Ralph Compton - Guns of the Canyonlands

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.

Tyree swung out of the saddle and looked across at Dawson, his gun ready. But the man lay flat on his back, his body spread-eagled, back arched against what appeared to be agonizing seizures of pain.

Stepping to the fallen deputy, Tyree looked down at Dawson but saw no sign of a wound. The man’s face was ashen and his breathing was short and painful, hissing through tightly clenched teeth.

Dawson’s frightened eyes lifted to Tyree. “Something is broke inside me,” he said. “It’s like a rock is crushing my chest and my left arm is hurting like hell.”

Kneeling beside the fallen deputy, Tyree nodded. “Dawson, you weren’t hit by a bullet. I think your pump is giving out. Seen it once before in a man.”

“Then it’s all up with me?”

Choosing the truth over a lie, Tyree said, “I’d say it is. And soon.”

Tyree looked up as Sally stepped to his side. He tapped his chest. “He’s hurting. In there.”

“Hurting all over, boy,” Dawson said. “Maybe my conscience most of all.” He reached out and grabbed Tyree’s arm. “We never should’ve hung you, me and Clem. That was a hell of a thing to do to a man.”

“I was only passing through,” Tyree said. “You and Daley should have let me be.”

Age had faded Dawson’s eyes, and now approaching death was shadowing them further. “Tell me, Tyree. Was it really you who done for Laytham? I figured it had to be you.”

Tyree shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know the man was dead until you told me.”

“Well, it don’t make no never mind because ol’ Quirt done for his share his ownself, and Owen Fowler was sure enough one of them.” Dawson managed a thin smile. “It was Laytham who killed Deacon John Kent, you know.” He tried to raise his head, but the struggle was too much for him and he let it sink back to the ground. “I want to die clean, boy. Tell you how it was.”

“Then let’s hear it. Get that weight off your chest, old man.”

Dawson nodded, battling pain, his back arching like he was slowly being crushed by the claws of an iron crab. “See, Laytham wanted Fowler’s canyon, but the man had already staked his claim and the rumor was he’d soon get it all deeded and proper. Maybe Quirt could have taken it to court, I don’t know, but he didn’t have the patience for that. He wanted to get big and do it all at once, fast, like. Well, one day Laytham happened on Deacon Kent on the trail near the canyon. The two talked and after he said so long, ol’ Quirt turned and put a bullet into the preacher’s back. Me, I helped him dump the body near Fowler’s cabin. Then Quirt give me and Clem the preacher’s watch and money, told us how we should say we found them in the cabin on the table.”

The death shadows were gathering dark gray in Dawson’s eye sockets and cheekbones. He gasped as a new wave of pain slammed him, then after a few moments whispered, “Laytham figured he’d move his cows into the canyon after Fowler was hung. He didn’t count on him getting a prison sentence. Still, he did for him in the end, and he paid the Arapaho Kid well for doing it.”

The deputy shook his head, as though he was trying to erase bad memories. “Tyree, I ain’t proud of what I done. But Laytham said he’d get me fired from my lawman’s job and then he’d run me out of the territory if’n I didn’t help him. Me, I was too old for cowboyin’ and too proud to beg, so I done like he told me.”