, a flock of buzzards gliding in lazy circles against a natural canvas of pale blue.

Tyree watched the scavengers as they gradually dropped lower, unhurried and patient, knowing their time would come. Beyond the mesa something was dead or dying.

The mesa ended abruptly and below them lay a wide, open valley, green with grass and spruce, a thick stand of aspen along its eastern side. The path down wound from bench to bench. None of the slopes were steep, and the swings and switchback trails were easy for the horses to negotiate.

When Tyree and Sally reached the flat, a rabbit bounded away from them, then made a quick left turn around a saddled bay mustang that had moved out from behind a wide spruce a hundred yards away. The horse lifted its head to look at them, then unconcernedly began to crop grass.

Tyree had seen that ugly hammerhead before—it was Steve Lassiter’s horse.

“Wait, Sally,” he said, reining up the steeldust. He studied the land around him, but nothing moved in the stifling heat of the afternoon, only the serene, circling buzzards.

“Is it a stray?” Sally asked, her eyes on the mustang.

Tyree shook his head. “No, I recognize the horse and it couldn’t have strayed this far from its home range.”

He kneed the steeldust into motion and rode toward the bay. The pony lifted its head again and studied the approaching riders with mild interest, then went back to grazing.

Steve Lassiter lay about twenty yards from his mount. He was lying on his belly, and when Tyree swung out of the saddle and pulled the man over on his back he counted three bullet holes in the rancher’s chest.

“Is he dead?” Sally asked, kneeling beside him.

Tyree nodded. “Been dead awhile—since late yesterday, I’d say.”

“Do you recognize him, Chance?”

“Yes. His name is Steve Lassiter. He has a ranch north of here. He was forever running out of tobacco, and his wife got testy when he came home late for supper. That’s all I know about him.” His eyes bleak, he added, “Isn’t much of an epitaph for a man.”

“Who could have done this?” Sally asked. “A rustler maybe?”

Tyree shook his head at her. “No, this is the work of somebody Lassiter knew and trusted. He was shot at close range, judging by the powder burns on his coat. Out here a man doesn’t get that close to someone he doesn’t know.”

Tyree scouted the area but found nothing. The killer of Steve Lassiter had left no clues behind. The rancher had not been robbed. He still had a wrapped plug of tobacco in his pocket and a small package of colored ribbons, no doubt intended for his wife.

Tyree was worried. By all accounts Quirt Laytham was not a patient man. Was he already moving against the other ranchers? Was the murder of Lassiter the first move in the deadly chess game that would eventually win him all the available grazing land between his ranch and the Moab settlement?

And what about Lorena? How did she fit into all this? Was she still seeing Laytham and did she approve of his plans? Did she approve of Lassiter’s murder? That hardly seemed likely and Tyree was ashamed that he’d even given thought to the possibility. But in a land where every man’s hand was turned against him, he realized it was easy to see enemies behind every tree.

A sense of impending danger nagging at him, Tyree turned to Sally. “We’ll take Lassiter to Luke Boyd’s place. I don’t know where the man’s ranch is located and in any case, his wife has never met us and she’ll need words of comfort from a friend.”

With Sally’s help, Tyree got the dead man across the saddle of the bay, the mustang dancing nervously at the scent of blood.

They rode east to the wash then swung north, arriving at the Boyd cabin just before noon. Luke must have seen them coming from a distance because he was already at the door when Sally and Tyree reined up in the yard.

“It’s Steve Lassiter, Luke,” Tyree said, dropping the reins of the mustang. “He’s dead.”

Boyd’s face looked like it had been carved from a block of granite. “How did it happen?”

Tyree shrugged. “Sometime yesterday he was shot three times at close range. Sally and me found him just west of the Hatch Wash. He had a new plug of tobacco in his pocket and some ribbons for his wife, so chances are he was riding back from Crooked Creek when he was murdered.”

“Steve had been losing cattle, told me so,” Boyd said. “Then, about a week ago, his barn was set on fire. He got the horses out, but the barn itself burned to the ground. Nothing left but ashes.” Boyd looked uncomfortable. “Quirt Laytham offered to take the place off his hands, told Steve that more and more rustlers were coming down from Moab and out of the Disappointment Creek country in the Colorado Territory and that pretty soon they’d pick him clean. Laytham mentioned a good price but Steve refused.” Boyd’s face was suddenly old. “And now this.”

“Luke, do you think Laytham’s behind Steve Lassiter’s murder?” Tyree asked.

The old rancher shook his head. “Chance, I don’t know what to think anymore.” He waved a hand toward the cabin. “Lorena moved out. She’s staying at Laytham’s place. Now they’re talking about getting hitched come the fall.”

This last was like a punch in the gut to Tyree. For a few moments he sat his saddle stunned, unable to believe his own ears. Lorena was living at the Rafter-L and planned to marry Laytham. It didn’t make any sense. Couldn’t she see past the man’s flashy exterior to the rot underneath?

“Chance, step down and set, and you too, Sally,” Boyd said. “There’s a good beef stew on the stove and a fresh-baked loaf of sourdough bread. You two he’p yourself while I take Steve home to his missus.” Boyd looked hard at Tyree. “And when I get back, you can tell me where the hell you’ve been for the past two weeks.”

Darkness was falling around the cabin when Luke Boyd returned. He stomped inside and immediately asked, “Did you two eat? I swear you’re both as skinny as bed slats.”

Tyree smiled. “Yeah, Luke, we ate, and it was good. Hope we left enough for you.”

Boyd waved a hand. “Don’t matter none. I haven’t got much of an appetite. Poor Jean Lassiter took her husband’s death hard and then we had a burying to do, the two of us.” The old rancher cast around in his mind for the right words, then said, “When I left her, she was sitting alone in the dark grieving. She’d traveled to a place I couldn’t reach and she no longer heard a word I said.”

“Luke, I’ll ride out there tomorrow morning,” Sally said. “You can tell me the way. Maybe being close to another woman will help.”

Boyd nodded. “Maybe so.” He turned haunted eyes to the girl. “Yes, Sally, maybe that will help right enough.”

Tyree rose from the table and poured coffee for the rancher. Then he found the jug and added a generous shot of whiskey. “Drink this, Luke,” he said. “Make you feel better.”

The old man nodded his thanks and drank. After a few minutes the color began to return to his cheeks. “Now tell me what’s been happening since I saw you last.”

Tyree told Boyd about his search for Sally and his shoot-out with the bartender at Bradley’s. He described how Sally had brought him to a canyon and Zeb Pettigrew had removed the chunk of steel from his back.

“My suspenders were ruined and since then I’ve had a time holding up my britches.” Tyree smiled, trying to lighten the mood around the table.

“Got me a spare set, Army canvas like you was wearing,” Boyd said. “You can have them.” The old man reached for the jug and splashed more whiskey into his cup. “Chance, about a week or so ago, Steve Lassiter was talking about you, stuff he’d heard. He said you were wanted dead or alive for the murder of Benny Cowan at Bradley’s saloon. Said a couple of Laytham punchers swore you drew down on Cowan and gunned him while he was a-squealing like a pig for mercy.” Boyd sipped his whiskey. “Son, it almost seems like every man in the territory is against you and your life isn’t worth a plug nickel. My advice to you is to get out of the canyon country while you still can.”

Tyree’s eyes hardened. “Luke, you know I can’t do that, not while I still have a score to settle with Quirt Laytham.”

Boyd shifted in his chair, uneasy about what he had to say. “Chance, I like you. I like you a lot. But you’re talking about the man my daughter intends to marry.” He hesitated, then added, “If it comes right down to it, I may have to take a side.”

Tyree nodded. “You do what you have to, Luke. I believe you are an honorable man and you’ll do what you believe is right.”

“I’ll make that decision when the time comes, if it comes,” Boyd said. “No hard feelings, Chance. You see how it is with me.”

“No hard feelings,” Tyree said, a lost, lonely ache inside him.

Sally left early in the morning to bring what comfort she could to Jean Lassiter, and after breakfast Tyree helped Boyd with chores around the ranch.

The sun had reached its highest point in the sky when Boyd straightened up from the wagon wheel he was greasing and looked toward the creek, shading his eyes with his open hand.

“Riders coming, Chance. Three of them. Maybe best you stay out of sight.”

As the riders splashed across the creek, Tyree faded back to the bunkhouse and partially closed the door behind him, leaving it open a crack to watch what was happening. He drew his gun and waited.

Boyd had stepped into the yard and the three men reined up opposite him. “What can I do for you boys?” the old rancher asked. “Starting to get right hot already.”

One of the riders—the tall man in the duster who had been in Bradley’s saloon when Tyree shot Benny Cowan—put both hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward. “We’re scouting the canyon country, looking for murdering scum who calls himself Chance Tyree,” he said. “You seen him?”

Boyd shook his head. “Not in a coon’s age. Spoke to a man by that name maybe a month ago, but he was just passing through.”

One of the riders had split away from the others and had headed toward the barn. Now he returned. “There’s a big steeldust in a stall back there, Chet,” he said to the man in the duster. “Looks powerful like the horse Tyree was riding.”

The man called Chet said, “Well, do tell.” He looked down at Boyd, a thin smile on his lips. “Now, Mr. Boyd, we know your daughter and our boss are planning to get hitched soon, so we don’t want to cause you no trouble, you being almost kin, like. But I’ll ask you one more time—is Chance Tyree here?”

The old rancher shook his head. “I haven’t seen him, so you boys just ride on out of here.”

Chet nodded, his smile slipping slightly. “Well, if’n that’s the case you won’t have no objections to us taking a look around.”

The man was about to swing out of the saddle when Tyree’s voice stopped him cold. “You looking for me?” he asked.

Tyree was standing outside the bunkhouse, his gun hanging loose in his hand. He was relaxed, but there was nothing careless about his posture. He was alert and ready, and by the wary look in the eyes of the three Laytham riders, they knew it.

Caught flat-footed, Chet eased back into the saddle and tried a bluff. “Tyree, Sheriff Tobin swore us three in as deputies, and we’re here to arrest you for the murder of Benny Cowan.”

Tyree’s mouth was a grim line. “You were there. You saw what happened. It was self-defense. That lowlife back-shot me.”

“Well, now, as it happens, maybe I got a different opinion on that. So I guess you’ll just have to state your case to the judge.”

Tyree laughed. “Judge? Why, you lying tinhorn, you’d never let me reach Crooked Creek alive.”

“Harsh talk, Tyree,” Chet said, his blue eyes hardening. “Mighty harsh and insulting. And me, I never take an insult from nobody.”

The man reached for his gun—and Tyree shot him.

For a few moments Chet stretched to his full height in the stirrups. Then his gun dropped from his hand, and he looked at Tyree, a puzzled frown on his face, as though he was trying to understand the awful fact of his dying. His eyes glazed and he fell from his horse, thudding onto the hard-packed dirt of the yard.

“His play, not mine,” one of the other riders said quickly as Tyree swung his smoking Colt on him. The rider turned to the man beside him. “Ain’t that right, Lloyd?”

The man nodded, his face stiff. “Chet called it.”

“Then load him on his horse and get him out of here,” Tyree said, anger riding him. “And tell Tobin if he wants to arrest me for murder, come himself next time.”

“Mister,” Lloyd said, “next time we come there will be a lot more of us, and we’ll come a-shooting.”

“So be it,” Tyree said. “I’ll be waiting.”

Sally Brennan returned to the cabin as the day was shading into evening. She looked tired, as though Jean Lassiter’s grief had used her up and drained her vitality.

“How is she?” Boyd asked the girl.

Sally’s face was pale, strain etched deep in her eyes. “Jean Lassiter grieves for her husband, and without him, she no longer wants to live,” she said. “She refuses to eat, she won’t sleep and very soon she’ll die. Whoever pulled the trigger on Steve Lassiter murdered two people.”

Boyd looked like he’d been struck. “There’s been so much death,” he said. “Too much dying.” He took a step toward Sally, shaking his head. “We had another killing here today.”

“What happened?” the girl asked, her eyes slanting to Tyree, knowing he would be the one to answer her question.

“Tobin made three of Laytham’s men deputies,” Tyree said. “They came looking for me and one of them went for his gun.”

Sally looked at Boyd, then back to Tyree. “I have to be on my way,” she said. “Things are moving so fast and I’ve still got to do what I came here to do.”

“Stay here, Sally,” Boyd said. “Lorena left out the dresses you liked. She said you’d come back for them. You can have Lorena’s room.”

Sally shook her head, blond curls bouncing around her face. “Thank you, Luke. Maybe there will be a time for pretty dresses after I kill Luther Darcy. Or I’ll be dead and will have no need for dresses.”

Tyree made up his mind. “I’m coming with you, Sally.” He turned to Boyd. “Luke, I can’t stay here any longer. If I do, I’ll only bring Tobin and his men down on you.”

The old rancher opened his mouth to object, then came a dawning awareness of the logic of Tyree’s statement. “I’ll sack you up some grub,” he said. He glanced at Sally, who was dressed in her shabby men’s clothes and looked very young and vulnerable. “Girl, you wouldn’t care to step away from this Luther Darcy thing? Just let it go.”

“No,” Sally said. “I can’t step away from it. If I did, the fact of my brother being dead and his killer still walking the earth would haunt me like a gray ghost for the rest of my life.”

A sadness shaded Boyd’s eyes. “Both of you are obsessed with revenge. In the end you might destroy those you hate, but in the process you could destroy yourselves.” The old rancher stepped to his desk and took a wooden box from a shelf. He opened it and showed the contents to Tyree and Sally. “There’s almost two hundred dollars in there—money I was saving for Lorena. Take it and ride east into Colorado. Get away from here. Leave your hate behind before it devours both of you and strips you clean to the bone.”

Sally leaned over and kissed Boyd on his hairy cheek. “Thanks for the offer, Luke. I know it was kindly meant, but I have to be riding now.”

“I guess that goes for me too,” Tyree said. He stuck out his hand. “You’re a fine man, Luke Boyd.”

The old rancher took Tyree’s hand and searched the younger man’s eyes. “I don’t know how this will all play out,” he said, “but I hope I never have to choose my side.”

“That goes for me, too,” Tyree said, again feeling a hurt in him. He smiled.

“Buena suerte, mi amigo.”

“Good luck to you, too,” Boyd said. He hesitated a fraction of a second, then added, “My friend.”

Under a wide starlit sky, Sally and Tyree rode east toward the La Sal Mountains, then swung south along the west bank of Hatch Wash. There was no possibility that they were being followed, yet both turned often and checked their back trail, the night falling behind them full of phantoms.

The darkness crowding around them, they made camp among tumbled rocks in a stand of cottonwoods and built a fire that was barely big enough to boil their coffee and fry some of the bacon and sourdough bread Boyd had packed for them. When they’d eaten, Tyree threw the last of the coffee on the coals. It was unlikely Tobin and his deputies would ride at night, but now was not the time to take chances.

At first light they saddled up and rode out. They angled away from the wash and headed into the wild broken country of the canyons, leaving little trail.

After an hour the two riders followed a game and cattle trail into some scattered juniper and sage, the land around them patchy desert and high sandrock. They emerged at the base of a vast tableland that rose in gradual steps to a height of well over a thousand feet. Tyree leading the way, they climbed, taking a steep, switchback route up the slope.

As the sun climbed directly overhead, Sally and Tyree stopped on a high, flat plateau of pink rock scattered with huge boulders and stunted spruce where they could overlook miles of country.

Less than thirty minutes later, they saw punchers driving a herd north along the wash, followed a few minutes after that by a group of ten riders heading in the same direction. The posse, if that’s what it was, kicked up so much dust it was impossible to pick out individual riders. But Tyree had no doubt that Tobin was among them, and likely Laytham and Luther Darcy.

Tyree turned to Sally, a smile on his lips. “Well, as of right now it, looks like I’m still being hunted, so where do we go from here?”

“Do you think Darcy is down there among those riders?” Sally asked.

“It’s likely. After I told Laytham he had to get out of the territory or be destroyed, he wants me dead real bad. Darcy is his man, his finger looking for a trigger.”

Sally was silent for a few moments, deep in thought. Then she said, “Chance, when they don’t find you they’ll probably go back to Crooked Creek and head for the saloon. That’s where Darcy will be, and that’s where I’m going.”

Tyree was aware of the dangers that awaited him in Crooked Creek, but he could not step back and allow Sally to go there by herself.

Now he put his thoughts into words. “Then I’m going with you,” he said. “You could get your damn fool little head blown off if I’m not around to help.”

Sally’s temper flared. “You think I’m a child, don’t you?”

Before Tyree could answer, she stood on tiptoe, threw her arms around him and her mouth reached hungrily for his. They melted into each other, Tyree surprised at the depth and sudden, white-hot heat of his passion.

But Sally pulled away from him, panting, her high, firm breasts rising and falling under her gingham shirt. “Did that feel like a child’s kiss?”

Utterly lost, trying desperately to stem that dam of desire that had broken inside him, Tyree said, “No . . .” His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “No, it wasn’t,” he managed. “It was a grown woman’s kiss.”

Sally tossed her head, her curls bobbing. “Then stop treating me like a child.”

“I won’t,” Tyree said sincerely. “I won’t ever again.”

He reached for the girl, but she stepped beyond his outstretched arms. “Later, Chance, when all this is over. I can’t give myself to you or any other man until then.”

Tyree fought himself, fought to douse the fire in his belly, and when the flames finally flickered and died, the woman smell of the girl no longer making his head swim, he managed a weak grin. “But grown woman’s kiss or no, I’m not letting you ride into Crooked Creek alone.”

“I never for a single moment thought you would,” Sally said.