reply. He turned his mustang and trotted after Laytham, his back stiff. When the lawman was gone, Tyree left his place in the rocks and rounded the butte where Fowler stood beside his buckskin.
“Heard all that,” he said. “You’ve made my enemies your enemies and it seems to me that neither of us stands a chance against them.”
Tyree managed a grim smile. “I was a stranger passing through. They had no call to do what they did to me. Count on it, there will be a reckoning.”
Fowler shook his head. “Chance, we were lucky today. You killed a few of Laytham’s men, but they weren’t the best of them. He still has a score of riders left, the Arapaho Kid and Luther Darcy among them.” The man stepped closer to Tyree and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Take my horse. Ride north out of here and don’t stop until you clear the Utah Territory. This is my fight, not yours.”
“No, Owen,” Tyree said. “When they hung me, shot me and left me for dead, it also became my fight.”
Exasperation showed on Fowler’s narrow, lined face, its gray jailhouse pallor not yet burned away by the sun. “But Quirt Laytham is too big and getting bigger by the day. One man can’t declare war on an empire.”
Without a trace of false pride or brag in his voice, Tyree looked Fowler in the eye. “This one can.”
Fowler, in turn, looked into Tyree’s eyes and saw a terrible green fire. He realized with a dawning certainty that hell was coming to the canyonlands.
Chapter 6
Both of them again up on the buckskin, Tyree and Fowler followed Hatch Wash north for several miles as the day faded into evening. Out among the canyons the talking coyotes were filling the night with their sound and a hunting cougar roared once in the distance, then fell silent.
Fowler swung west and splashed across the creek, entering a narrow draw with steep, high walls. Struggling spruce and juniper were just visible in the failing light, clinging to narrow outcroppings of rock high above them. The bottom of the draw was sandy and clumps of mesquite grew here and there, brushing against the legs of the riders with a dry, rasping hiss.
“We’re headed due west, toward the Colorado,” Fowler said over his shoulder. “But in an hour or so we’ll cut north toward where Hatch Wash meets the river. Where we’re going we’ll be pretty much near level with the peaks of the La Sal Mountains to the east.”
“You mean the slot canyon?” Tyree asked.
“Thought it through and changed my mind about that,” Fowler said. “You need plenty of bed rest and good grub. We’re going to pay a visit on an old friend of mine, a man called Luke Boyd. He’ll see us all right.”
Now the sun was gone, the night air was turning cool, and Tyree, having lost so much blood, shivered.
Fowler, a perceptive and caring man, turned in the saddle. “Reach behind the cantle, Chance. I’ve got me a mackinaw inside my bedroll.”
Tyree found the coat and quickly shrugged into it, grateful for the warmth of the wool, thin and threadbare though it was.
After thirty minutes the draw widened out into a patch of open, flatter country, less hemmed in by the surrounding bastions of rock. Mesquite and clumps of rabbit bush covered the ground, and the night air smelled of cedar and juniper.
As they cleared the confining walls of the draw, Tyree looked up and saw a sky full of stars. The moon was not yet visible, but already its diffused glow was painting the land around them the color of tarnished silver.
Weak as he was, Tyree nodded in the saddle, lulled by the rocking motion of the buckskin and the sound of its soft footfalls on the sand.
Fowler’s voice woke him. “Almost there, Chance, but from now on we ride real careful. Ol’ Luke Boyd has a Sharps fifty-seventy ranged at a hundred yards and he’s never been bashful about using it.”
“Must be a real good friend of yours, huh?” Tyree asked, the smile in his voice evident.
“He was, before I
“Heard all that,” he said. “You’ve made my enemies your enemies and it seems to me that neither of us stands a chance against them.”
Tyree managed a grim smile. “I was a stranger passing through. They had no call to do what they did to me. Count on it, there will be a reckoning.”
Fowler shook his head. “Chance, we were lucky today. You killed a few of Laytham’s men, but they weren’t the best of them. He still has a score of riders left, the Arapaho Kid and Luther Darcy among them.” The man stepped closer to Tyree and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Take my horse. Ride north out of here and don’t stop until you clear the Utah Territory. This is my fight, not yours.”
“No, Owen,” Tyree said. “When they hung me, shot me and left me for dead, it also became my fight.”
Exasperation showed on Fowler’s narrow, lined face, its gray jailhouse pallor not yet burned away by the sun. “But Quirt Laytham is too big and getting bigger by the day. One man can’t declare war on an empire.”
Without a trace of false pride or brag in his voice, Tyree looked Fowler in the eye. “This one can.”
Fowler, in turn, looked into Tyree’s eyes and saw a terrible green fire. He realized with a dawning certainty that hell was coming to the canyonlands.
Chapter 6
Both of them again up on the buckskin, Tyree and Fowler followed Hatch Wash north for several miles as the day faded into evening. Out among the canyons the talking coyotes were filling the night with their sound and a hunting cougar roared once in the distance, then fell silent.
Fowler swung west and splashed across the creek, entering a narrow draw with steep, high walls. Struggling spruce and juniper were just visible in the failing light, clinging to narrow outcroppings of rock high above them. The bottom of the draw was sandy and clumps of mesquite grew here and there, brushing against the legs of the riders with a dry, rasping hiss.
“We’re headed due west, toward the Colorado,” Fowler said over his shoulder. “But in an hour or so we’ll cut north toward where Hatch Wash meets the river. Where we’re going we’ll be pretty much near level with the peaks of the La Sal Mountains to the east.”
“You mean the slot canyon?” Tyree asked.
“Thought it through and changed my mind about that,” Fowler said. “You need plenty of bed rest and good grub. We’re going to pay a visit on an old friend of mine, a man called Luke Boyd. He’ll see us all right.”
Now the sun was gone, the night air was turning cool, and Tyree, having lost so much blood, shivered.
Fowler, a perceptive and caring man, turned in the saddle. “Reach behind the cantle, Chance. I’ve got me a mackinaw inside my bedroll.”
Tyree found the coat and quickly shrugged into it, grateful for the warmth of the wool, thin and threadbare though it was.
After thirty minutes the draw widened out into a patch of open, flatter country, less hemmed in by the surrounding bastions of rock. Mesquite and clumps of rabbit bush covered the ground, and the night air smelled of cedar and juniper.
As they cleared the confining walls of the draw, Tyree looked up and saw a sky full of stars. The moon was not yet visible, but already its diffused glow was painting the land around them the color of tarnished silver.
Weak as he was, Tyree nodded in the saddle, lulled by the rocking motion of the buckskin and the sound of its soft footfalls on the sand.
Fowler’s voice woke him. “Almost there, Chance, but from now on we ride real careful. Ol’ Luke Boyd has a Sharps fifty-seventy ranged at a hundred yards and he’s never been bashful about using it.”
“Must be a real good friend of yours, huh?” Tyree asked, the smile in his voice evident.
“He was, before I
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