Guns of the Canyonlands

by Ralph Compton

  Alarm clamoring at him, Tyree asked, “Where is Lorena?”

  “Still at the house I guess,” the cook said. “Leastways she didn’t come a-running after she heard the shot that’s done killed me.”

  Tyree rose to his feet. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

  “Hell, I ain’t goin’ no place,” the cook said.

  Tyree sprinted for the house, ignored Sally’s shouted question and bounded up the stairs of the veranda to the front door. He tried the handle, but it had been locked from the outside.

  Fear sliding into his belly like a knife blade, he raised his boot and kicked the door. Once, twice, then it crashed inward, splintering wood from around the lock. Behind him he heard Sally’s bewildered yell, “Chance, what are you doing?”

  But he didn’t take time to answer. He ran into the house and called out, “Lorena, where are you?”

  The house was silent, but for the slow, stately tick of a grandfather clock standing in the hallway.

  There were several rooms opening off the hall, and Tyree entered all of them. One was a parlor, another a dining room, both expensively and ornately furnished in the accepted mode of the time, but Tyree took no time to admire the decor.

  Lorena had to be upstairs, maybe hurt.

  Taking the steps two at a time, Tyree ran up the winding staircase and when he reached the landing he hollered again, “Lorena!”

  There was no answer.

  Tyree tried a bedroom. It was a man’s room, no doubt Laytham’s, but it was empty. He tried another room off the long hallway. That too was empty. The door to the remaining room was slightly ajar. Tyree pulled his Colt and walked on cat feet to the door, the gun upraised and ready. He pushed the door wide, slamming it hard against the wall, then stepped inside—into a scene of unimaginable horror.

  Chapter 23

  Lorena was sprawled across the top of her bed. She was naked, torn scraps of her nightgown scattered around the floor, a look of terror mixed with outrage frozen on her dead white face.

  Tyree willed himself to step closer, trying desperately to grapple with the stark reality his eyes were revealing to him. The woman had been used like a line-shack whore and then strangled, deep purple bruises marring the smooth skin of her throat.

  Her assailant had been a powerful man, with strong hands, bringing to Tyree’s mind’s eye the thick shoulders and heavy arms of the massive Nick Tobin.

  Lorena had fought like a tiger, both for her life and her virtue. Under the nails of one outflung hand, Tyree noticed shards of skin and a few hairs—long, white hairs.

  On the dresser lay a stack of currency. Numb, scarcely aware of his actions, Tyree picked it up and riffled through the bills with his thumb. There was all of a thousand dollars there—and now came the dawning realization of who had put up the money to bribe him to leave the territory.

  He had no way of knowing how and where it had happened, but Lorena must have finally decided she loved Quirt Laytham and wanted to get rid of the man who had vowed to do him harm. That was why she had given Tobin the money and told him to make the offer.

  After the death of Laytham, Tobin had made returning the bribe an excuse to visit the ranch. He’d shot the cook, then, blinded by lust, the lawman had thrown himself on Lorena. But she’d fought him, and in the end Tobin had murdered her.

  Afterward, no doubt horrified by the enormity of what he’d done, the man had fled in a panic, leaving the money behind.

  Tyree realized it must also have been Lorena who had told Luther Darcy to warn him out of town. That was why the gunman had not pushed a gunfight at the livery stable.

  Lorena had done what she thought was right, and Tyree could not find it in his heart to blame her. Whatever she’d felt or believed was now in the past, and Tyree would not dwell on it. He knew by bitter experience that in the carriages of the past, a man can’t go anywhere.

  He stepped back to the bed.

  He shouldn’t be seeing Lorena like this, nor should anyone else. Gently, he closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her breasts, then covered her with the calico quilt that had dropped to the floor during the struggle.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Sally called out, “Chance, where are you?”

  “In here,” Tyree said, aware of the strange, hollow echo of his voice.

  Sally stepped into the room and her eyes widened in horror when she saw the still figure on the bed. “Lorena?” she asked.

  Tyree nodded. “She was murdered. Strangled.” Then he said, “Nick Tobin.” He saw in Sally’s eyes that he had no need to elaborate further.

  “Chance, was she . . . was she . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Tyree said. “She was.” He stepped to the girl and took her in his arms. “Now just let it go. Don’t think about it.”

  Sally laid her head on Tyree’s shoulder and sobbed, her shoulders heaving. After a few minutes, Tyree led her from the bedroom and out of the house and into the bright light of the day.

  He left Sally sitting head bowed on the steps to the veranda and went back to check on the cook. The man was dead.

  Tyree had vowed to never hate another man, but his loathing of Nick Tobin went deep, and with it came a killing fury. He knew exactly what he was going to do—ride to Crooked Creek, gun the fat albino and leave him dead in the street.

  That was to come. But first he had a burying to do.

  Tyree went back to the Lorena’s bedroom, wrapped her up tightly in the quilt and carried her downstairs. With Sally at his side, he walked with the dead woman in his arms until he found a shady spot surrounded by trees a ways from the house.

  He went back and got a shovel and buried Lorena in the dry earth, then Sally read words from a Bible she’d found in the house.

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul . . .”

  After she’d finished reading, Sally closed the Bible. She and Tyree stood in silence by the graveside for a long time, then turned away, their faces like stone, and walked back to the ranch.

  The dead cook was a complete stranger to Tyree, but he would not leave him to the coyotes. No matter what he was, what kind of a man he’d been, he deserved to be decently laid to rest. Tyree was there, so he had it to do. The cook’s dying had ceased to be his own affair and had become a matter for the living.

  There were still a couple of hours of daylight left after Sally and Tyree buried the ranch cook and swung into the saddle and headed for Crooked Creek. Neither of them felt much like talking until they reached the brush flats just as the sun was dropping in the sky and the first lamps were being lit in the town.

  “I’m going to Tobin’s office. If he’s not there, I’ll try the saloon,” Tyree told the girl. “Sally, maybe you should wait at the livery stable until I deal with Tobin.”

  The girl shook her head. “I plan to be with you every step of the way,” she said. “Lorena was my friend.”

  Tyree saw by the stubborn set of Sally’s chin that he could not talk her out of going with him. “All right, but just make sure you take every step of the way real careful.”

  The sky had turned a dark scarlet to the horizon, banded by thin, violet clouds as they cleared the flats and rode into town. Lamps glowed pale orange in the houses and businesses along the main street and the bright lights of Bradley’s splashed a rectangle of yellow on the boardwalk.

  As Sally and Tyree rode past the livery, Zeb Pettigrew hailed Tyree, and waved him over.

  “If’n you’re looking for Luther Darcy you’re a spell too late,” the old man said, looking up at Tyree sitting tall and grim in the saddle.

  “Him,” Tyree said. “And Nick Tobin.”

  Pettigrew scratched under his beard. “Tobin’s gone too. Rode in here late this morning with his face all clawed up, like he’d had an argument with a cougar, then him and Darcy talked and left in a hurry.”

  “Which way were they headed?” Tyr
ee asked, disappointment tugging at him. He’d badly wanted Tobin to be in town. And Darcy too, come to that.

  “North,” Pettigrew said. “Maybe hunting you.”

  Tyree glanced around him, at the crowding darkness, and knew there could be no going after Tobin until sunup.

  Pettigrew read Tyree’s grim face, and asked: “You got something to tell me, boy, seein’ as how I’m what you might call an interested party?”

  Tyree nodded, and the old man said, “Let’s step into my office. We can talk there.”

  Tyree swung out of the saddle and so did Sally. They walked their horses to the barn, then left them inside while they stepped into Pettigrew’s tiny office by the door of the stable.

  The old man poured coffee for them both. “Here,” he said, handing them each a steaming tin cup, “you two look like you could use this.”

  Pettigrew sat back in his creaking chair while Sally and Tyree perched on his desk. “Well, tell me all,” the old man said, smiling under his beard. “Let the play begin.”

  Tyree rolled a smoke, thumbed a match into flame and lit the cigarette. While he smoked he began by telling Pettigrew about his fight with Clem Daley and Len Dawson.

  The old man nodded his approval. “The world’s a sight better off without them two,” he said. “An’ that’s a natural fact.”

  Then, his face strained, Tyree told about the events of the morning.

  Pettigrew looked like he’d been struck. “So that’s why Tobin’s face was all tore up.” He shook his head. “I remember Lorena when she was just a skinny kid in pigtails,” he said. “She rode this old paint mare, half the time without a saddle, and she explored just about every corner of the whole territory.”

  Swallowing hard, Pettigrew rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I just can’t believe Lorena is gone. She was such a beautiful girl.”

  “Now you know why I want to find Tobin,” Tyree said.

  “He won’t come back here,” Pettigrew said. “After I spread the word around town, if he shows his face in Crooked Creek again, he’ll be lynched and I’ll haul on the rope my ownself.”

  “Why would a man, any man, do a thing like that?” Sally asked, her voice faltering a little.

  Pettigrew’s grin was bitter. “Girl, I’ve known Nick Tobin for a long time, and he isn’t a man—he’s a freak. He doesn’t think like other men. One time he told me all his plans are long-term, years from now, and that he’d be a big man in the territory one day and walk a wide path. In the meantime he was happy to sit there in his office with them pink eyes of his shut and dream his big dreams, biding his time. I figure he only went along with Quirt Laytham because he wanted all the things Quirt had: a big ranch, a beautiful woman, money and power. Tyree, I’m a watching man, but I’m also a thinking man, and I always reckoned Tobin planned on someday taking them all away from him.”

  “Zeb, do you think Tobin killed Laytham?” Tyree asked.

  The old man nodded. “Could be he got tired of waiting. If he didn’t kill Laytham his ownself, he had somebody else do it for him.”

  “Lorena’s father is dead, killed by Luther Darcy, and so is Steve Lassiter,” Tyree said. “And I found a couple of Laytham’s punchers murdered at Lassiter’s ranch.”

  “And Jean?” Pettigrew asked, his faded eyes troubled.

  “Found her grave,” Tyree said. “I don’t know how she died.”

  The old man sat deep in thought for a few moments, then said, “Son, you surely do have a tiger by the tail. I think Tobin had already made his move to take over the Laytham’s place and every other ranch between here and Moab.

  “Killing Luke Boyd and Steve Lassiter was the beginning. Then he got rid of Quirt Laytham and the way was wide open for him.

  “Only trouble was, his big dreams ended when he rode into Laytham’s ranch this morning with a woman’s body on his mind. Now all he can do is leave the territory, but I reckon he’ll try to get even with you afore he does.” Pettigrew shrugged. “You’ve been a big part of his downfall.”

  “I’ll be waiting for him,” Tyree said. “I’m heading back to—” He realized he was about to say, “Luke Boyd’s place,” but corrected himself and said, “My place. I’ll make myself an inviting target.”

  The reference was not lost on Pettigrew. “You’ve staked yourself out a spread?”

  Tyree nodded. “You could say that. Luke Boyd signed his ranch over to me just before he died. I intended to ask Lorena if she wanted it”—he hesitated, his face bleak—“but that’s not going to happen now.”

  Rising to his feet, Tyree said, “Well, I’m riding, Zeb. I want to be at my cabin come first light. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.” He nodded to Sally. “And take care of my best girl while I’m gone.”

  “Zeb, there’s no need to do that,” Sally said. “I won’t be staying in Crooked Creek.”

  “Sally,” Tyree snapped, exasperation edging his voice, “I aim to put myself in harm’s way. No point in us both getting killed.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m going with you, Chance,” the girl said stubbornly, “to see you don’t get killed.”

  Tyree threw out his arms and turned to Pettigrew. “Zeb, make her see reason.”

  The old man grinned. “Tyree, when love comes in the door, reason flies out the window. And there’s an end to it.”

  “And I do love you, Chance Tyree, and that’s why I want to be at your side,” Sally said. “I want to be at your side always, through the good times and bad.” Her eyes searched Tyree’s face. “Can you understand that?”

  For a few moments, Tyree was speechless. Then came the dawning realization that this pretty, brave and wonderful girl had just said she loved him. He took Sally in his arms. “I understand perfectly. Then I guess it’s you and me.”

  The girl nodded. “You and me, Chance, together, for now and for always.”

  “For now and for always,” Tyree repeated, liking the sound of it.

  Pettigrew sniffed. “Damn it all,” he said, “if them wasn’t the purtiest words I ever did hear. Now you two get out of here afore I start to caterwaul.”

  Sally and Tyree swung into their saddles and rode out of the barn, turning their horses toward the north.

  “You two be careful,” Pettigrew called out after them. “And come back in one piece.”

  The two young riders loped onto the brush flats, the lights of Crooked Creek falling behind them. Ahead lay a hidden trail and the dangerous dark of the night.

  Chapter 24

  The moon swung into the sky and the land around them was bathed in pale light as Sally and Tyree entered the canyonlands and rode north along the bank of Hatch Wash. Around them lay a vast country of deep shadows and brooding silences, the mesas and ridges standing like ghostly sentinels, guarding the troubled night.

  As the two riders looped east toward the cabin, an owl urgently questioned the darkness as they passed, its call carrying no echo, a lost and lonely sound that went unanswered.

  Sally and Tyree left the yelps of the coyotes behind them as they reached the creek under a roof of stars and rode toward the cabin. There was no wind, as though the land was holding its breath, waiting for what was to come.

  Ahead of them, Tyree saw a dull, red glow in the sky that puzzled him. It was only a faint smear of scarlet against the brighter light of the stars, but Sally saw it too. She turned to him in the saddle. “Trees on fire maybe? Or grass?”

  Tyree shook his head. “I don’t think so. I reckon it’s a campfire, a mighty big one at that.”

  “Tobin?” the girl asked.

  “Could be,” Tyree answered. “He’s a pale, bloodless creature and he might be feeling the night chill.”

  As they drew closer to the ruined cabin, the reason for the glow in the sky gradually became apparent. A huge bonfire burned in the yard, fed by wood scavenged from the ruin, a few heavy logs flaming at its base.

  Tyree reined up and slid the Winchester from the scabbard. He swung ou
t of the saddle and told Sally to do the same. The girl dismounted and stepped beside him. “I . . . I don’t understand, Chance. Why this?”

  “It’s a beacon, Sally. To bring us here. They knew we’d see it and wonder at it.”

  “Like moths to a flame,” the girl said, her face revealing her unease.

  “Something like that,” Tyree said. “And I’d say Tobin and Darcy already know we’re here.”

  They left their horses where they were and walked toward the bunkhouse and cabin. There was no one in sight, the only movement the flickering flames of the fire, the only sound the crackle and snap of the burning logs. As they reached the sidewall of the bunkhouse, a log at the center of the fire fell under its own weight, sending up a cascade of bright red sparks that danced into the darkness.

  Where were Tobin and Darcy?

  Tyree, his senses tuned to the danger, felt their presence, as though even now they were watching him, waiting before they moved in for the kill.

  Sally was right behind him, close enough that he could hear her fast little breaths. His mouth dry, Tyree transferred his rifle to his left hand and wiped a sweaty palm on his jeans before again taking the gun in his right.

  Tyree stepped around the corner of the bunkhouse, pushed the door open with the barrel of the Winchester and stepped quickly inside. The glare of the bonfire bathed the place in a shifting scarlet-and-orange light. It was empty.

  Closing the door behind him, Tyree motioned Sally to follow and they walked on cat feet toward the corral. He had repaired the pulled-down fence and all the horses were still there, standing around quietly, without any show of alarm.

  Slowly, Tyree worked his way past the corral toward the barn. A single cloud drifted across the face of the moon, deepening the shadows around them, and something big jumped in the creek, its splash loud in the silence.

  Tyree stopped in midstride and studied the barn. The doors were open and the building was shrouded in shadows, an angled wedge of moonlight falling across the dirt floor. The tin rooster at the peak of the roof caught a brief passing breeze and swung, creaking, in Tyree’s direction, as though annoyed by his intrusion.