Guns of the Canyonlands

by Ralph Compton

  Turning to Sally, Tyree whispered, “Stay here. I’m going to check out the barn.”

  The girl’s eyes were scared. “Be careful, Chance,” she said. “I don’t like it here.”

  Tyree managed a weak grin. “That makes two of us.”

  He stepped toward the barn door, trying his best to keep to the shadows. At the entrance he stopped and levered a round into the chamber of the Winchester, an intimidating chink-chunk! he hoped might unnerve anyone hiding inside.

  He heard a horse stomp its foot and blow through its nose somewhere in the dark interior. All the horses Tyree had taken after his fight with Daley and his men were in the corral. That had to be Tobin’s mount, or Darcy’s.

  Quietly, Tyree took a step into the darkness of the barn, his rifle up and ready. He took another, his eyes desperately trying to penetrate the gloom.

  But he never saw until too late the loop that dropped from above him and settled around his upper body and arms. The loop tightened, pinning his arms to his side. Then, from somewhere over his head, Luther Darcy yelled, “I got him, Tobin!”

  Tyree struggled against the imprisoning noose, but Darcy yanked it tighter. From out of the darkness Tobin’s face swung into view. The man had no need for dark glasses at night, and his staring, pink eyes looked strangely lifeless, without expression.

  Tobin drew back his first and crashed it into Tyree’s unprotected chin. Tyree took a step backward under the force of the blow, then sank to his knees, his head reeling. He desperately tried to free his arms, but the big sheriff now had the rope and he looped it again and again around Tyree, trussing him into immobility.

  “Darcy, get down from there,” Tobin said, looking up at the gunman. “I’ve got him knotted up as tight as Dick’s hatband.”

  Darcy, who’d been standing on a crossbeam just inside the barn door, dropped to the ground and with amazing agility and grace landed lightly on his feet.

  “Let’s take him outside,” Tobin said. “I want to watch his face when I start to burn him.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Darcy asked Tyree.

  Tyree tried to kick out at the gunman, but Darcy stepped back, easily evading the swinging boot, then slammed the back of his right hand across Tyree’s face, the loud crack making a horse snort and stamp uneasily.

  “Where is she, Tyree?” Darcy asked again. “I’ve got big plans for that little whore.”

  The smoky taste of blood in his mouth, Tyree said through split lips, “You go to hell.”

  Darcy smiled, his teeth flashing white under his mustache. “It doesn’t make no never mind. She hasn’t gone far. I’ll find her.”

  The gunman yanked the Colt from Tyree’s waistband then stooped and picked up the fallen Winchester.

  “I’ll take him out by the fire,” Tobin said, his pink eyes, white skin and the deep furrows Lorena’s nails had left on his cheek making him look like he was wearing a grotesque mask. “Maybe I’ll have some fun with him afore I finally burn him up.”

  The sheriff grabbed Tyree by the rope around his chest and dragged him out of the barn. Darcy followed, carefully looking around at the surrounding darkness as he stepped after Tobin.

  Tobin pulled Tyree close to the fire, so close Chance could feel the burning heat on his face. Tyree turned to Darcy, desperately trying to drive a wedge between the gunman and the sheriff, knowing it was his only hope and a slender one at that. “Darcy, you know Tobin is finished in Crooked Creek, don’t you?” he asked. “The word about what he did to Lorena Boyd got around fast, and I’m betting there’s already a lynch mob hunting him.”

  The gunman shrugged. “Hell, he didn’t do anything to her that ol’ Quirt hadn’t done already. Who misses an extry slice when the pie has already been cut?”

  “He murdered her, Darcy. Did he tell you that?”

  The gunman was startled. “No, he didn’t tell me that.” He turned to the sweating lawman. “Tobin, did you kill that gal?”

  Tobin’s eyes captured and held the firelight, glittering like rubies. “She struggled agin’ me, Luther,” he said, his voice rising in a thin whine. “She called me names, bad names, and I slapped her around a time or two but she wouldn’t let up. Then I took her by the throat. Hell, it was like when you strangle a bird. Just a little squeeze, and the next thing she was dead.”

  Fighting down his revulsion, Tyree tried to hold his voice steady as he said, “It was all for nothing, Tobin. You murdered Luke Boyd and Steve Lassiter for their spreads. And once you’d done that you decided to go for broke and had to get rid of the one man who had everything you wanted so you could take it all for yourself.” Tyree turned to Darcy again. “He had you lay for Quirt Laytham and kill him, didn’t he?”

  “It was easy.” Darcy smiled. “An aimed rifle shot at two hundred yards is no big thing. Of course, it was a traitorous act, my killing my boss like that, but the sheriff paid me well and that does sway a man.”

  “Enough of this talk,” Tobin said to Darcy. “Let’s burn him now.”

  “You’ve lost, Tobin,” Tyree said. “You can’t show your ugly face in Crooked Creek again without getting hanged, so all you can do now is make a run for it.”

  The big sheriff thought that through, the heat spreading his vile stench around him. His pink eyes suddenly scared, Tobin touched his tongue to his dry top lip and said, “He’s right, Luther. After we kill Tyree, we got to get the hell out of the territory.”

  Darcy laughed without a trace of humor. “What’s this ‘we,’ fat man?”

  “You and me, Luther, like we planned.”

  The gunman shook his head. “It’s you they want to hang in Crooked Creek, Tobin, not me. You don’t really think I killed Laytham for your benefit, do you? I was setting back, letting you do all my work for me, knowing I could pin the blame on you and Tyree later. Now I can claim the Rafter-L and the other ranches. Think about it, Tobin. Who is there around to stop me?”

  “But . . . but . . . that’s not how it’s going to be, Luther,” Tobin protested. “We can go somewhere else, the Colorado Territory maybe, and start all over again.”

  “With you, Tobin?” Darcy’s lips curled into contemptuous smile. “Do you think I want to live with your foul stink around me, those pink eyes always looking at me, you biding your time until you can put a bullet in my back? Tyree is right. You’re through, fat man. Your day is done.”

  Tobin let out an enraged cry that was almost a scream. He bent over, grabbed a thick, blazing brand from the fire and shoved it close to Tyree’s face. “You did this!” he shrieked. “You poisoned Darcy’s mind, turned him against me.” The flames came closer, licking Tyree’s skin. “Now I’m going to burn that pretty face right off’n you, boy. See what it’s like to be ugly like me, so ugly no woman would ever want you.”

  Tobin drew back his arm, preparing to shove the flaming brand into Tyree’s face, but a gun roared and the side of the man’s head disappeared in a sudden fountain of blood and bone.

  The sheriff staggered to his right, the brand dropping at his feet, then his knees collapsed and he fell headfirst into the heart of the blazing bonfire, flames and showering sparks hungrily embracing his body.

  “Just let him lay there,” Darcy said, smiling as he reloaded his smoking Remington. “His fat will feed the fire.” The gunman stepped in front of Tyree and shook his head, his smile widening to a grin. “At this very moment ol’ Nick Tobin is burning in two places, right here and in hell. Makes a man think, doesn’t it?”

  “What are you going to do with me, Darcy?” Tyree asked. “By now there are too many people who know you were involved with Tobin. Your only chance is to hightail it out of here and never come back.”

  The gunman shook his head. “Too thin, Tyree, way too thin. See, the way I figure it, there’s no one who can stand up to me in Crooked Creek. I plan to make myself sheriff, take over Laytham’s spread and all the other ranches between here and Moab and live high on the hog.” He smiled. “And I aim to tame that little B
rennan girl. She’ll be my woman for a spell until I tire of her; then I’ll send her up on the line. Hell, I just thought of it. I’ll make money out of her too.”

  Tyree spat in Darcy’s face. “You are scum, Darcy,” he said. “A piece of low-life trash.”

  The gunman wiped the spittle off with the back of his hand, his face black with anger. “I was going to give you an even break, Tyree,” he said. “See if you are as good as you think you are.” He drew a gun with flashing speed and jammed the muzzle against Tyree’s head. “Now I think I’ll just scatter your damn brains.”

  “I always took you for a yellow tinhorn, Darcy,” Tyree said. “Now I know you are.”

  Darcy thumbed back the hammer of his gun. The firelight chased crimson shadows across his face and the air smelled of Tobin’s burning flesh. For a few moments he stood like a living statue; then he took a single step back, smiling.

  “Ah, what the hell?” the gunman said. “I forgot all about professional courtesy. Mind you, Tyree, your manners are so wanting you really don’t deserve it.” He holstered his gun, reached into his pocket and unfolded a case knife. Then he drew Tyree’s Colt from his waistband and held it aimed at the bound man’s head while he cut away the ropes.

  As the ends of rope fell around Tyree’s feet, Darcy stepped back until fifteen feet of open ground stretched between them. He threw Tyree’s gun into the dirt at his feet, then said: “All you have to do is pick it up and start shooting.” The man smiled. “Of course, I don’t believe for one minute you’ll make it that far. And I guess neither do you.”

  Behind Tyree the fire roared and sputtered, fed by Tobin’s bubbling fat. The stench of the man had been bad when he was alive; now, in death, it was almost unbearable.

  “Well, Tyree, go for it.” Darcy grinned. “If you show yellow, then I’ll just gun you where you stand.”

  The gunman stood easy and relaxed, his hands at waist level, steady and open, the long fingers slightly curled.

  Tyree had to bend, pick up the Colt, then fire. Darcy was lightning fast and Tyree knew he wouldn’t make it. But he had to try, at least go down fighting. It was better than dying a dog’s death like Tobin.

  He tensed, getting ready. Darcy noted Tyree’s slight movement and his hands lifted, closer to the Remingtons.

  “Do it, Tyree,” he yelled. “Do it!”

  A rock flew out of the darkness.

  Thrown with considerable force and skill, the rock slammed into Darcy’s right temple with a sickening thud. The gunman’s head jerked and, shocked, he took a single step back.

  Tyree dived for the gun at his feet.

  Darcy’s Remingtons flared, bullets splitting the air where Tyree had been standing a moment before. But Tyree had already dropped to his knees, scooping up the Colt before he threw himself flat on his belly.

  He fired at Darcy, fired again. Hit hard, the gunman staggered, his guns coming up. Darcy’s guns roared as Tyree rolled to his right, two bullets kicking up dirt just inches away from him. Tyree fired, thumbed back the hammer and shot a second time.

  Under his brocaded vest, Darcy’s white shirt was scarlet with blood. The man backpedaled until he tripped on the cabin porch and toppled backward, his arms sprawling at his sides, convulsively triggering his revolvers until the hammer clicked on spent rounds.

  Warily, Tyree rose to his feet and walked toward the fallen gunman. He was aware of Sally emerging from the shadows, another rock in her hand.

  Darcy was still conscious, but the grayness of death was on his face. He looked up at Tyree and smiled. “You got lucky,” he said. “You’d never have beaten me in a fair fight.” He grimaced against a wave of pain, and asked, “What the hell hit me?”

  “A God apple,” Tyree said.

  “A what?”

  “A rock, you eejit. God left them around to help us poor cowboys.”

  Darcy shook his head, his eyes unbelieving. Then he rattled deep in his throat and suddenly all the life that was in him was gone.

  Tyree turned as Sally stepped to his side. “Who taught you to throw like that?” he asked, grinning.

  The girl smiled. “When you grow up as poor as I did, that’s how you hunt prairie chickens,” she said. “We didn’t have money for shotgun cartridges, and I soon learned not to throw like a girl. Hunger is an excellent teacher.”

  Tyree took Sally in his arms and kissed her hard and long. After a few moments, he heard the God apple drop at her feet.

  Epilogue

  Four months later Sally Brennan and Chance Tyree were married in the church at Crooked Creek. Zeb Pettigrew stood as best man.

  Just about everybody in town attended the wedding, and all agreed bride and groom made a handsome couple and were surely destined for a long, happy life together.

  Afterward, at a reception organized by the stalwarts of the fire department, Pettigrew stepped beside Tyree, a glass of champagne in his hand. Zeb had scrubbed up for the occasion and wore a black suit and collarless white shirt.

  “First time I ever seen you without a gun, boy,” he said.

  Tyree nodded. “It’s back to home at the cabin, Zeb, hanging on a nail.” He smiled at the old man. “The play is over, watcher.”

  Pettigrew shook his head. “The old play is ended, maybe so, but a new drama begins.”

  “Not for me,” Tyree said. “I’m all through with guns and gunfighting. Soon I hope to be a family man and be known only as a respectable rancher.”

  “Who said anything about guns?” Pettigrew said, looking mildly offended. “I’m talking about seeing those young’uns of yours grow up, the girls as pretty as their ma and the boys as tall and straight as their pa.”

  The old man sipped his champagne and smiled. “I’ll be watching. . . .”