I’ve ridden a few owl-hoot trails in my life, but I’m no rustler and neither is Owen Fowler. The second is that someday I plan to make you forget all about Quirt Laytham and take you as my wife.”
The woman’s back stiffened; then she slowly turned to face him. “Mr. Tyree,” she said, her beautiful eyes blazing, “I certainly wouldn’t count on that if I was you.”
Chapter 7
A week drifted by and Tyree’s strength grew as his wounds began to heal. He moved his gear into the bunkhouse, no longer wishing to crowd Lorena and her father in the cabin.
Lorena still bathed and bandaged him every day. She even washed and mended his shirt, but she was frosty and distant, polite to a fault, the looming shadow of Quirt Laytham lying between them.
Tyree was yet to tell Lorena that he planned on destroying Laytham, wiping out even his memory from the canyonlands. He would have to let her know soon, but he feared how she would react. There was a distinct probability she’d run into Laytham’s arms and he would lose her forever.
His frustration growing, Tyree considered another possibility—he could step away from his showdown with Laytham and ask Lorena to leave with him. But even as he mulled over this option, he soon dismissed it. A devil was driving him and it would not let up until justice was done. He had been a stranger passing through, but Crooked Creek lawmen, men Laytham kept in his pocket, had seen fit to hang him. There could be no going back from that. Tyree was a man who measured things only in the light of his own experience, a seasoning he had gained among tough, uncompromising men. He had no other yardstick. He knew he had been badly wronged and for that, there must be a reckoning. It was a principle as old as the Bible—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Even his growing love for Lorena, coldly distant as she was, would not sidetrack him from his purpose.
On the morning of the eighth day of his stay at Luke’s ranch, Tyree stepped out of the bunkhouse door after breakfast and saw the old rancher and Fowler saddling their horses in the barn.
He strolled over and Boyd answered his unasked question. “It’s high time I made a tally of my herd, Chance. I’ve been prospecting some this past three months and during that time they’ve scattered to hell and gone, them that haven’t been rustled. I’ll drive them out of the canyons toward the creek and count them there.”
Interested, Tyree asked, “You planning on making a drive, Luke?”
The old rancher nodded. “I figure come spring I’ll hire me a couple of men and push a herd to the Union Pacific railhead at Salt Lake City.” He shrugged. “Money’s been tight for a spell, and I want Lorena to be able to afford some nice things, women’s fixin’s and the like.”
“I was once pretty handy with a rope,” Tyree said. “Mind if I tag along today?”
“You up for it, boy?” Luke asked. “That bullet wound in your side has some healing to do yet and you still look a mite peaked.”
“I’ll be all right,” Tyree said. “I’ll need a good cutting horse, though.”
Luke thought the younger man’s offer through for a few moments, then said, “We could sure use another hand. Glad to have you along.” He nodded toward the corral. “Throw a saddle on that steeldust. He’ll buck a time or two just to keep you honest, but after that he’ll settle down. He’s a first-rate cow pony.”
The old rancher’s eyes moved to Tyree’s waist. “Better wear your gun.”
Tyree smiled. “I thought we were rounding up your cows, not shooting them.”
“Wear your gun just the same,” Boyd said, his face solemn. “Back in seventy-eight, Governor George W. Emery told the legislature that the Utah Territory had more rustlers to the square mile than any other place in the country. It was the only damn thing I ever agreed with him on.” Boyd’s eyes met Tyree’s. “Wear your iron, boy. I’m not saying we’ll run into shooting trouble, but out there among the canyons a man never knows.”
Tyree saw the logic in what Boyd was saying. He went back inside the bunkhouse, retrieved the gun belt from the peg and strapped it around his hips, then lifted his Winchester from the rack. When he passed the cabin the door was open. Lorena had her back to him, putting away dishes, and she didn’t turn.
“We’re heading out to make a tally of your pa’s cows,” Tyree said. “Will you be all right here alone?”
“I can use the Sharps about as well as Pa,” the girl answered, still without turning. “I’ll be just fine.”
Tyree pulled his canvas suspenders over his shoulders and settled his hat on his head. He was about to step toward the barn again, but Lorena’s voice stopped him.
“Be careful out there, Chance,” she said. “Those canyons can be treacherous.”
Lorena still had her back to him as Tyree said, “Worried about me, Lorena?”
The girl turned to face him. “Yes, you and Pa and Owen. All of you.”
Tyree could not read Lorena’s eyes. But was there something there, real concern, maybe? Was it something he might hold on to, to give him hope? He had no time to ponder those questions. The girl turned away again, her back straight and stiff.
He stepped through the bright light of the morning, confused, feeling no closer to Lorena now than he had for the past eight days.
Luke Boyd had been right about the steeldust. The horse bucked a few times, enough to justify his reputation, then settled down and seemed eager for the trail.
“We’ll head east along the creek and search the canyons,” Boyd said. He wore a battered black hat, a plaid shirt and corduroy pants tucked into muleeared boots. An old cap-and-ball Remington rode on his hip and, like Tyree, he had a Winchester under his knee.
His Henry shattered and inoperable, Fowler had Luke’s Greener scattergun tied to the back of his saddle with piggin strings, and he wore a Green River knife on his belt. A copy of Thomas Carlyle’s
Lorena stood at the door of the cabin as Tyree and the others rode out, and he waved to her. She waved back, but whether to him or her pa he did not know.
Under a flaming sky streaked with banners of dark blue cloud, the riders followed the creek south. Around them spread a desolate, silent land of high, serrated ridges, great flat-topped mesas, rocky basins and slender spires and pinnacles of pink, red and yellow sandstone. Sparse growths of Douglas fir, mountain mahogany, scrub oak, sagebrush and mountain shrub grew high up the canyon walls, pinon and juniper at the lower levels.
It was still early, but the morning was already hot, the steep, rocky crags on all sides beginning their shimmering dance in the heat. Dust devils spiraled ahead of the riders and sand began to work its way inside their clothes and make their eyes red and gritty. Among the canyons phantom blue lakes glittered, mirages formed by the strengthening sunlight and the clear, dry air.
Along the creek, grazing in the shade of cottonwoods or standing knee high in the cool water, they counted eighty Herefords, all carrying Boyd’s LB brand. The cattle were fat and sleek, wary and wild as deer.
But as they rode Boyd’s eyes were shadowed with concern. He had yet to cut sign of his bull, and that bothered him.
Now the easy part of the tally was over. It was time for the three men to fan out and begin their search of the canyons and draws for the rest of Boyd’s cows.
Tyree took a sandy switchback cattle trail up a sloping ridge and rode down the other side into a narrow gorge. The trail showed signs of recent use, the cattle tracks overlaid with those of deer and antelope. Because of the canyon’s steep walls, little light penetrated to the bottom and Tyree found himself riding in a strange, violet gloaming. Here, away from the sun, the air was much cooler—one reason cattle were so attracted to canyons, including the slots that were just narrow, twisting fissures in the rock.
Tyree found half a dozen cows lying around a shallow seep on the canyon floor where grew a few stunted willows and scattered clumps of sagebrush. The Herefords were reluctant to move back to the heat and flies, but the steeldust knew his business and soon had them up and headed for the canyon mouth.
Tyree hazed the cattle toward the creek and saw Fowler driving another small herd. Boyd, looking grouchy, had ridden into a canyon to the east and had returned empty-handed.
“Damn it all,” the old rancher growled, the heat and dust making his patience wear thin. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of my bull. Now where in hell has he wandered off to? He always liked to stay close to them cows.”
Tyree took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Still a lot of canyons and
