Guns of the Canyonlands Read Free

said, full lips stretched wide in a cruel grin under his sweeping yellow mustache, “you can go through that door—with four men carrying you by the handles.”
    Rinker was ready, his hands close to his guns. There was a strange light in the man’s eyes, a glowing mix of sadistic joy and the urge to kill that Tyree recognized only too well from past experiences. He knew right then that this man would not let it go.
    Then Dave Rinker went for his gun.
    Tyree drew fast from the waistband, and his first bullet hit Rinker square in the chest. Another, a split second later, crashed into the man’s forehead, just under the rim of his hat.
    The big towhead convulsively triggered a round that thudded into the sod roof. Then his Colt dropped from his hand as he slammed backward onto the table, sending Charlie’s bottle and glass flying. Rinker tumbled off the table and fell flat on his back, his stunned eyes wide, unable to believe the manner and the fact of his dying. The gunman tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come. He rattled deep in his throat and blood bubbled scarlet and sudden over his lips. His glazed stare fixed on the glow of the lamp above his head . . . but by then he was seeing only darkness.
    Hammer back, Tyree’s gun swung on Charlie. But the little man threw up his hands and screamed, “No! Mother of God, no! Don’t shoot! I’m out of this!”
    “Shuck that gun belt and step away from it, or I’ll drop you right where you stand,” Tyree said.
    Charlie’s trembling fingers quickly unbuckled the gun belt like it had suddenly become red-hot and let it fall. He backed toward the door, looking down at Rinker, a tangle of shocked emotion in his eyes.
    “But Dave was fast,” the man whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “He was the fastest around.”
    “Had he ever been to Texas?” Tyree asked.
    “No . . . I mean, I don’t think so.”
    Tyree nodded. “Figures.”
    From force of long habit, he punched the empty shells out of his Colt, reloaded, then stuck the big revolver back in his waistband. He turned to the bartender.
    “You saw what happened. I didn’t want this fight and Rinker was notified.”
    The man opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was trying to swallow a dry chicken bone.
    “What’s your name, bartender?” Tyree asked.
    “Zachary,” the man answered finally, his stunned, haunted eyes a mirror image of Charlie’s. “They call me Zack Ryan, when they call me anything.”
    Tyree motioned toward the dead man. “Well, Zack Ryan, will you take care of this?”
    The bartender gulped, then nodded. “Sure, sure, Tex, sure. Anything you say.”
    Tyree dug into the pocket of his pants and chimed three silver dollars onto the bar. “A man should be buried decent,” he said. “Lay him out fitting and proper in his best suit, and get a preacher to say the words.”
    “I’ll do it,” Ryan said, nodding again, his face gray. “I’ll do right by him.”
    Tyree lifted a hand. “Thanks for the beer and the food.”
    He turned and stepped toward the door, his spurs ringing like silver bells in the sullen, smoke-streaked silence.
    “Wait,” Ryan said, his curiosity overcoming his fear. “Did Owen Fowler really send for you?”
    Tyree stopped in his tracks. “Who the hell,” he asked, a vague anger tugging at him, “is Owen Fowler?”
     
    Chance Tyree ground out his cigarette butt on the heel of his boot, then swung his long leg back into the stirrup. “Well,” he said, to no one but himself, as is the habit of men who ride lonely trails, “maybe I’ll meet this Owen Fowler one day. Then him and me will have words.”
    Tyree shook his head and kneed the dun forward in the direction of the flats.
    He harbored no illusions about Crooked Creek.
    The town would be the same as the last he’d visited, and the ones before that. The warm beer and raw whiskey would taste the same. The same choking yellow dust would cloud the