Guns of the Canyonlands (6 page)

The drum of hammering hooves on the bank of the wash jolted Tyree back to wakefulness. A dozen men were riding toward him at a breakneck gallop, a big, handsome man in a black broadcloth suit and flowered vest in the lead.

Now was not the time for carefully aimed fire. Tyree had to shoot fast to break up Laytham’s charge and turn back his oncoming riders.

Rising to his feet, he threw the Henry to his shoulder and cranked off four quick rounds. The results of his firing were devastating.

Hit hard, a man yelled, threw up his arms and toppled backward off his horse. A big sorrel in the lead went down, throwing its rider. Coming on fast, another horse crashed into the fallen animal’s flailing hooves and it too tumbled, cartwheeling headfirst into the ground. Its rider, a man in a black hat and black-and-white cowhide vest, screamed as he fell under the horse and the saddle horn crashed into his chest.

Tyree fired at the man in the broadcloth suit, guessing he was Laytham. A miss. Now their trailing dust cloud had caught up with the riders, shrouding them in a shifting, swirling yellow fog.

“Back!” somebody, probably Laytham, yelled. “Damn it, get back!”

His blood up, Tyree fired rapidly into the dust, at the wild tangle of bucking horses and cursing men. He thought he saw another man jerk from the impact of a bullet, then Laytham’s riders were heading back the way they’d come, the thick dust that roiled around them making further shooting useless.

Tyree lowered the rifle and a grim smile touched his lips. Quirt Laytham had thought this was going to be easy, twelve against two—one of them wounded and maybe dying, the other a man who couldn’t shoot. Instead he’d sure enough grabbed a cougar by the tail.

At least three of his men were dead or wounded, and a third, the man in the cowhide vest, was pinned under his horse, gasping out his life, his face ashen.

As the dust settled, Tyree saw that Laytham and the others had drawn out of rifle range. They were milling around, as though uncertain of what to do next. They’d been badly burned and didn’t seem overly anxious to mount another charge.

Tyree turned as Fowler stepped beside him. The man’s eyes scanned the destruction Tyree had wrought and he whistled between his teeth. “You sure played hob,” he said.

“They’ll be back,” Tyree said, a sudden weariness in him. “And next time they’ll be more careful. From what I’ve been told about Laytham, he’s not a man to quit so easily.”

Fowler dug into the pocket of his threadbare coat and gave Tyree a handful of .44 shells. He watched as the younger man fed them into the Henry, then asked, “You think maybe this is a good time for us to make tracks?”

Tyree shook his head. “They’d only take out after us, and if they catch us in the open without cover, we’re dead.” He smiled and lightly tapped the Henry. “When Laytham makes up his mind to come this way again, I aim to discourage him for good. I want to make damn sure that old dog is done hunting before we fog it on out of here.”

“He won’t charge us next time,” Fowler said, so low and soft it was like he was talking only to himself. “He’ll maybe send the Arapaho Kid. That breed can move like a ghost.” He turned to Tyree. “You look like hell, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Tyree said. “And I feel worse than I look. I reckon I’d have to be three days dead before I’d start to feel better.”

“You want me to stay close?” Fowler asked.

Tyree shook his head. “No, go back to the horse. Like I told you before, if I come running, just be ready to hightail it out of here.”

“Suit yourself,” Fowler said. He dug into a pocket again and passed Tyree a chunk of antelope jerky. “It isn’t tasty, but it will keep you going.”

After Fowler was gone, Tyree chewed on the tough jerky and studied the open ground in front of him. Laytham and his men had drawn off about a half-mile along the wash, taking refuge behind a jutting outcrop of sandstone rock. Judging by all the shouting that was going on, they were arguing among themselves about their next course of action.

Most of these men were the same stamp as Len Dawson and Clem Daley, riders hired for their gun skills, their loyalty stretching only as far as next pay-day. They’d been badly shot up by a skilled rifleman and no longer seemed eager for the fight.

Tyree smiled as he built himself a smoke. He’d never been a soldier, but he’d learned enough about tactics over the years to know that attacking an entrenched enemy along a narrow front was always a losing proposition.

He calculated that right about now Quirt Laytham must be fuming, and the thought pleased him immensely.

Tyree thumbed a match into flame and lit his cigarette. He pushed the Henry out in front of him and waited. When would Laytham renew the attack? That question was answered less than ten minutes later.

A bullet hit a rock near where Tyree was crouched, splattering stinging splinters into his cheek. A second thudded into the butte above his head and a third smashed into the Henry, sending it flying from its place on the rock.

Tyree stretched out and picked up the rifle—and his shocked eyes beheld a disaster. The shot, luckier than most, had badly mangled the magazine tube close to the chamber.

He swore under his breath. The rifle would shoot the round under the hammer, but the chances were that it would not feed a second. Without the Henry, he was as good as dead and Fowler with him. It was not a thought to comfort a man.

Tyree scanned the bank of the wash and saw a flash of metal behind a cottonwood about a hundred yards away. Laytham’s men were coming at him on foot, using whatever cover they could find.

Drawing a bead on the cottonwood, Tyree waited. A few slow seconds ticked past, then he saw a man in a blue flannel shirt step out from behind the tree, his Winchester coming up fast.

Tyree fired at the same time as the Laytham rider. The man jerked under the impact of the Henry’s .44 bullet and his rifle spun away from him. Clutching a shattered and bloody shoulder he turned and, crouched over, stumbled away, his face white with shock.

Lead whined off a rock in front of Tyree as he worked the lever of the Henry. To his relief, he heard a reassuring
clink-clunk
as the bent and dented loading tube fed a round. But would it feed another?

There was no time to ponder that question. A man was working his way along the canyon wall toward him, a second close behind. Both were carrying Winchesters and were stepping warily, their eyes on Tyree’s position.

Tyree sighted on the man in the lead. He took a breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. His bullet hit the tobacco sack tag hanging over the man’s shirt pocket dead center. The Laytham rider spun, then slammed against the mesa wall. He slid to a sitting position, his head lolling loose on his shoulders, dead before he hit the ground.

The second man fired a wild shot that split the air above Tyree’s head; then he was running, looking back fearfully over his shoulder.

“Five down, seven to go,” Tyree whispered to himself, his smile a grim, tight line. He tried to crank the Henry, but the lever jammed halfway on a mangled round.

The damaged rifle was useless.

Weak as he was, the side of his shirt glistening with blood, Tyree knew Laytham and his surviving men were still dangerous and capable of mounting another attack.

He had to find a replacement rifle and fast. The trouble was, the guns were out there . . . with the dead.

Warily, Tyree rose from his position behind the rocks. Moving on cat feet, he stepped toward the canyon wall. It was very hot and still, the rugged parapets of rock surrounding him a barrier to any passing breeze. Overhead the sky was blue, hemmed in close by the stone ramparts on either side of the wash, a few fluffy white clouds visible now and then. The Laytham rider he’d killed was still slumped over in a sitting position, the front of the man’s shirt thick with blood that was already starting to dry.

The rifle he needed was there, and along with it the dead man’s revolver. Looking constantly in the direction of Laytham and his riders, Tyree kneeled beside the dead man, knowing that if the rancher decided to attack now he’d be caught out in the open and quickly cut down.

Tyree picked up a .44-.40 Winchester that lay close to the body and stripped the gun belt from the man’s waist. The Colt was nickel-plated with hard rubber grips and was in the same caliber as the rifle. Every loop in the cartridge belt was full. Tyree strapped the gun belt around his hips, adjusting the position of the holster to his liking.

There was as yet no sign of another attack, and Tyree took time to look around him. The bay gelding that had earlier collided with the downed sorrel was grazing in the shade of a cottonwood near the creek, apparently unhurt. Tyree took a couple of steps toward the animal and called out softly. The bay lifted its head, the bit jangling, studied the approaching human for a few moments without concern, then went back to grazing.

There was still no sign of Laytham’s men, and Tyree decided to take a chance. He needed a horse and what looked to be a good one was standing just a few yards away. Speaking in a reassuring whisper to the animal, he stepped closer. The bay again lifted its head, but this time the horse nickered uneasily and arcs of white showed in its eyes as it pranced backward a few steps.

“Easy, boy,” Tyree whispered, still moving toward the horse. “Easy, boy.”

The bay retreated further, stepping lightly, its head high, alarmed by the closeness of the tall man and the smell of blood that clung to him.

Tyree made a grab for the trailing reins, but the bay sidestepped, then turned and galloped back in the direction of Laytham and the others.

Cursing under his breath, Tyree watched the horse go, its hammering hooves kicking up a churning cloud of dust. He turned and went back to his position among the rocks, disappointment tugging at him.

He’d badly wanted that horse and now it was well out of his reach.

The day wore on and the shadows cast by the cottonwoods slowly lengthened. The sky shaded to a cobalt blue and now the passing clouds were rimmed with gold. His eyes bloodshot and painful, Tyree kept his gaze on the trail beside the creek, but he saw no sign of activity.

Had Laytham gone, deciding to wait for another day when the odds would be more in his favor?

That question was answered a few minutes later when the rancher himself rode toward Tyree’s position, a white rag tied to the barrel of the rifle he carried butt down on his right thigh. Laytham’s teeth showed white under his full, black mustache. But he was not smiling. It was the irritated grimace of an angry man.

Laytham was flanked by a big-bellied fat man on a mouse-colored mustang. The man had a lawman’s star pinned to his vest and his mouth was concealed by a huge, ragged mustache, the ends drooping over the first of his several chins. Sheriff Nick Tobin wore round, dark glasses and, judging by the white of his hair and mustache, Tyree guessed the man was an albino, his eyes sensitive to the glare of the sun.

There was a pale, unhealthy look to Tobin, like he’d been buried deep in damp ground for a week, then dug up and shoved on a horse. Yet his shoulders and arms were thick, and Tyree realized not all of the man’s bulk was fat.

Laytham reined up when he was still a hundred yards away and he cupped his mouth with his left hand, a plaited leather quirt dangling from his wrist.

Tyree idly wondered if that was how the man had gotten his name.

“Chance Tyree!”

“I hear you, Laytham,” Tyree yelled. “What do you want?”

“You killed some of my men, Chance Tyree. That was an ugly thing, mighty ugly.”

“They were trying to do the same to me, Laytham.”

The big rancher kneed his horse forward and stopped closer to Tyree’s position. “I’m carrying a flag of truce, Tyree,” he said.

Despite his weakness and the gnawing pain in his side, Tyree laughed. “Don’t go thinking that’s going to protect you any if I take it into my head to shoot.”

Laytham stiffened slightly in the saddle, but not a trace of fear crossed his heavily jowled face with its massive, stubborn chin.

“Chance Tyree, I know you,” Laytham called out. “Heard about you being an expert Texas shootist who has killed his share of men. Heard you gunned Handsome Dave Rinker over to—”

“If that’s what you heard, you heard right.” Tyree shifted the Winchester to his shoulder, putting his sights squarely on the top button of Laytham’s fancy vest. If this was a trap, the big rancher would be the first to die.

“Chance Tyree! Can you hear me? This is Sheriff Tobin.”

“I guessed who you were, Tobin.”

“Tyree, Mr. Laytham has leveled a very serious accusation. He says Owen Fowler has been rustling his cattle and has taken them back to his canyon. I saw the brands on those cows, Tyree. They’re Rafter-L.”

“Tobin, Laytham told you a damned lie. His cattle are on Fowler’s grass all right, but Laytham put them there.”

The following silence stretched into several minutes as Tobin and Laytham, heads together, discussed matters between them. Finally the sheriff kneed his horse a few steps forward and yelled, “Tyree, we have a proposition for you.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“It’s Owen Fowler we want, not you. I could arrest you for murdering members of my legally appointed posse. But I won’t, not if you come out of them rocks. I’ll give you back your horse and guns and you can ride out of the territory free as you please. That’s a mighty generous deal Mr. Laytham and me are offering you, Tyree, and I advise you to take it.”

Tyree smiled. He knew if he accepted Tobin’s offer he’d be playing with a cold deck. The sheriff and Laytham would never let him leave the canyon country alive.

“Forget it, Tobin,” Tyree yelled. “I’m not going to bite at that worm.” He hesitated a few moments, then yelled, “Laytham, now it’s your turn to listen to what I have to say. Acting on your orders, Tobin’s deputies hung me for no other reason than I was a stranger passing through. Owen Fowler saved my life and I plan on standing by him.”