“Sam Neary?” Pettigrew spat. “He’s a butcher. He’s a butcher when he’s sober and worse when he’s drunk—and he’s drunk most of the time. Let him be, girl. He can’t help here.”
“Zeb,” Tyree said, “cut the damn thing out of there. Do it now.”
He heard Sally’s sharp intake of breath and saw the fear in her face. He held her hand tighter. “I’ll be all right, Sally. Maybe that Yankee captain was just unlucky.”
Zeb grinned. “You got that right, boy. Luck’s got a lot to do with it.”
The old man took a pocketknife from his overalls, opened the blade and passed the knife to Sally. “Burn that blade real good in the flames, girl,” he said. “And don’t worry none about the soot, it won’t do any harm.”
When Pettigrew deemed the knife was ready, Tyree turned his back to him and the old mule doctor went to work. The tip of the blade dug deep and Tyree felt Pettigrew working it this way and that as he dug for the shard of steel.
The pain was intense, and Tyree breathed hard between clenched teeth. Despite the coolness of the night, sweat covered his face and stained his shirt. Sally held his hand, her face pale and drawn in the yellow firelight.
“Damn, but it’s deep,” Pettigrew muttered. “Real deep.” He placed a hand on Tyree’s shoulder and spoke into his ear. “I can see the metal, boy. It ain’t no longer than a match head, but it’s got a jagged end to it. Trick is to get it out o’ there without nicking your spinal cord.”
“Do what the hell you have to do,” Tyree said, a harsh, irritated edge to his voice. Then, surprised at his own angry tone, he said, softer this time, “Zeb, just . . . just get it over with.”
“Doing the best I can,” the old man said. “But I could sure use some more light in here.”
The knife blade dug deep again. “Just gonna ease the iron away from the backbone,” Pettigrew muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Nice and easy . . . real nice . . . and easy . . .”
Tyree felt the knife scrape bone to the right of his spine. Then again. And again.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, wanting to cry out, to yell at Pettigrew to stop, but he knew there was no going back from this. It had to be done.
To add to the light, Sally threw another branch on the fire, and flames flared up, shot through with dancing red sparks. Out among the mesas hungry coyotes were complaining to the night and a haloed moon dominated the rectangle of sky that could be seen high above the canyon walls. The still air around Tyree smelled of wood smoke, blood and man sweat, and when he looked over at Sally he saw that his suffering had become a physical force that was pressing down on the girl like a mailed fist.
He took Sally’s hand again and tried a weak smile as Pettigrew’s knife scraped and skidded in his raw flesh. But the smile quickly died on his lips and he closed his eyes tight against the hurt.
“Got it!” the old man yelled after what seemed like an eternity. “And I was right. Damn thing’s as sharp as a mesquite thorn.”
Pettigrew rose and stepped in front of Tyree. He took the younger man’s hand and dropped a tiny piece of the steel ring into his palm. “That little thing was what caused all the trouble. Hard to believe, ain’t it?”
Sally also rose to her feet. “Zeb, is his spine . . . I mean . . .”
“It’s too early to tell,” Pettigrew said. “If the surgery was a success, he’ll be able to take some steps in a day or two. If it wasn’t . . . well, we’ll see.” He handed his bloody knife to Sally. “Heat that blade until it’s red-hot. I have to cauterize the wound real good. I can’t risk an infection getting started so close to the backbone.”
Sally did as she was told, and Pettigrew got behind Tyree again, the red-hot blade held upright in his hand. “This is gonna hurt like the dickens, boy.”
Without waiting for a reply, Pettigrew instantly plunged the glowing knife into the open wound. Tyree heard his flesh sizzle and almost fainted from the searing, hammering agony of it.
“It’s done,” Pettigrew said. He eased Tyree against the wall of the canyon. “Now you rest up, boy. Gather your strength.” The old man turned to Sally. “I’ll try to come back in a day or two and see how he’s doing. In the meantime, don’t let him attempt too much. His legs will be weak for a while, so he’ll have to take it one step at a time.”
Sally was effusive in her thanks, but the old man waved them away with a dismissive hand. “Hell, girl,” he said, “I’d a done it for a sick mule.”
After Pettigrew left, Sally sat beside Tyree and held him in her arms, listening to his soft breathing as he slept.
Beyond their canyon, out in the vastness of the night, the coyotes were still calling, and the fire crackled and snapped, bathing them both in a shifting scarlet light.
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.
Guns of the Canyonlands Page 15