Guns of the Canyonlands (25 page)

The question was, how would Tyree get at him?

Over the next couple of days, Tyree and Sally began the task of salvaging what they could from the Boyd cabin, especially the heavy logs, expensive and hard to come by in the canyon country. Tyree planned to rebuild one day, and the logs would be a start.

He shot a deer and a brace of sage hens and they ate well, helped along with the coffee, flour and salt they’d found at the Lassiter cabin.

When Tyree checked on Fowler’s canyon, he discovered that Laytham’s cattle were back, his sign broken and trampled into the dust. There were plenty of horse tracks along the wash, and he guessed the rancher was hunting him, no doubt blaming him for the deaths of his two riders.

It was now only a matter of time before Laytham swung by Boyd’s cabin. If Luther Darcy had indeed been acting on someone else’s orders, the chances were Laytham didn’t even know the old man was dead. And, Tyree realized with a pang of regret, neither did Lorena.

Tyree had thought to take the fight to Quirt Laytham, but it seemed likely that the man would soon bring the fight to him. Tyree would make his stand on his own ground, and he decided to try and even the odds.

Using heavy talus rocks, he spent a morning building a stone parapet at the base of the mesa behind the cabin where he and Sally could hold off an attack. The steep slope behind the rock wall was of soft, weathered sandstone, unlikely to cause ricochets, and the base of the mesa stretched away straight on both sides, providing no cover to anyone trying to flank their position.

Tyree gathered up several canteens from the barn and bunkhouse and filled them at the creek. He placed the water in a shady spot behind his stone breastwork and figured he and Sally were as ready as they’d ever be to repel an assault.

They had only one rifle, and this he gave to Sally, trusting to his Colts.

Now all they could do was wait.

 

A day passed, then another. Tyree spent most of his time on the summit of the mesa, scanning the land around him. Once he thought he saw dust rise far to the west across the Colorado, but it was fleeting and brief, and soon disappeared.

Where was Laytham? Had the man given up the hunt and returned to his ranch?

But why hadn’t he come here to Luke’s cabin? Or had Lorena put him off the scent, maybe telling Laytham that her father had long ago ordered Chance Tyree off his property?

It was possible, Tyree decided. But somehow he didn’t think it likely. Lorena’s first loyalty must be to her future husband and it would stand to reason she’d help him any way she could.

On the morning of the third day, just as he returned to his position atop the mesa, Tyree spotted dust to the south, the lifting cloud laced red by the rays of the rising sun. He waited for long moments, making sure his eyes had not been deceiving him. But he was not mistaken. The dust was getting closer, kicked up by many riders, coming on hard. And there was no doubt where they were headed—right for him.

The fight with Laytham had come and Tyree felt something akin to joy rise in him. He had waited long for this moment, and now, his heart pounding, it was getting nearer at a gallop.

Tyree scrambled down from the mesa and shouted a warning to Sally. The girl grabbed her rifle and ran to the rock wall where Tyree joined her, a gun in each hand.

“Laytham?” Sally asked, her eyes wide.

Tyree nodded. “Him and what looks like a passel of others.”

But Quirt Laytham was not among the seven men who rode up to the cabin and sat their horses in the yard. Five of them, all wearing deputy’s stars, Tyree didn’t know. But he recognized the huge, arrogant bulk of Clem Daley. The man was sitting astride a prancing black, holding upright a Winchester, the butt resting on his right thigh. Beside him was Len Dawson, looking old and tired, aged not by his years but by the violent events of the past weeks.

Daley said something over his shoulder to one of his men. The deputy rode to the barn and checked inside. “His horse is here all right, Clem!” he yelled from the open doorway. “Big steeldust, like you said.”

Daley rode to the side of the cabin, looking warily around him. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, “Tyree, show yourself. We need to talk.”

Tyree knew his position would be discovered sooner or later, so he stood and hollered, “Say what you came to say, Daley. Then light a shuck out of here.”

The big deputy’s bloodshot eyes scanned the base of the mesa and stopped when they lighted on Tyree. He kicked his horse forward twenty or so yards then reined up. “Tyree,” he said, “I want you to come with us. You have a date with the hangman, boy, and best you get it over and done with.” He waited a few moments, letting that sink in, then added, “Now you surrender or we’ll mosey on over there after you. I see you got that little Brennan gal with you. Just remember, when we start shooting, our guns won’t make no never mind between a man and a woman.”

“Where’s your boss, Daley?” Tyree asked, an anger rising in him. “Too yellow to do his own dirty work?”

Daley looked perplexed for a moment, then said, “You talking about Sheriff Tobin?”

“Hell, no, I’m talking about Quirt Laytham, and you know it.”

To Tyree’s surprise, Daley threw back his head and laughed. Then he wiped tears from his eyes and yelled, “You are a one, Tyree, funny as a three-legged mule trying to pull a buggy. You know Laytham is dead, on account of how you were the one that plugged him just yes’tidy.”

Tyree felt like he’d been slapped. Quirt Laytham was dead? That hardly seemed possible. Or was Daley, for dark reasons of his own, lying?

Voicing his doubt, Tyree said, “You’re a liar, Daley. I didn’t kill Quirt Laytham and neither did anybody else.”

“Suit yourself,” Daley said. He turned in the saddle and called to Dawson, ordering the man to join him. When the deputy reined up alongside him, Daley said, loud enough for Tyree to hear, “Tell Tyree what happened to Mr. Laytham yes’tidy morning.”

“Hell,” Dawson growled, “he knows already.”

“Tell him anyway. Make this official, like.”

Dawson shook his head at the pointlessness of the task, then, looking right at Tyree, he said, “Mr. Laytham stepped out the door to go to the cookhouse for his coffee like he done every morning. Only yesterday morning was different because he hadn’t took but three steps when you cut him down with a rifle bullet, Tyree.” Dawson’s fingers strayed to his temple. “Got him right here and he was dead when he hit the ground.” The deputy’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Mighty good shootin’.”

There was no doubting Dawson’s sincerity. Someone had murdered Quirt Laytham, gunned him down in cold blood from ambush. But who?

Tyree had no time to ponder the question because Daley was asking, “Now will you get out from them rocks, or do we come in after you?”

Turning to Sally, Tyree said, “Maybe I can get Daley to give you a safe conduct away from here. How does that set with you?”

The girl shook her head, her face determined. “I’ll stick, Chance. You need my help. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Tyree grinned. He looked over at Daley and yelled, “I’m not making it easy for you, Daley. You want me, come and get me.”

The big deputy shrugged, a cold grin on his fleshy lips. “Your funeral. But we’ll try not to shoot up the girl too much. We’ll want her all in one piece later.”

He and Dawson swung their horses around and loped back to their waiting men where they immediately engaged in a heated conversation, heads now and then swiveling to look at Tyree.

There were seven of them against two, one of them just a slip of a girl, but it was obvious that Daley’s deputized riders didn’t relish the idea of attacking across a hundred yards of open ground where there was not a scrap of cover. These would be Laytham’s men, hired guns anxious to avenge their dead boss, but with his death their wages would stop and the loyalty of their kind only stretched so far.

Judging by Daley’s flushed, angry face, the five were ready to pull out and wait for another time when the odds would be more in their favor.

In the end, Tyree never knew how Daley convinced them. Maybe he appealed to their dubious loyalty, but more likely he offered money, a bonus in double eagles, like the one paid to the Arapaho Kid for killing Owen Fowler.

Whatever it was, Daley’s argument swayed his deputies. The huddle of riders broke up and shook out into a loose line, the big deputy in the middle. A few pulled rifles from the boots under their knees, the rest drew their Colts.

“It’s coming, Sally,” Tyree said, his voice tense. “Don’t try to rush it. Just draw a firm bead and shoot nice and steady.”

The girl nodded, laying her cheek on the rifle stock. Tyree saw fear in Sally’s eyes, but he didn’t blame her any. He was scared himself.

Daley let out a wild whoop, and the line of riders spurred their mounts into a gallop, charging fast across the open ground.

Tyree rose to his feet and cut loose, both six-guns hammering. Beside him he heard the flat, emphatic statement of Sally’s rifle. A horse screamed and leaped into the air, throwing its rider. The man scrambled to his feet and managed to get off a wild shot from his rifle before Tyree cut him down. A second man, clutching a bloody chest, lost his balance and fell. His horse, a big, rangy sorrel, swung to its right and careened into a bearded rider. Both the bearded man’s mount and the sorrel crashed to the ground in a tangle of flying hooves and billowing dust.

Seeing three of their number go down in just a couple of hell firing seconds was enough for the remaining two Laytham riders, neither of them very committed to the wild charge in the first place. The surviving attackers, Daley included, scattered. A man ran his horse into the barn, while a second headed for the bunkhouse. Daley and Len Dawson rode around the cabin and vanished from sight.

The bearded man who’d gone down with his horse suddenly staggered to his feet. He’d lost his rifle, but he pulled his belt gun and snapped a fast shot at Tyree, the bullet whapping into the sandstone inches from his head. No mercy in him, Tyree fired both his guns at the same instant and the man staggered, then fell flat on his face.

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.