Guns of the Canyonlands (3 page)

He could not dam the tides of progress, so he would see the magnificent land, live it . . . and in later times remember and tell others how it had been.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d find a place out here where he could flee his reputation as a gunfighter, and hang up his Colt forever. He could drink his coffee of an evening from his own front porch, his face crimsoned by the fire in the sky. And maybe there would be a pretty woman rocking at his side and a passel of tall sons to take care of them both when they grew old.

Tyree rode through blue hills fragrant with the smell of juniper and sage, the sun hot on his back. He was still a mile from the flats when he topped a rock-strewn ridge, then headed down into a narrow valley where a stream chuckled to itself as it ran over a pebbled bottom and crickets made their small sound in the grass. The gulch was a pleasant spot, shaded from the sun by the leaves of tall cottonwoods, the air smelling of wildflowers. Tyree reined up and swung out of the saddle.

The day was hot and the brassy ball of sun burned in a sky the color of faded denim. He decided to let his tired dun drink and then graze for an hour before taking to the flats. Crooked Creek could wait. There was no one there to welcome him, no woman with perfumed hair smiling from her doorway, her voice husky with desire—just strangers wary of other strangers.

Tyree eased the girth on the horse and led the animal to the creek. As the dun drank, so did he, stretched flat out on his belly on the bank. After drinking his fill he splashed water on his face and combed wet fingers through his unruly black hair. He smoothed his sweeping dragoon mustache with the back of his hand then settled his hat back on his head, the lacy tree shadows falling dappled around him.

The dun had wandered off to graze. Tyree took off his coat, fetched up against a cottonwood trunk and rolled a smoke. When he’d finished the cigarette, he closed his eyes, enjoying the quiet, lulled by the laughter of the creek and the soft, restless rustle of the cottonwoods.

He eased his position against the tree as the dun wandered close to him, cropping grass, and he tilted his hat further over his face.

Gradually, he drifted . . . his breathing slowed . . . and he let sleep take him.

 

A hard kick on the sole of his boot woke Chance Tyree from slumber.

“Get on your feet, you.”

Tyree opened his eyes and saw a bearded man towering above him, the rock-steady gun in his hand pointed right at his head. He turned and saw another man a few feet away to his left. That one held a Winchester.

Each wore a lawman’s star on his vest. They looked like grim and determined men.

Moving slowly, his gun hand well away from his body, Tyree rose to his feet. The man with the rifle stepped closer, reached out and yanked the Colt from his waistband.

“Who sent for you?” the rifleman asked. His hair was gray, his eyes tired and washed-out in a thin face lined deep with years and hard living.

Tyree shook his head, cursing himself for letting his guard down. “Nobody sent for me. I’m just passing through.”

“Like hell you are,” the bearded man said, his black eyes ugly. He was huge, big in the arms and shoulders, and he seemed to have the disposition of a cornered cottonmouth. “Are you kin to Owen Fowler? Or has he hired himself a Texas gunfighter?”

“Mister,” Tyree said, a sudden anger flaring in him, “I’ve no idea who the hell Owen Fowler is. I’ve never met the man.”

“What you think, Clem?” the lawman with the Winchester asked, a moment’s doubt fleeting across his face. “You think maybe he’s telling the truth?” Without waiting for an answer, he motioned to Tyree with the muzzle of the rifle. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Are you asking, or is the law asking?”

“What the hell difference does it make?”

“The difference is I’ll answer to the law, but not to you.”

“All right,” the man said. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Len Dawson. That there is Deputy Clem Daley, and around these parts, we’re the law. The only law.”

“Then it’s Chance Tyree.”

Daley scratched his bearded cheek. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name afore.” He thought for a few moments, scowling in concentration, then nodded. “Hell, now I remember. You were the kid gunfighter out of El Paso. I recollect you rode with John Wesley Hardin and the Clements boys an’ them a spell back. You made all the newspapers. They say you rannies played hob and not all of what you done was honest.”

“That was a long time ago.” Tyree shrugged. “A man changes, and he rides so many trails, he forgets how it was after ten years.”

“Strange though,” the lawman said. “I mean, you being here the week Owen Fowler gets back, and you being a Texas hired killer an’ all.”

“Texas and other places,” Tyree said. His anger flared. “And I never hired on to kill a man who didn’t need killing.”

Dawson spoke, his voice ragged with concern. “Clem, maybe we should take Tyree back to town. Best we let Sheriff Tobin decide what to do with him.”

The man called Clem shook his great nail keg of a head. “Len, what did Quirt Laytham tell us, huh? He said to get rid of any gun-toting strangers who couldn’t give a good account of why they was riding into the canyon country.” Clem waved his Colt in Tyree’s direction. “Well, he’s a gun-toting stranger and he’s riding into the canyon country and he’s given no good account for being here that I’ve heard.”

“I dunno,” Len muttered. “Maybe he’s tellin’ the truth—just passin’ through. Maybe he is. I still say we take him to the sheriff.”

“Sheriff!” Clem yelled, disgust heavy in his voice. “I don’t take orders from Nick Tobin, that useless, pink-eyed tub of guts. I take my orders from Mr. Laytham and so do you. Laytham told us to get rid of saddle tramps like this ’un who might be riding for Fowler, and when he said get rid of them, he meant permanently.”

Chance Tyree knew he had to keep these two talking. So long as they were jawing, they weren’t shooting and they might let down their guard long enough to give him an opening.

“Listen, who is this Owen Fowler who’s supposed to have hired me?” he asked. “Like I told another feller back on the trail, I don‘t know the man.”

“What feller?” Daley asked, suspicion shading into his eyes.

Tyree shrugged. “A man called Rinker.”

“Handsome Dave Rinker?”

“Yeah, I guess that was his name. I never heard the handsome part.”

“What happened between you and Rinker?”

“He accused me of being a hired gun for Owen Fowler,” Tyree answered. “Then he drew down on me.”

“You’re here,” Dawson said. “Where’s Rinker?”

“In hell probably,” Tyree answered. He hesitated a heartbeat. “He was notified.”

“Dave Rinker was fast on the draw, mighty slick and sudden,” Clem said, the suspicion in his eyes replaced by accusation.

“Maybe hereabouts,” Tyree said. “Not where I come from.” He played for time again. “You didn’t tell me about this Owen Fowler feller.”

“Him?” Daley said, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Like you don’t know already. Hell, I’ll tell it anyway. Fowler murdered Deacon John Kent, the finest, most decent man who ever walked the earth. Deacon Kent was our town preacher, but Fowler shot him in the back anyhow and robbed him of his watch and the few coins in his pockets.”

“If he committed murder, why isn’t Fowler in prison?” Tyree asked, wondering if Clem Daley would know a decent man if he met one. It seemed the big lawman was parroting words he had heard from others.

“He was in prison,” Daley said. “He got twenty-five years at hard labor. That was nine years ago. But this spring cholera broke out in the jail and Fowler helped nurse the sick prisoners. They say he saved the lives of a hundred men, but to my mind that don’t count a damn against the thing he done.” Daley spat, as though the words he was about to speak tasted bad in his mouth. “Anyhow, the governor pardoned Fowler and now he’s come back. He’s at his ranch up near Hatch Wash—again like I’m telling you something you don’t already know. Well, we burned out that murdering rustler afore, and we’ll do it again. Only this time we’ll make sure because we’re gonna hang him.”

Daley smiled like a snake about to strike. “Like I’m fixing to hang you, boy.”

Tyree looked into the deputy’s burning eyes and found no lie there. On the slenderest thread of evidence, coming upon a stranger who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, the lawman suspected him of being in cahoots with a rustler by the name of Owen Fowler. Daley had set himself up as judge, jury and executioner—and he aimed to do exactly what he’d promised.

Desperately, Chance Tyree tried to get Daley talking again, but the big man shook his head. “Pardner, I’m all through jawing.” He turned to Dawson. “Len, bring me your rope.”

Dawson hesitated, nervously chewing on the end of his mustache. “Clem, this ain’t right. Hangin’ is a hell of a way to kill a man. Let’s you an’ me take him into town. Maybe he can explain hisself to Mr. Laytham.”

“His explaining is done,” the big deputy answered. “Len, like you said already, you and me is the law in these parts, and the law is gonna hang this hired killer. Why would he ride all the way up here from Texas if it wasn’t to sell his gun to Fowler? Huh? Tell me that.”

Dawson shook his head. “I dunno. He says he’s passin’ through.”

“In a pig’s eye. Quirt Laytham wants us to get rid of gun tramps like this, and that’s how it’s going to be.” Anger flashed red across Daley’s cheekbones. His scarlet-veined eyes scorched into Tyree like hot coals. “Now bring that damn rope like I told you.”

There was no compromise in Daley and no mercy either, and Tyree knew it. He took his chance and dived for the gun in the lawman’s hand. Surprisingly fast and agile for such a big man, Daley danced to his right, swung the Colt and the barrel crashed hard against the side of Tyree’s head.

As Tyree fell, he saw the ground rush up to meet him, then open wide and swallow him whole. He plunged, yelling, into the abyss.

Awareness returned slowly to Chance Tyree and with it came pain, beating inside his skull like a gigantic hammer pounding on an anvil. A green sickness curled in his belly like a living thing and before his eyes he saw only a gray, shifting mist.

He tried to remember, fighting through the agony in his head. It came to him then. He was headed for a town . . . What was its name? Crooked Creek. That was it: He must be riding across the brush flats to Crooked Creek. The big zebra dun danced restlessly between his legs and blew through its nose and he had a mind to pat the horse’s neck and settle it down.

But he couldn’t move his hands!

Tyree opened his eyes. The valley around him spun wildly, the tumbling creek rocking up and down like a board laid across a log, a thing he’d seen children use for play.

Then he felt the rawhide ring of the honda pressing hard against his skin just under the lobe of his right ear. He tried to move his hands again, but they were tied behind his back.

“You got anything to say, boy, a prayer maybe?” The voice came from a long distance away, like someone speaking at the end of a tunnel.

Tyree tried to concentrate, struggling to find the words. He knew his time was short. “You got no right to hang me,” he croaked finally, looking down at Daley as his vision cleared. “I’m drifting, a stranger passing through.”

“I got every right,” Daley said, his face tight and hard. “Mr. Laytham is a big man around these parts and it was him who gave me the right. He said to get rid of any low-down buzzard who is kin, friend or hired man to Owen Fowler.”

As his eyes began to focus, Tyree saw Dawson standing off to one side, looking gray and sick, and suddenly very old.

“You,” Tyree called out to the deputy. “Can you stop this?”

Dawson shook his head, the rifle in his hands quivering. “Clem here wants you dead, son, and so would Mr. Laytham if’n he was here. It ain’t up to me to stop this thing. Best you make your peace with God and take your medicine.”

“Go to hell,” Chance Tyree said, knowing further pleas were useless.

Daley looked up at Tyree. “Hard thing for a man to die with a cuss on his lips.” The huge lawman stepped to the back of the dun and slapped the horse on the rump.

Startled, the animal darted forward and Tyree bumped over the high cantle of the Denver saddle and swung free, the noose yanking tight around his neck. A million stars exploded inside his skull and he found himself choking, battling for breath. He kicked his legs, desperately fighting for life as he slowly strangled, the merciless noose mocking his efforts.

There came a noise like thunder as a gunshot trembled loud in the air—then a sudden shock of pain like someone had crashed a sledgehammer into his left side . . . and Chance Tyree knew no more.

 

He woke to darkness. Floating somewhere above him, a man’s face swam into view and he heard a voice ask, “How are you feeling?”

Tyree tried to talk, but found no words, only a raspy croak that quickly died in his throat.

“You take it easy,” the man said. “You’re hurt real bad. You can talk later.”

Mustering his strength, Tyree lifted his head a few inches off the ground. He tried to speak again, and this time managed a feeble, “Who . . . are . . .”

“Who am I?” the man finished for him, and Tyree saw the blurry hint of a smile in a long, melancholy face. “Why, they call me Owen Fowler.”

Tyree laid his head back on the grass. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

And he let the darkness take him again.

 

The night was shading into a pale amber dawn, a solitary star standing sentinel in the sky, when Tyree woke.

For a while he lay still, desperately trying to remember what had happened to him. After a few moments, it began to come back to him, fitting together piece by piece—the fight in the saloon and then his run-in with Clem Daley and Len Dawson. But much of it was still hazy, like a half-remembered dream, faces moving like ghosts through the dim verges of his memory.