Guns of the Canyonlands

by Ralph Compton

  Tyree smiled as he built himself a smoke. He’d never been a soldier, but he’d learned enough about tactics over the years to know that attacking an entrenched enemy along a narrow front was always a losing proposition.

  He calculated that right about now Quirt Laytham must be fuming, and the thought pleased him immensely.

  Tyree thumbed a match into flame and lit his cigarette. He pushed the Henry out in front of him and waited. When would Laytham renew the attack? That question was answered less than ten minutes later.

  A bullet hit a rock near where Tyree was crouched, splattering stinging splinters into his cheek. A second thudded into the butte above his head and a third smashed into the Henry, sending it flying from its place on the rock.

  Tyree stretched out and picked up the rifle—and his shocked eyes beheld a disaster. The shot, luckier than most, had badly mangled the magazine tube close to the chamber.

  He swore under his breath. The rifle would shoot the round under the hammer, but the chances were that it would not feed a second. Without the Henry, he was as good as dead and Fowler with him. It was not a thought to comfort a man.

  Tyree scanned the bank of the wash and saw a flash of metal behind a cottonwood about a hundred yards away. Laytham’s men were coming at him on foot, using whatever cover they could find.

  Drawing a bead on the cottonwood, Tyree waited. A few slow seconds ticked past, then he saw a man in a blue flannel shirt step out from behind the tree, his Winchester coming up fast.

  Tyree fired at the same time as the Laytham rider. The man jerked under the impact of the Henry’s .44 bullet and his rifle spun away from him. Clutching a shattered and bloody shoulder he turned and, crouched over, stumbled away, his face white with shock.

  Lead whined off a rock in front of Tyree as he worked the lever of the Henry. To his relief, he heard a reassuring clink-clunk as the bent and dented loading tube fed a round. But would it feed another?

  There was no time to ponder that question. A man was working his way along the canyon wall toward him, a second close behind. Both were carrying Winchesters and were stepping warily, their eyes on Tyree’s position.

  Tyree sighted on the man in the lead. He took a breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. His bullet hit the tobacco sack tag hanging over the man’s shirt pocket dead center. The Laytham rider spun, then slammed against the mesa wall. He slid to a sitting position, his head lolling loose on his shoulders, dead before he hit the ground.

  The second man fired a wild shot that split the air above Tyree’s head; then he was running, looking back fearfully over his shoulder.

  “Five down, seven to go,” Tyree whispered to himself, his smile a grim, tight line. He tried to crank the Henry, but the lever jammed halfway on a mangled round.

  The damaged rifle was useless.

  Weak as he was, the side of his shirt glistening with blood, Tyree knew Laytham and his surviving men were still dangerous and capable of mounting another attack.

  He had to find a replacement rifle and fast. The trouble was, the guns were out there . . . with the dead.

  Chapter 5

  Warily, Tyree rose from his position behind the rocks. Moving on cat feet, he stepped toward the canyon wall. It was very hot and still, the rugged parapets of rock surrounding him a barrier to any passing breeze. Overhead the sky was blue, hemmed in close by the stone ramparts on either side of the wash, a few fluffy white clouds visible now and then. The Laytham rider he’d killed was still slumped over in a sitting position, the front of the man’s shirt thick with blood that was already starting to dry.

  The rifle he needed was there, and along with it the dead man’s revolver. Looking constantly in the direction of Laytham and his riders, Tyree kneeled beside the dead man, knowing that if the rancher decided to attack now he’d be caught out in the open and quickly cut down.

  Tyree picked up a .44-.40 Winchester that lay close to the body and stripped the gun belt from the man’s waist. The Colt was nickel-plated with hard rubber grips and was in the same caliber as the rifle. Every loop in the cartridge belt was full. Tyree strapped the gun belt around his hips, adjusting the position of the holster to his liking.

  There was as yet no sign of another attack, and Tyree took time to look around him. The bay gelding that had earlier collided with the downed sorrel was grazing in the shade of a cottonwood near the creek, apparently unhurt. Tyree took a couple of steps toward the animal and called out softly. The bay lifted its head, the bit jangling, studied the approaching human for a few moments without concern, then went back to grazing.

  There was still no sign of Laytham’s men, and Tyree decided to take a chance. He needed a horse and what looked to be a good one was standing just a few yards away. Speaking in a reassuring whisper to the animal, he stepped closer. The bay again lifted its head, but this time the horse nickered uneasily and arcs of white showed in its eyes as it pranced backward a few steps.

  “Easy, boy,” Tyree whispered, still moving toward the horse. “Easy, boy.”

  The bay retreated further, stepping lightly, its head high, alarmed by the closeness of the tall man and the smell of blood that clung to him.

  Tyree made a grab for the trailing reins, but the bay sidestepped, then turned and galloped back in the direction of Laytham and the others.

  Cursing under his breath, Tyree watched the horse go, its hammering hooves kicking up a churning cloud of dust. He turned and went back to his position among the rocks, disappointment tugging at him.

  He’d badly wanted that horse and now it was well out of his reach.

  The day wore on and the shadows cast by the cottonwoods slowly lengthened. The sky shaded to a cobalt blue and now the passing clouds were rimmed with gold. His eyes bloodshot and painful, Tyree kept his gaze on the trail beside the creek, but he saw no sign of activity.

  Had Laytham gone, deciding to wait for another day when the odds would be more in his favor?

  That question was answered a few minutes later when the rancher himself rode toward Tyree’s position, a white rag tied to the barrel of the rifle he carried butt down on his right thigh. Laytham’s teeth showed white under his full, black mustache. But he was not smiling. It was the irritated grimace of an angry man.

  Laytham was flanked by a big-bellied fat man on a mouse-colored mustang. The man had a lawman’s star pinned to his vest and his mouth was concealed by a huge, ragged mustache, the ends drooping over the first of his several chins. Sheriff Nick Tobin wore round, dark glasses and, judging by the white of his hair and mustache, Tyree guessed the man was an albino, his eyes sensitive to the glare of the sun.

  There was a pale, unhealthy look to Tobin, like he’d been buried deep in damp ground for a week, then dug up and shoved on a horse. Yet his shoulders and arms were thick, and Tyree realized not all of the man’s bulk was fat.

  Laytham reined up when he was still a hundred yards away and he cupped his mouth with his left hand, a plaited leather quirt dangling from his wrist.

  Tyree idly wondered if that was how the man had gotten his name.

  “Chance Tyree!”

  “I hear you, Laytham,” Tyree yelled. “What do you want?”

  “You killed some of my men, Chance Tyree. That was an ugly thing, mighty ugly.”

  “They were trying to do the same to me, Laytham.”

  The big rancher kneed his horse forward and stopped closer to Tyree’s position. “I’m carrying a flag of truce, Tyree,” he said.

  Despite his weakness and the gnawing pain in his side, Tyree laughed. “Don’t go thinking that’s going to protect you any if I take it into my head to shoot.”

  Laytham stiffened slightly in the saddle, but not a trace of fear crossed his heavily jowled face with its massive, stubborn chin.

  “Chance Tyree, I know you,” Laytham called out. “Heard about you being an expert Texas shootist who has killed his share of men. Heard you gunned Handsome Dave Rinker over to—”

  “If that’s what you h
eard, you heard right.” Tyree shifted the Winchester to his shoulder, putting his sights squarely on the top button of Laytham’s fancy vest. If this was a trap, the big rancher would be the first to die.

  “Chance Tyree! Can you hear me? This is Sheriff Tobin.”

  “I guessed who you were, Tobin.”

  “Tyree, Mr. Laytham has leveled a very serious accusation. He says Owen Fowler has been rustling his cattle and has taken them back to his canyon. I saw the brands on those cows, Tyree. They’re Rafter-L.”

  “Tobin, Laytham told you a damned lie. His cattle are on Fowler’s grass all right, but Laytham put them there.”

  The following silence stretched into several minutes as Tobin and Laytham, heads together, discussed matters between them. Finally the sheriff kneed his horse a few steps forward and yelled, “Tyree, we have a proposition for you.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s Owen Fowler we want, not you. I could arrest you for murdering members of my legally appointed posse. But I won’t, not if you come out of them rocks. I’ll give you back your horse and guns and you can ride out of the territory free as you please. That’s a mighty generous deal Mr. Laytham and me are offering you, Tyree, and I advise you to take it.”

  Tyree smiled. He knew if he accepted Tobin’s offer he’d be playing with a cold deck. The sheriff and Laytham would never let him leave the canyon country alive.

  “Forget it, Tobin,” Tyree yelled. “I’m not going to bite at that worm.” He hesitated a few moments, then yelled, “Laytham, now it’s your turn to listen to what I have to say. Acting on your orders, Tobin’s deputies hung me for no other reason than I was a stranger passing through. Owen Fowler saved my life and I plan on standing by him.”

  “Damn you, Tyree!” Laytham yelled. “Damn you and your kind to hell.”

  The rancher made a move to swing his horse away, but Tyree’s shout stopped him. “Laytham, I could shoot you out of the saddle right now. But that would be too easy. I plan on destroying you. You walk a wide path, but I aim to strip you of everything you own. I’ll ruin you, Laytham.”

  Tyree lowered the rifle from his shoulder. “There’s a reckoning to come between us. Depend on it.”

  His face black with rage, Laytham stood in the stirrups and roared, “You talk of reckonings, Tyree, and you’re right—there’s one to come. But it will end with you and Fowler kicking from the same gallows. You have my word on that.”

  “Your word means nothing to me, Laytham,” Tyree yelled. “Now hightail it out of here before I lose sight of that surrender flag and start shooting.”

  An anger beyond anger hurtling him into the ragged edge of insanity, Laytham bellowed like a wounded animal and ripped the white rag from his rifle. He threw the Winchester to his shoulder, but Tobin quickly raised his hand and grabbed the barrel. Tyree couldn’t hear what the sheriff was saying, but judging by the frantic manner the man was gesticulating, he was pleading with Laytham to let it go and wait for another day.

  Tyree rose to his feet and shouldered his own rifle. If Laytham came at him, he’d be forced to drop the man, spoiling the plans he was making for him.

  But it seemed that Tobin’s frenzied words had gotten through to the rancher. Laytham abruptly turned his horse and galloped back toward his waiting men.

  For a few moments the fat sheriff sat his mount, staring in Tyree’s direction, the flaming evening sky reflecting bloodred in the lenses of his glasses.

  “Tyree,” the man yelled, “this was ill done. Mr. Laytham means what he said. He’ll see you hang.”

  “Pick up your dead, Tobin,” Tyree called back, suddenly tired, all his talking now done. “Bury them decent for God’s sake.”

  The sheriff made no reply. He turned his mustang and trotted after Laytham, his back stiff. When the lawman was gone, Tyree left his place in the rocks and rounded the butte where Fowler stood beside his buckskin.

  “Heard all that,” he said. “You’ve made my enemies your enemies and it seems to me that neither of us stands a chance against them.”

  Tyree managed a grim smile. “I was a stranger passing through. They had no call to do what they did to me. Count on it, there will be a reckoning.”

  Fowler shook his head. “Chance, we were lucky today. You killed a few of Laytham’s men, but they weren’t the best of them. He still has a score of riders left, the Arapaho Kid and Luther Darcy among them.” The man stepped closer to Tyree and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Take my horse. Ride north out of here and don’t stop until you clear the Utah Territory. This is my fight, not yours.”

  “No, Owen,” Tyree said. “When they hung me, shot me and left me for dead, it also became my fight.”

  Exasperation showed on Fowler’s narrow, lined face, its gray jailhouse pallor not yet burned away by the sun. “But Quirt Laytham is too big and getting bigger by the day. One man can’t declare war on an empire.”

  Without a trace of false pride or brag in his voice, Tyree looked Fowler in the eye. “This one can.”

  Fowler, in turn, looked into Tyree’s eyes and saw a terrible green fire. He realized with a dawning certainty that hell was coming to the canyonlands.

  Chapter 6

  Both of them again up on the buckskin, Tyree and Fowler followed Hatch Wash north for several miles as the day faded into evening. Out among the canyons the talking coyotes were filling the night with their sound and a hunting cougar roared once in the distance, then fell silent.

  Fowler swung west and splashed across the creek, entering a narrow draw with steep, high walls. Struggling spruce and juniper were just visible in the failing light, clinging to narrow outcroppings of rock high above them. The bottom of the draw was sandy and clumps of mesquite grew here and there, brushing against the legs of the riders with a dry, rasping hiss.

  “We’re headed due west, toward the Colorado,” Fowler said over his shoulder. “But in an hour or so we’ll cut north toward where Hatch Wash meets the river. Where we’re going we’ll be pretty much near level with the peaks of the La Sal Mountains to the east.”

  “You mean the slot canyon?” Tyree asked.

  “Thought it through and changed my mind about that,” Fowler said. “You need plenty of bed rest and good grub. We’re going to pay a visit on an old friend of mine, a man called Luke Boyd. He’ll see us all right.”

  Now the sun was gone, the night air was turning cool, and Tyree, having lost so much blood, shivered.

  Fowler, a perceptive and caring man, turned in the saddle. “Reach behind the cantle, Chance. I’ve got me a mackinaw inside my bedroll.”

  Tyree found the coat and quickly shrugged into it, grateful for the warmth of the wool, thin and threadbare though it was.

  After thirty minutes the draw widened out into a patch of open, flatter country, less hemmed in by the surrounding bastions of rock. Mesquite and clumps of rabbit bush covered the ground, and the night air smelled of cedar and juniper.

  As they cleared the confining walls of the draw, Tyree looked up and saw a sky full of stars. The moon was not yet visible, but already its diffused glow was painting the land around them the color of tarnished silver.

  Weak as he was, Tyree nodded in the saddle, lulled by the rocking motion of the buckskin and the sound of its soft footfalls on the sand.

  Fowler’s voice woke him. “Almost there, Chance, but from now on we ride real careful. Ol’ Luke Boyd has a Sharps fifty-seventy ranged at a hundred yards and he’s never been bashful about using it.”

  “Must be a real good friend of yours, huh?” Tyree asked, the smile in his voice evident.

  “He was, before I was sent to prison. I guess he still is, but in the dark a Sharps sometimes can’t tell the difference between friend and foe, so I plan on making sure he knows it’s me that’s a-coming at him.”

  “What’s he do, this Luke Boyd with the Sharps ranged at a hundred yards?”

  “He runs a one-loop spread a couple of miles east of the Colorado. He als
o does some gold prospecting around here from time to time. Between one thing and another, he’s always gotten by. Has himself a right lovely daughter called Lorena. I guess she must be about twenty-five by now. Luke says she was the child of his old age.” An edge of bitterness crept into Fowler’s voice. “Quirt Laytham is sweet on her. He says he wants to marry her, and last I heard, Lorena hasn’t said yes, but she hasn’t said no.”

  As the moon swung into the sky, Fowler urged the buckskin up a steep rise crested by jumbled rocks of all sizes, dark clumps of mesquite and juniper growing among them. Once there he reined in the horse and pointed to a narrow valley below them.

  “See the light beyond the creek? That’s Luke’s cabin. I’d say we’re in good time for supper.”

  Tyree looked over Fowler’s shoulder. The bright moonlight reflected on the creek, turning it into a ribbon of silver flanked on both sides by grass and cottonwoods, and farther out, scattered stands of piñon pine and spruce. The cabin was built on the far side of the creek, backing up to the massive rampart of a flat-topped mesa that rose in a series of pink-and-yellow ledges to a height of more than six thousand feet. A ribbon of gray smoke tying bow-knots in the still air, lifted from the cabin’s chimney, and even at a distance Tyree smelled burning cedar.

  The dark bulk of a barn loomed a distance to the left of the cabin, beside it a pole corral and a windmill. A small bunkhouse, its single window darkened, stood off a ways, closer to the creek.

  It was a wild, beautiful place, but one that echoed of isolation and aching loneliness, located as it was between earth and sky in the midst of a hard land where life was a daily struggle and everything came at a price, paid in sweat or blood—or both.

  It was, Tyree decided, no place for a lovely woman. The thought surprised him. He only had Fowler’s word for it that Lorena was lovely . . . but somehow he knew, perhaps from the music of her name, that she was.

  “Once we get onto the flat, I’ll hail the cabin,” Fowler said. “Let me do the talking and show as little of that Winchester as you can. Then we ride in real slow and easy, and do nothing sudden. Luke Boyd isn’t a trusting man.”