Ralph Compton - Guns of the Canyonlands

“Wait until Darcy gets here. Then brace him in the saloon.”

Tyree shook his head. “Sally, Darcy is fast with a gun. You won’t stand a chance against him.”

“Would you?” the girl asked.

Tyree shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I have a feeling I’d have to take my hits and somehow keep standing.”

“I thought about bushwhacking him,” Sally said, her voice matter-of-fact. “It wouldn’t bother me in the least. But then I thought he might die and never know who had killed him. I want him to know it was me, and why he’s dying.”

For a few moments, Tyree stood silent, thinking things through. He would back up Sally when the time came, but against a skilled gunman like Darcy the outcome would be a mighty uncertain thing. Was there any other way? Tyree racked his brains, but couldn’t find a solution. Sally was dead set on bracing Darcy and she’d do it with or without his help, today, tomorrow or at some other time. No matter when, the danger would be just as great.

The girl’s kiss had roused something in Tyree, an all-consuming passion he’d never felt before. But in his heart of hearts did he consider Sally merely a pale substitute for Lorena, a woman he wanted but could never have? A vehement denial did not immediately spring into Tyree’s mind, and that troubled him.

“You two can stay here if’n you like,” Zeb Pettigrew said, walking back to where Sally and Tyree were standing. “Best you stay off the street. You can see all you want to see from here.” He cocked his head to one side like a hairy, intelligent bird. “And what do you want to see?”

“Luther Darcy,” Sally said without hesitation. “I plan on killing him today.”

Pettigrew scratched his great belly. “Luther Darcy and his kind don’t kill easy, little lady. I’d do some reconsidering on that score.”

“I’ve considered it,” Sally said. “In fact it’s all I’ve thought about for the past year since he murdered my brother. I’ve considered it time and time again, and all that reflecting has convinced me of just one thing—I have to rid the earth of Luther Darcy’s shadow.”

The old man grinned. “Well, I reckon your mind’s made up and you’ll do what you have to do. Tell you this, one good thing about getting to my age is that a man can sit in the shade, light his pipe and watch it all happen. It ain’t near as dangerous thataway.”

Tobin’s posse rode into Crooked Creek at sun-down. Luther Darcy was with them, but there was no sign of Quirt Laytham.

Tobin went directly to his office, but Darcy and the others barged through the swinging doors of Bradley’s. Tyree thought they looked like a tired, dispirited bunch.

Beside him, Sally tensed. She went back to the stall, got her Winchester and levered a round into the chamber. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her lips white, but there was a hard, determined glint in her eyes and Tyree realized there would be no turning her away from what was to come.

“Wait, Sally,” he said. He drew his Colt, fed a round into the empty chamber under the hammer and reholstered the gun.

“Ready?” the girl asked, the word coming strained and thin from a tight throat.

Tyree attempted a smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

As they stepped past Pettigrew, the man was lighting his pipe. Talking around the stem through a cloud of rank smoke, he said, “Well, good luck, you two.” He smiled, shaking out a match. “I’ll be watching.”

Sally and Tyree walked along the town’s main street, a few people on the boardwalks stopping to look at them curiously as they passed, a tall young man who wore his gun like it was part of him and a pretty, sunburned girl in men’s clothing, holding a Winchester, hammer back, in her right hand.

Above them, the darkening sky was banded by streaks of white cloud, their edges trimmed with burnished gold, and the air smelled of dust, pine resin from the planking of the buildings, and the sage and rabbit bush of the brush flats.

They stopped outside Bradley’s, taking stock of what awaited them. Inside someone was playing the saloon’s battered piano, picking out the notes of Chopin’s beautiful Nocturne no. 2 in G Major. It was an incongruous sound against the roars of whiskey-drinking men and the hard laughter of the girls who had come down from the line behind the courthouse to welcome home the posse, aware that most of them were Quirt Laytham’s highly paid, free-spending riders.

Tyree adjusted the position of his gun and turned his head to look at Sally. The girl had a determined set to her chin and the knuckles of the hand that clutched her rifle were white.

She looked very young and pretty, the kind of girl who should be married, happily busy in her kitchen baking apple turnovers, not standing in a dusty street with a rifle in her hands about to confront a deadly gunman.

Suddenly Sally stepped toward the boardwalk. “Let’s go do it,” she said.

Tyree followed Sally into the saloon, and at first no one noticed them, every man present concentrating on his whiskey or a woman. But gradually eyes were drawn to the pair standing silent and significant at the saloon door. The chatter slowly died, laughter fleeing the painted lips of the saloon girls, the piano faltering note by note into silence.

“Luther Darcy!” Sally called out in the sudden hush. “Show yourself.”

The girl’s voice opened up the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, men and women stepping back until Darcy could be seen standing alone at the bar, a glass half-raised to his lips.

Sally held the Winchester level, pointed at the gunman’s belly. “I told you I’d kill you someday, Darcy,” she said. “Now turn around and look into my eyes as you die.”

For a few moments Darcy didn’t move, then he slowly placed his glass on the bar, staring at it all the way as though it had become a thing of consuming interest to him.

The saloon’s railroad clock ticked loud in the silence, like a racing heartbeat, and Tyree could hear the short, nervous breaths of a woman standing close to him.

Without turning, Darcy said, “Tyree, I guess you’re taking a hand in this play?”

Tyree nodded. “You called it.”

“Damn you, Darcy!” Sally yelled. “Face me like a man instead of cowering there like a mangy yellow dog.”

The gunman slowly turned and smiled at the girl. Then he moved.

Darcy dived for the floor, rolled, then came up on one knee, his guns out and spitting flame. Sally’s shot splintered the wood of the bar where Darcy had been standing. But the girl was hit immediately, the Winchester spinning out of her hands. Tyree drew and fired. His bullet thudded into the pine boards of the floor. A miss. Lithe as a cat, Darcy had rolled a second time. The gunman slammed hard against the red-slippered feet of a saloon girl. The girl screamed and tried to step away, but she stumbled on high heels and fell on top of Darcy. Tyree hesitated a split second, momentarily uncertain of his target. Then something hard crashed into the back of his skull and he sank to his knees, the room spinning around him.

He tried to raise his gun, but suddenly it felt too heavy for him. He was roughly dragged to his feet, then, from out of nowhere it seemed, he saw Nick Tobin. The big lawman pulled back his fist and crashed it hard into Tyree’s chin. Then the men who had been holding him stepped away and let him fall.

Chance Tyree woke with a pounding headache. He lay still until his surroundings swam into focus. He was lying on his back, and above him he saw a sagging timber ceiling, dusty gray triangles of spider-webs gathered in the corners. He shifted his position slightly and the iron springs of the bunk under him shrieked in protest.

Tyree moved his head, looking around him. To his left was an iron door set into a redbrick wall with a barred opening less than a foot square. But, like the roof, the three remaining walls were constructed of heavy pine logs, and iron bars secured the small, narrow window high on the wall opposite his bunk.