Guns of the Canyonlands by Ralph Compton

body and stripped the gun belt from the man’s waist. The Colt was nickel-plated with hard rubber grips and was in the same caliber as the rifle. Every loop in the cartridge belt was full. Tyree strapped the gun belt around his hips, adjusting the position of the holster to his liking.
    There was as yet no sign of another attack, and Tyree took time to look around him. The bay gelding that had earlier collided with the downed sorrel was grazing in the shade of a cottonwood near the creek, apparently unhurt. Tyree took a couple of steps toward the animal and called out softly. The bay lifted its head, the bit jangling, studied the approaching human for a few moments without concern, then went back to grazing.
    There was still no sign of Laytham’s men, and Tyree decided to take a chance. He needed a horse and what looked to be a good one was standing just a few yards away. Speaking in a reassuring whisper to the animal, he stepped closer. The bay again lifted its head, but this time the horse nickered uneasily and arcs of white showed in its eyes as it pranced backward a few steps.
    “Easy, boy,” Tyree whispered, still moving toward the horse. “Easy, boy.”
    The bay retreated further, stepping lightly, its head high, alarmed by the closeness of the tall man and the smell of blood that clung to him.
    Tyree made a grab for the trailing reins, but the bay sidestepped, then turned and galloped back in the direction of Laytham and the others.
    Cursing under his breath, Tyree watched the horse go, its hammering hooves kicking up a churning cloud of dust. He turned and went back to his position among the rocks, disappointment tugging at him.
    He’d badly wanted that horse and now it was well out of his reach.
    The day wore on and the shadows cast by the cottonwoods slowly lengthened. The sky shaded to a cobalt blue and now the passing clouds were rimmed with gold. His eyes bloodshot and painful, Tyree kept his gaze on the trail beside the creek, but he saw no sign of activity.
    Had Laytham gone, deciding to wait for another day when the odds would be more in his favor?
    That question was answered a few minutes later when the rancher himself rode toward Tyree’s position, a white rag tied to the barrel of the rifle he carried butt down on his right thigh. Laytham’s teeth showed white under his full, black mustache. But he was not smiling. It was the irritated grimace of an angry man.
    Laytham was flanked by a big-bellied fat man on a mouse-colored mustang. The man had a lawman’s star pinned to his vest and his mouth was concealed by a huge, ragged mustache, the ends drooping over the first of his several chins. Sheriff Nick Tobin wore round, dark glasses and, judging by the white of his hair and mustache, Tyree guessed the man was an albino, his eyes sensitive to the glare of the sun.
    There was a pale, unhealthy look to Tobin, like he’d been buried deep in damp ground for a week, then dug up and shoved on a horse. Yet his shoulders and arms were thick, and Tyree realized not all of the man’s bulk was fat.
    Laytham reined up when he was still a hundred yards away and he cupped his mouth with his left hand, a plaited leather quirt dangling from his wrist.
    Tyree idly wondered if that was how the man had gotten his name.
    “Chance Tyree!”
    “I hear you, Laytham,” Tyree yelled. “What do you want?”
    “You killed some of my men, Chance Tyree. That was an ugly thing, mighty ugly.”
    “They were trying to do the same to me, Laytham.”
    The big rancher kneed his horse forward and stopped closer to Tyree’s position. “I’m carrying a flag of truce, Tyree,” he said.
    Despite his weakness and the gnawing pain in his side, Tyree laughed. “Don’t go thinking that’s going to protect you any if I take it into my head to shoot.”
    Laytham stiffened slightly in the saddle, but not a trace of fear crossed his heavily jowled face with its massive, stubborn chin.
    “Chance Tyree, I know you,” Laytham called