Ralph Compton - Guns of the Canyonlands

Tyree walked his horse to the cookhouse, looking around him. No one was in sight, and this at a time when the ranch should have been bustling with activity, the smith’s hammer clanging, riders coming and going, the ranch cook busily preparing the hands’ lunchtime beef and beans.

And where was Lorena?

As he swung out of the saddle, the drumming, which had stopped momentarily, began again. But this time there were only a few beats, then the drum fell once again into silence.

As Tyree remembered, ranch cooks were often a bad-tempered bunch, notoriously touchy about anyone entering their domain uninvited. He stopped outside the door and asked, “Anybody to home?”

A second or two passed; then a weak voice from inside whispered, “I’m in here.”

Tyree stepped inside, and once his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw a man lying on his back on the floor. Blood was congealed on the pine boards around the fallen cook, the white apron around his waist stained a rusty red. What looked to be a wooden washtub had fallen at the man’s left foot, and he hit it with the toe of his shoe. The tub gave off a dull thud. “Knew if I kept this up long enough, somebody would eventually come looking,” he said.

Kneeling beside the cook, Tyree asked: “What happened?”

“Hell, that’s easy to see, even for a puncher,” the cook snapped. “I’ve been shot through and through.”

“Who shot you?” Tyree asked.

“Is it bad?” the cook asked, ignoring Tyree’s question.

Quickly Tyree untied the man’s apron and looked at his wound.

“Well, is it bad?”

Tyree nodded. “Yeah, as bad as it gets. You’ve been gut-shot.”

“Thought so,” the cook muttered. “Paining me considerable.” His eyes sought those of Tyree in the dimness of the cabin. “Been bad around here recently. Luther Darcy showed up real early this morning before first light. Killed one of the hands who stood up to him and ran the rest off. Miss Lorena, she came down wearing only her nightgown and tried to get them boys to stay, but they lit out just the same, said she couldn’t pay them enough to face Darcy.” The cook coughed, a rush of blood staining his lips. “Can’t say as I blame them.”

“Darcy do this to you?” Tyree asked.

The man shook his head. “Nah, even Luther Darcy knows good cooks are hard to replace. He had me pour him some coffee after the killing, but he didn’t offer me no harm. He stayed awhile, back-talked Miss Lorena, and then rode out of here.”

“Then who—”

“Nick Tobin.”

Tyree was stunned. “Sheriff Tobin shot you?”

“After Darcy left, maybe an hour before you showed up, he stepped in here and asked me who was to home. I said only me and Miss Lorena, and as soon as I got the words out, without even a howdy-do, he shucked his pistol and shot me. Then he walked away mighty fast toward the house.”

Alarm clamoring at him, Tyree asked, “Where is Lorena?”

“Still at the house I guess,” the cook said. “Leastways she didn’t come a-running after she heard the shot that’s done killed me.”

Tyree rose to his feet. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“Hell, I ain’t goin’ no place,” the cook said.

Tyree sprinted for the house, ignored Sally’s shouted question and bounded up the stairs of the veranda to the front door. He tried the handle, but it had been locked from the outside.

Fear sliding into his belly like a knife blade, he raised his boot and kicked the door. Once, twice, then it crashed inward, splintering wood from around the lock. Behind him he heard Sally’s bewildered yell, “Chance, what are you doing?”

But he didn’t take time to answer. He ran into the house and called out, “Lorena, where are you?”

The house was silent, but for the slow, stately tick of a grandfather clock standing in the hallway.

There were several rooms opening off the hall, and Tyree entered all of them. One was a parlor, another a dining room, both expensively and ornately furnished in the accepted mode of the time, but Tyree took no time to admire the decor.

Lorena had to be upstairs, maybe hurt.

Taking the steps two at a time, Tyree ran up the winding staircase and when he reached the landing he hollered again, “Lorena!”

There was no answer.

Tyree tried a bedroom. It was a man’s room, no doubt Laytham’s, but it was empty. He tried another room off the long hallway. That too was empty. The door to the remaining room was slightly ajar. Tyree pulled his Colt and walked on cat feet to the door, the gun upraised and ready. He pushed the door wide, slamming it hard against the wall, then stepped inside—into a scene of unimaginable horror.

Chapter 23

Lorena was sprawled across the top of her bed. She was naked, torn scraps of her nightgown scattered around the floor, a look of terror mixed with outrage frozen on her dead white face.

Tyree willed himself to step closer, trying desperately to grapple with the stark reality his eyes were revealing to him. The woman had been used like a line-shack whore and then strangled, deep purple bruises marring the smooth skin of her throat.

Her assailant had been a powerful man, with strong hands, bringing to Tyree’s mind’s eye the thick shoulders and heavy arms of the massive Nick Tobin.

Lorena had fought like a tiger, both for her life and her virtue. Under the nails of one outflung hand, Tyree noticed shards of skin and a few hairs—long, white hairs.

On the dresser lay a stack of currency. Numb, scarcely aware of his actions, Tyree picked it up and riffled through the bills with his thumb. There was all of a thousand dollars there—and now came the dawning realization of who had put up the money to bribe him to leave the territory.

He had no way of knowing how and where it had happened, but Lorena must have finally decided she loved Quirt Laytham and wanted to get rid of the man who had vowed to do him harm. That was why she had given Tobin the money and told him to make the offer.

After the death of Laytham, Tobin had made returning the bribe an excuse to visit the ranch. He’d shot the cook, then, blinded by lust, the lawman had thrown himself on Lorena. But she’d fought him, and in the end Tobin had murdered her.

Afterward, no doubt horrified by the enormity of what he’d done, the man had fled in a panic, leaving the money behind.

Tyree realized it must also have been Lorena who had told Luther Darcy to warn him out of town. That was why the gunman had not pushed a gunfight at the livery stable.

Lorena had done what she thought was right, and Tyree could not find it in his heart to blame her. Whatever she’d felt or believed was now in the past, and Tyree would not dwell on it. He knew by bitter experience that in the carriages of the past, a man can’t go anywhere.

He stepped back to the bed.

He shouldn’t be seeing Lorena like this, nor should anyone else. Gently, he closed her eyes, crossed her arms over her breasts, then covered her with the calico quilt that had dropped to the floor during the struggle.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Sally called out, “Chance, where are you?”

“In here,” Tyree said, aware of the strange, hollow echo of his voice.

Sally stepped into the room and her eyes widened in horror when she saw the still figure on the bed. “Lorena?” she asked.

Tyree nodded. “She was murdered. Strangled.” Then he said, “Nick Tobin.” He saw in Sally’s eyes that he had no need to elaborate further.

“Chance, was she . . . was she . . . ?”

“Yes,” Tyree said. “She was.” He stepped to the girl and took her in his arms. “Now just let it go. Don’t think about it.”

Sally laid her head on Tyree’s shoulder and sobbed, her shoulders heaving. After a few minutes, Tyree led her from the bedroom and out of the house and into the bright light of the day.