Guns of the Canyonlands by Ralph Compton Page A

out. “Heard about you being an expert Texas shootist who has killed his share of men. Heard you gunned Handsome Dave Rinker over to—”
    “If that’s what you heard, you heard right.” Tyree shifted the Winchester to his shoulder, putting his sights squarely on the top button of Laytham’s fancy vest. If this was a trap, the big rancher would be the first to die.
    “Chance Tyree! Can you hear me? This is Sheriff Tobin.”
    “I guessed who you were, Tobin.”
    “Tyree, Mr. Laytham has leveled a very serious accusation. He says Owen Fowler has been rustling his cattle and has taken them back to his canyon. I saw the brands on those cows, Tyree. They’re Rafter-L.”
    “Tobin, Laytham told you a damned lie. His cattle are on Fowler’s grass all right, but Laytham put them there.”
    The following silence stretched into several minutes as Tobin and Laytham, heads together, discussed matters between them. Finally the sheriff kneed his horse a few steps forward and yelled, “Tyree, we have a proposition for you.”
    “Let’s hear it.”
    “It’s Owen Fowler we want, not you. I could arrest you for murdering members of my legally appointed posse. But I won’t, not if you come out of them rocks. I’ll give you back your horse and guns and you can ride out of the territory free as you please. That’s a mighty generous deal Mr. Laytham and me are offering you, Tyree, and I advise you to take it.”
    Tyree smiled. He knew if he accepted Tobin’s offer he’d be playing with a cold deck. The sheriff and Laytham would never let him leave the canyon country alive.
    “Forget it, Tobin,” Tyree yelled. “I’m not going to bite at that worm.” He hesitated a few moments, then yelled, “Laytham, now it’s your turn to listen to what I have to say. Acting on your orders, Tobin’s deputies hung me for no other reason than I was a stranger passing through. Owen Fowler saved my life and I plan on standing by him.”
    “Damn you, Tyree!” Laytham yelled. “Damn you and your kind to hell.”
    The rancher made a move to swing his horse away, but Tyree’s shout stopped him. “Laytham, I could shoot you out of the saddle right now. But that would be too easy. I plan on destroying you. You walk a wide path, but I aim to strip you of everything you own. I’ll ruin you, Laytham.”
    Tyree lowered the rifle from his shoulder. “There’s a reckoning to come between us. Depend on it.”
    His face black with rage, Laytham stood in the stirrups and roared, “You talk of reckonings, Tyree, and you’re right—there’s one to come. But it will end with you and Fowler kicking from the same gallows. You have my word on that.”
    “Your word means nothing to me, Laytham,” Tyree yelled. “Now hightail it out of here before I lose sight of that surrender flag and start shooting.”
    An anger beyond anger hurtling him into the ragged edge of insanity, Laytham bellowed like a wounded animal and ripped the white rag from his rifle. He threw the Winchester to his shoulder, but Tobin quickly raised his hand and grabbed the barrel. Tyree couldn’t hear what the sheriff was saying, but judging by the frantic manner the man was gesticulating, he was pleading with Laytham to let it go and wait for another day.
    Tyree rose to his feet and shouldered his own rifle. If Laytham came at him, he’d be forced to drop the man, spoiling the plans he was making for him.
    But it seemed that Tobin’s frenzied words had gotten through to the rancher. Laytham abruptly turned his horse and galloped back toward his waiting men.
    For a few moments the fat sheriff sat his mount, staring in Tyree’s direction, the flaming evening sky reflecting bloodred in the lenses of his glasses.
    “Tyree,” the man yelled, “this was ill done. Mr. Laytham means what he said. He’ll see you hang.”
    “Pick up your dead, Tobin,” Tyree called back, suddenly tired, all his talking now done. “Bury them decent for God’s sake.”
    The sheriff made no