Guns of the Canyonlands

“He was in prison,” Daley said. “He got twenty-five years at hard labor. That was nine years ago. But this spring cholera broke out in the jail and Fowler helped nurse the sick prisoners. They say he saved the lives of a hundred men, but to my mind that don’t count a damn against the thing he done.” Daley spat, as though the words he was about to speak tasted bad in his mouth. “Anyhow, the governor pardoned Fowler and now he’s come back. He’s at his ranch up near Hatch Wash—again like I’m telling you something you don’t already know. Well, we burned out that murdering rustler afore, and we’ll do it again. Only this time we’ll make sure because we’re gonna hang him.”

Daley smiled like a snake about to strike. “Like I’m fixing to hang you, boy.”

Tyree looked into the deputy’s burning eyes and found no lie there. On the slenderest thread of evidence, coming upon a stranger who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, the lawman suspected him of being in cahoots with a rustler by the name of Owen Fowler. Daley had set himself up as judge, jury and executioner—and he aimed to do exactly what he’d promised.

Desperately, Chance Tyree tried to get Daley talking again, but the big man shook his head. “Pardner, I’m all through jawing.” He turned to Dawson. “Len, bring me your rope.”

Dawson hesitated, nervously chewing on the end of his mustache. “Clem, this ain’t right. Hangin’ is a hell of a way to kill a man. Let’s you an’ me take him into town. Maybe he can explain hisself to Mr. Laytham.”

“His explaining is done,” the big deputy answered. “Len, like you said already, you and me is the law in these parts, and the law is gonna hang this hired killer. Why would he ride all the way up here from Texas if it wasn’t to sell his gun to Fowler? Huh? Tell me that.”

Dawson shook his head. “I dunno. He says he’s passin’ through.”

“In a pig’s eye. Quirt Laytham wants us to get rid of gun tramps like this, and that’s how it’s going to be.” Anger flashed red across Daley’s cheekbones. His scarlet-veined eyes scorched into Tyree like hot coals. “Now bring that damn rope like I told you.”

There was no compromise in Daley and no mercy either, and Tyree knew it. He took his chance and dived for the gun in the lawman’s hand. Surprisingly fast and agile for such a big man, Daley danced to his right, swung the Colt and the barrel crashed hard against the side of Tyree’s head.

As Tyree fell, he saw the ground rush up to meet him, then open wide and swallow him whole. He plunged, yelling, into the abyss.

Chapter 2

Awareness returned slowly to Chance Tyree and with it came pain, beating inside his skull like a gigantic hammer pounding on an anvil. A green sickness curled in his belly like a living thing and before his eyes he saw only a gray, shifting mist.

He tried to remember, fighting through the agony in his head. It came to him then. He was headed for a town . . . What was its name? Crooked Creek. That was it: He must be riding across the brush flats to Crooked Creek. The big zebra dun danced restlessly between his legs and blew through its nose and he had a mind to pat the horse’s neck and settle it down.

But he couldn’t move his hands!

Tyree opened his eyes. The valley around him spun wildly, the tumbling creek rocking up and down like a board laid across a log, a thing he’d seen children use for play.

Then he felt the rawhide ring of the honda pressing hard against his skin just under the lobe of his right ear. He tried to move his hands again, but they were tied behind his back.

“You got anything to say, boy, a prayer maybe?” The voice came from a long distance away, like someone speaking at the end of a tunnel.

Tyree tried to concentrate, struggling to find the words. He knew his time was short. “You got no right to hang me,” he croaked finally, looking down at Daley as his vision cleared. “I’m drifting, a stranger passing through.”

“I got every right,” Daley said, his face tight and hard. “Mr. Laytham is a big man around these parts and it was him who gave me the right. He said to get rid of any low-down buzzard who is kin, friend or hired man to Owen Fowler.”

As his eyes began to focus, Tyree saw Dawson standing off to one side, looking gray and sick, and suddenly very old.

“You,” Tyree called out to the deputy. “Can you stop this?”

Dawson shook his head, the rifle in his hands quivering. “Clem here wants you dead, son, and so would Mr. Laytham if’n he was here. It ain’t up to me to stop this thing. Best you make your peace with God and take your medicine.”

“Go to hell,” Chance Tyree said, knowing further pleas were useless.

Daley looked up at Tyree. “Hard thing for a man to die with a cuss on his lips.” The huge lawman stepped to the back of the dun and slapped the horse on the rump.