Guns of the Canyonlands Read Free Page B

he’d find a place out here where he could flee his reputation as a gunfighter, and hang up his Colt forever. He could drink his coffee of an evening from his own front porch, his face crimsoned by the fire in the sky. And maybe there would be a pretty woman rocking at his side and a passel of tall sons to take care of them both when they grew old.
    Tyree rode through blue hills fragrant with the smell of juniper and sage, the sun hot on his back. He was still a mile from the flats when he topped a rock-strewn ridge, then headed down into a narrow valley where a stream chuckled to itself as it ran over a pebbled bottom and crickets made their small sound in the grass. The gulch was a pleasant spot, shaded from the sun by the leaves of tall cottonwoods, the air smelling of wildflowers. Tyree reined up and swung out of the saddle.
    The day was hot and the brassy ball of sun burned in a sky the color of faded denim. He decided to let his tired dun drink and then graze for an hour before taking to the flats. Crooked Creek could wait. There was no one there to welcome him, no woman with perfumed hair smiling from her doorway, her voice husky with desire—just strangers wary of other strangers.
    Tyree eased the girth on the horse and led the animal to the creek. As the dun drank, so did he, stretched flat out on his belly on the bank. After drinking his fill he splashed water on his face and combed wet fingers through his unruly black hair. He smoothed his sweeping dragoon mustache with the back of his hand then settled his hat back on his head, the lacy tree shadows falling dappled around him.
    The dun had wandered off to graze. Tyree took off his coat, fetched up against a cottonwood trunk and rolled a smoke. When he’d finished the cigarette, he closed his eyes, enjoying the quiet, lulled by the laughter of the creek and the soft, restless rustle of the cottonwoods.
    He eased his position against the tree as the dun wandered close to him, cropping grass, and he tilted his hat further over his face.
    Gradually, he drifted . . . his breathing slowed . . . and he let sleep take him.
     
    A hard kick on the sole of his boot woke Chance Tyree from slumber.
    “Get on your feet, you.”
    Tyree opened his eyes and saw a bearded man towering above him, the rock-steady gun in his hand pointed right at his head. He turned and saw another man a few feet away to his left. That one held a Winchester.
    Each wore a lawman’s star on his vest. They looked like grim and determined men.
    Moving slowly, his gun hand well away from his body, Tyree rose to his feet. The man with the rifle stepped closer, reached out and yanked the Colt from his waistband.
    “Who sent for you?” the rifleman asked. His hair was gray, his eyes tired and washed-out in a thin face lined deep with years and hard living.
    Tyree shook his head, cursing himself for letting his guard down. “Nobody sent for me. I’m just passing through.”
    “Like hell you are,” the bearded man said, his black eyes ugly. He was huge, big in the arms and shoulders, and he seemed to have the disposition of a cornered cottonmouth. “Are you kin to Owen Fowler? Or has he hired himself a Texas gunfighter?”
    “Mister,” Tyree said, a sudden anger flaring in him, “I’ve no idea who the hell Owen Fowler is. I’ve never met the man.”
    “What you think, Clem?” the lawman with the Winchester asked, a moment’s doubt fleeting across his face. “You think maybe he’s telling the truth?” Without waiting for an answer, he motioned to Tyree with the muzzle of the rifle. “What’s your name, boy?”
    “Are you asking, or is the law asking?”
    “What the hell difference does it make?”
    “The difference is I’ll answer to the law, but not to you.”
    “All right,” the man said. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Len Dawson. That there is Deputy Clem Daley, and around these parts, we’re the law. The only law.”
    “Then it’s Chance Tyree.”
    Daley scratched his bearded