Ralph Compton - Guns of the Canyonlands

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.

Chapter 5

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.”