Guns of the Canyonlands

by Ralph Compton

  Tyree reloaded quickly, and, ignoring Sally’s frantic yell to stop, he leaped over the rock wall and ran for the cabin. His blood was up and he was full of fight, determined to end it. It was time to smash Daley and those who’d come with him so that he’d never have to see their shadows foul the earth again.

  The rider who’d sought refuge in the barn dropped to one knee and fired at Tyree from the door. Without slackening his pace, Tyree again triggered both Colts and, hit hard twice, the man slumped to the ground.

  Off to his left, Tyree heard pounding hoofbeats as a frightened rider cut and ran, a man who had just experienced enough of gunfighting to last him a lifetime.

  That left only Clem Daley and Len Dawson. And to Tyree, thinking back to when he first entered the canyonlands and ran afoul of those two, it seemed his life had come full circle.

  Tyree slowed his pace as he reached the corner of the ruined cabin. He eased down the hammer on one of his Colts and stuck the gun into his waistband. On cat feet, he moved to the front of the cabin. He stepped out into the yard, his gun ready, but saw only Daley’s horse, its head hanging, reins trailing.

  A bullet thudded into the cabin wall and Tyree dived for the ground and rolled into the crawl space under the cabin porch. Another shot kicked up a plume of dust in front of his face, and a second slammed into a supporting timber, splintering slivers of pine.

  Tyree spotted a drift of smoke rise from the creek. He aimed low into the tufted grass along the bank, thumbed off a shot and was rewarded by a yelp of surprise and pain as a man was hit.

  Immediately, answering bullets slammed around him, spurting angry Vs of dirt inches from where he lay, others chewing into the wood boards above his head. It was time to move. If he stayed where he was he could be shot to pieces.

  There was less than a foot of crawl space, but it was enough for Tyree to work his way toward his left where the porch ended. Squirming on his belly, he dislodged an old pack rat’s nest built close to a supporting beam, sending up a small veil of dust. After what seemed like an eternity he reached the end of the porch. He rolled clear from the crawl space, sprang to his feet and headed for the rear of the cabin at a run, bullets thudding venomously around his feet.

  Tyree was gambling that Daley and Dawson would expect him to head back to the shelter of the rock wall. But, a wild recklessness in him, he intended no such thing. He kept on running, rounded the front of the cabin again and vaulted into the saddle of Daley’s black.

  Swinging the horse around, Tyree ignored the bullets whistling past him and galloped to the stone breastwork where Sally was standing, the Winchester in her hands.

  Without slackening his pace, Tyree yelled, “Rifle!”

  The girl threw the gun and Tyree caught it deftly in one hand. He rode parallel to the base of the mesa for a hundred yards, then swung toward the creek. The big black hit the water at a flat run. Tyree stood in the stirrups, wrenched the horse’s head around and splashed along the shallows toward Daley’s position on the bank.

  The black’s hammering hooves churned up cascading columns of water as it closed quickly on Daley. The big deputy jumped to his feet and threw his rifle to his shoulder. He fired. A miss. Tyree fired and Daley staggered a step back, his face stricken, blood staining the front of his shirt just above the belt buckle. Levering his Winchester from the shoulder, Tyree fired again, and Daley was hit a second time. The big man rose on tiptoe, did a half turn and splashed facedown into the water.

  Dawson had left the creekbank. He fired his rifle from the hip and Tyree heard the bullet buzz past his ear like an angry hornet. Tyree swung the black away from the creek, riding straight at Dawson. The man tried to work his rifle, then looked down in panic at the gun as the lever jammed halfway on a round. He threw the rifle aside and went for his Colt. Tyree was so close, he held his Winchester in one hand, pushing the rifle out in front of him like a pistol. He fired at Dawson and then charged past him. The black, unnerved by the gunfire, got the bit in its teeth and galloped another fifty or sixty yards before Tyree managed to rein it in, the horse slamming hard onto its haunches before coming to a skidding stop.

  Tyree swung out of the saddle and looked across at Dawson, his gun ready. But the man lay flat on his back, his body spread-eagled, back arched against what appeared to be agonizing seizures of pain.

  Stepping to the fallen deputy, Tyree looked down at Dawson but saw no sign of a wound. The man’s face was ashen and his breathing was short and painful, hissing through tightly clenched teeth.

  Dawson’s frightened eyes lifted to Tyree. “Something is broke inside me,” he said. “It’s like a rock is crushing my chest and my left arm is hurting like hell.”

  Kneeling beside the fallen deputy, Tyree nodded. “Dawson, you weren’t hit by a bullet. I think your pump is giving out. Seen it once before in a man.”

  “Then it’s all up with me?”

  Choosing the truth over a lie, Tyree said, “I’d say it is. And soon.”

  Tyree looked up as Sally stepped to his side. He tapped his chest. “He’s hurting. In there.”

  “Hurting all over, boy,” Dawson said. “Maybe my conscience most of all.” He reached out and grabbed Tyree’s arm. “We never should’ve hung you, me and Clem. That was a hell of a thing to do to a man.”

  “I was only passing through,” Tyree said. “You and Daley should have let me be.”

  Age had faded Dawson’s eyes, and now approaching death was shadowing them further. “Tell me, Tyree. Was it really you who done for Laytham? I figured it had to be you.”

  Tyree shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know the man was dead until you told me.”

  “Well, it don’t make no never mind because ol’ Quirt done for his share his ownself, and Owen Fowler was sure enough one of them.” Dawson managed a thin smile. “It was Laytham who killed Deacon John Kent, you know.” He tried to raise his head, but the struggle was too much for him and he let it sink back to the ground. “I want to die clean, boy. Tell you how it was.”

  “Then let’s hear it. Get that weight off your chest, old man.”

  Dawson nodded, battling pain, his back arching like he was slowly being crushed by the claws of an iron crab. “See, Laytham wanted Fowler’s canyon, but the man had already staked his claim and the rumor was he’d soon get it all deeded and proper. Maybe Quirt could have taken it to court, I don’t know, but he didn’t have the patience for that. He wanted to get big and do it all at once, fast, like. Well, one day Laytham happened on Deacon Kent on the trail near the canyon. The two talked and after he said so long, ol’ Quirt turned and put a bullet into the preacher’s back. Me, I helped him dump the body near Fowler’s cabin. Then Quirt give me and Clem the preacher’s watch and money, told us how we should say we found them in the cabin on the table.”

  The death shadows were gathering dark gray in Dawson’s eye sockets and cheekbones. He gasped as a new wave of pain slammed him, then after a few moments whispered, “Laytham figured he’d move his cows into the canyon after Fowler was hung. He didn’t count on him getting a prison sentence. Still, he did for him in the end, and he paid the Arapaho Kid well for doing it.”

  The deputy shook his head, as though he was trying to erase bad memories. “Tyree, I ain’t proud of what I done. But Laytham said he’d get me fired from my lawman’s job and then he’d run me out of the territory if’n I didn’t help him. Me, I was too old for cowboyin’ and too proud to beg, so I done like he told me.”

  “Dawson,” Tyree asked, “who ordered the murders of Luke Boyd and Steve Lassiter? Was that more of Laytham’s doing?”

  The deputy shook his head. “Quirt had no hand in that.” Dawson felt death crowding him and he knew his time was short. He clutched Tyree by the front of his shirt. “Listen, there’s somebody else . . . somebody who wants respect, admiration maybe, and on top of that, he wants Quirt’s woman real bad. Crazy bad. He plans on being the biggest man in the territory and the only way he can do that is
by money and power. He . . . he . . .”

  Dawson was slipping away. Tyree leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear. “Who is he, Dawson? Who is that man?”

  The old deputy opened his mouth to speak, but the words fled his tongue as his heart faltered to a stop.

  Len Dawson was dead.

  Chapter 22

  Six dead men were scattered around the ranch, and Tyree and Sally spent the rest of that day burying them. It was hard, grueling work that involved dragging the bodies well away from the cabin and digging graves deep enough to discourage coyotes.

  One horse was dead, and Tyree dragged the carcass behind the powerful black to the mouth of a canyon where he left it to be taken care of by scavengers. On the plus side, he and Sally had acquired five good horses and enought weapons and ammunition to start a small war. Tyree also relieved two of the dead of their tobacco and papers, necessity overcoming any squeamishness he might have felt on the matter.

  Later, as the day died around them, he and Sally sat by the fire drinking coffee, lost in their own thoughts.

  The men on whom Tyree had planned to take his revenge were now all dead, and their passing had left a void inside him that he had no idea how to fill. As he sat and watched the firelight play in Sally’s hair, touching each curl with burnished gold, he made a vow—as long as he lived, he would never hate another man. To hate a man as he had hated Quirt Laytham was to walk in darkness, never again to see the light. He had lived long with his hate and the older it got, the tighter it became until it gripped his gut like a fist holding a stick.

  Now Laytham was gone, but Tyree found he could take no joy in his death.

  But perhaps there was a path to the light, a way to remove the emptiness inside him . . . replace the hate he’d felt with another, more tender emotion.

  He reached out and ran the back of his forefinger down Sally’s cheek. The girl smiled and inclined her head, trapping Tyree’s hand between her neck and shoulder. They sat that way for a long while as the coyotes called in the distance and the guttering fire made its small sound in the gathering darkness.

  At first light, Tyree rose from his bed in the barn and filled the coffeepot with water from the creek. He built up the fire and placed the pot on the coals to boil.

  Sally had heard him stir, and now she stepped beside him, looking impossibly fresh and pretty, despite the few stray straws in her hair.

  Anticipating her question, Tyree said, “I’m riding to the Rafter-L. I have to tell Lorena about her father.” He hesitated a few moments, then added, “And hear what she has to say about Quirt Laytham’s murder.”

  “Do you think she’ll accuse you?” Sally asked.

  Tyree shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope she was around me long enough to realize that I’m not a bushwhacker. But there’s no telling how she’ll react. Could be when I tell her what Len Dawson said she’ll change her mind about Laytham, although I’m not counting on it. What is a lowlife like Dawson’s word to Lorena, or anybody else come to that?”

  “He was dying when he told us about Laytham killing the preacher,” Sally pointed out. “Don’t dying men always tell the truth?”

  His face bleak, Tyree said, “I’ve heard dying men lie, right up until they took their last breath. Lorena will have no reason to believe me, but I’ve got to try.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Sally said. “I like Lorena and I think she likes me. I’m sure she’ll listen when I tell her you’d nothing to do with her intended’s death.”

  Tyree nodded. “I’m hoping she will. As it is, she’ll take the news about Luke real hard and coming on top of what happened to Laytham. . . . Well, who knows how she’s going to react.”

  The girl hesitated, thinking about what she had to say, then managed finally, “Chance, Luther Darcy could be at the ranch.”

  “I thought about that, Sally. But if he is, let me deal with him. Him and me, we’re in the same business—the gunfighting business—and it’s only a question of who between us learned his trade better.”

  “Chance,” Sally said, “I’ll take a shot at Darcy if I can. I haven’t let go of a thing.”

  There was no point in arguing and Tyree knew it. He took the pot from the fire. “Ready for coffee?” he asked.

  The night shadows were washing out of the canyons, and the mesas and ridges stood out sharp and clear in the morning light as Sally and Tyree rode away from the cabin toward the Laytham ranch, following a route Lorena had once described to him.

  They rode for most of the morning through the wild country. Around them lay a vast, endless maze of winding canyons, craggy ridges and red-and-yellow mesas, one layer of rock piled on another, each a little smaller than the one before, like a tiered wedding cake. The air of the new day, still free of dust, smelled fresh and clean. They rode by a couple of deer, then a small herd of pronghorn antelope grazing under a cottonwood by a slow-moving creek, their heads buried to the ears in dark green grass.

  The sun was almost directly overhead in a cloudless sky when Sally and Tyree topped a low lava ridge and saw the Rafter-L spread out in a wide valley below them.

  The ranch was dominated by a white-painted, two-story frame house with a veranda wrapped around three sides and a spectacular backyard view of a towering mesa. To the right and left of the main house were stables, a blacksmith’s forge and other buildings, including an extensive bunkhouse, all of them well maintained. A couple of roofed artesian wells, shaded by trees, provided cool water, adding a reliable supply to the rushing spring that ran just to the north of the property.

  Whatever Quirt Laytham had been, he knew ranching and he hadn’t stinted on hard work, as his place testified.

  Tyree rode down the slope of the ridge, Sally following close behind. They reined up in the yard in front of the house, the eerie silence of the place enveloping them. Nothing stirred, not even the wind, and the door to the bunkhouse stood open, some scattered scraps of clothing lying in the dirt outside as though the occupants had left in a hurry.

  “Hello the house!” Tyree called out.

  He was answered with a hushed, uneasy quiet.

  “There’s nobody to home,” Sally said, her voice sounding very small in the oppressive silence. “Maybe they’re all attending Laytham’s funeral.”

  “Could be,” Tyree agreed. He looked around him, wondering what to do next. He was an uninvited stranger here and couldn’t very well go barging into the house.

  Then he and Sally heard it at the same time . . . the slow, steady beat of a muffled drum. The noise seemed to come from the cookhouse, a small cabin with an iron chimney built for convenience sake near the bunkhouse. But no smoke rose from the stove inside, and, like the one to the bunkhouse, the door stood ajar.

  The drumming stopped for a few moments, then started up again, a slow, cadenced Thud! Thud! Thud!

  “Wait here, Sally,” Tyree said. “I’m going to take a look-see.”

  He felt no sense of impending danger, but he eased the Colt in his waistband, bringing it closer to hand should he have to draw in a hurry.

  Tyree walked his horse to the cookhouse, looking around him. No one was in sight, and this at a time when the ranch should have been bustling with activity, the smith’s hammer clanging, riders coming and going, the ranch cook busily preparing the hands’ lunchtime beef and beans.

  And where was Lorena?

  As he swung out of the saddle, the drumming, which had stopped momentarily, began again. But this time there were only a few beats, then the drum fell once again into silence.

  As Tyree remembered, ranch cooks were often a bad-tempered bunch, notoriously touchy about anyone entering their domain uninvited. He stopped outside the door and asked, “Anybody to home?”

  A second or two passed; then a weak voice from inside whispered, “I’m in here.”

  Tyree stepped inside, and once his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a man lying on his back on the floor. Blood was congealed on the pine boards around the fallen co
ok, the white apron around his waist stained a rusty red. What looked to be a wooden washtub had fallen at the man’s left foot, and he hit it with the toe of his shoe. The tub gave off a dull thud. “Knew if I kept this up long enough, somebody would eventually come looking,” he said.

  Kneeling beside the cook, Tyree asked: “What happened?”

  “Hell, that’s easy to see, even for a puncher,” the cook snapped. “I’ve been shot through and through.”

  “Who shot you?” Tyree asked.

  “Is it bad?” the cook asked, ignoring Tyree’s question.

  Quickly Tyree untied the man’s apron and looked at his wound.

  “Well, is it bad?”

  Tyree nodded. “Yeah, as bad as it gets. You’ve been gut-shot.”

  “Thought so,” the cook muttered. “Paining me considerable.” His eyes sought those of Tyree in the dimness of the cabin. “Been bad around here recently. Luther Darcy showed up real early this morning before first light. Killed one of the hands who stood up to him and ran the rest off. Miss Lorena, she came down wearing only her nightgown and tried to get them boys to stay, but they lit out just the same, said she couldn’t pay them enough to face Darcy.” The cook coughed, a rush of blood staining his lips. “Can’t say as I blame them.”

  “Darcy do this to you?” Tyree asked.

  The man shook his head. “Nah, even Luther Darcy knows good cooks are hard to replace. He had me pour him some coffee after the killing, but he didn’t offer me no harm. He stayed awhile, back-talked Miss Lorena, and then rode out of here.”

  “Then who—”

  “Nick Tobin.”

  Tyree was stunned. “Sheriff Tobin shot you?”

  “After Darcy left, maybe an hour before you showed up, he stepped in here and asked me who was to home. I said only me and Miss Lorena, and as soon as I got the words out, without even a howdy-do, he shucked his pistol and shot me. Then he walked away mighty fast toward the house.”