Guns of the Canyonlands

Moving slowly, his gun hand well away from his body, Tyree rose to his feet. The man with the rifle stepped closer, reached out and yanked the Colt from his waistband.

“Who sent for you?” the rifleman asked. His hair was gray, his eyes tired and washed-out in a thin face lined deep with years and hard living.

Tyree shook his head, cursing himself for letting his guard down. “Nobody sent for me. I’m just passing through.”

“Like hell you are,” the bearded man said, his black eyes ugly. He was huge, big in the arms and shoulders, and he seemed to have the disposition of a cornered cottonmouth. “Are you kin to Owen Fowler? Or has he hired himself a Texas gunfighter?”

“Mister,” Tyree said, a sudden anger flaring in him, “I’ve no idea who the hell Owen Fowler is. I’ve never met the man.”

“What you think, Clem?” the lawman with the Winchester asked, a moment’s doubt fleeting across his face. “You think maybe he’s telling the truth?” Without waiting for an answer, he motioned to Tyree with the muzzle of the rifle. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Are you asking, or is the law asking?”

“What the hell difference does it make?”

“The difference is I’ll answer to the law, but not to you.”

“All right,” the man said. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Len Dawson. That there is Deputy Clem Daley, and around these parts, we’re the law. The only law.”

“Then it’s Chance Tyree.”

Daley scratched his bearded cheek. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name afore.” He thought for a few moments, scowling in concentration, then nodded. “Hell, now I remember. You were the kid gunfighter out of El Paso. I recollect you rode with John Wesley Hardin and the Clements boys an’ them a spell back. You made all the newspapers. They say you rannies played hob and not all of what you done was honest.”

“That was a long time ago.” Tyree shrugged. “A man changes, and he rides so many trails, he forgets how it was after ten years.”

“Strange though,” the lawman said. “I mean, you being here the week Owen Fowler gets back, and you being a Texas hired killer an’ all.”

“Texas and other places,” Tyree said. His anger flared. “And I never hired on to kill a man who didn’t need killing.”

Dawson spoke, his voice ragged with concern. “Clem, maybe we should take Tyree back to town. Best we let Sheriff Tobin decide what to do with him.”

The man called Clem shook his great nail keg of a head. “Len, what did Quirt Laytham tell us, huh? He said to get rid of any gun-toting strangers who couldn’t give a good account of why they was riding into the canyon country.” Clem waved his Colt in Tyree’s direction. “Well, he’s a gun-toting stranger and he’s riding into the canyon country and he’s given no good account for being here that I’ve heard.”

“I dunno,” Len muttered. “Maybe he’s tellin’ the truth—just passin’ through. Maybe he is. I still say we take him to the sheriff.”

“Sheriff!” Clem yelled, disgust heavy in his voice. “I don’t take orders from Nick Tobin, that useless, pink-eyed tub of guts. I take my orders from Mr. Laytham and so do you. Laytham told us to get rid of saddle tramps like this ’un who might be riding for Fowler, and when he said get rid of them, he meant permanently.”

Chance Tyree knew he had to keep these two talking. So long as they were jawing, they weren’t shooting and they might let down their guard long enough to give him an opening.

“Listen, who is this Owen Fowler who’s supposed to have hired me?” he asked. “Like I told another feller back on the trail, I don‘t know the man.”

“What feller?” Daley asked, suspicion shading into his eyes.

Tyree shrugged. “A man called Rinker.”

“Handsome Dave Rinker?”

“Yeah, I guess that was his name. I never heard the handsome part.”

“What happened between you and Rinker?”

“He accused me of being a hired gun for Owen Fowler,” Tyree answered. “Then he drew down on me.”

“You’re here,” Dawson said. “Where’s Rinker?”

“In hell probably,” Tyree answered. He hesitated a heartbeat. “He was notified.”

“Dave Rinker was fast on the draw, mighty slick and sudden,” Clem said, the suspicion in his eyes replaced by accusation.

“Maybe hereabouts,” Tyree said. “Not where I come from.” He played for time again. “You didn’t tell me about this Owen Fowler feller.”

“Him?” Daley said, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Like you don’t know already. Hell, I’ll tell it anyway. Fowler murdered Deacon John Kent, the finest, most decent man who ever walked the earth. Deacon Kent was our town preacher, but Fowler shot him in the back anyhow and robbed him of his watch and the few coins in his pockets.”

“If he committed murder, why isn’t Fowler in prison?” Tyree asked, wondering if Clem Daley would know a decent man if he met one. It seemed the big lawman was parroting words he had heard from others.