knowing what must inevitably come—the gun violence that was probably even now headed his way.
There seemed to be no end to his years of living by the Colt, years of watchfulness, the constant keen awareness of everything and everyone around him. He had spent most of his life looking into the eyes of other men, measuring them, wondering if this was a man he’d have to kill—or would this be the one, faster, surer, that killed him.
For a while now, he’d been thinking of finding a place right here among the canyons, where the name Chance Tyree and what it stood for might be forgotten. He had thought to hang his gun from a nail on the wall and live without trouble.
But that dream seemed more remote than ever.
If he survived his encounter with Roy Will, there would still be Quirt Laytham—and Tyree’s desire for revenge on Laytham was a living thing that ate at him and gave him no peace. It was an open wound that his hate kept festering, a wound that otherwise would have healed and done well.
But that was the hard way of the gunfighter, the only way Chance Tyree knew, and perhaps he had no chance of ever stepping back from it.
It was a gloomy thought, not one to bring much comfort to a man.
The morning wore on, and by the time Tyree had drained the coffeepot to the grounds, the sun had climbed high into the sky above the canyons, scorching the hot, dusty land into drowsy silence.
Tyree threw another branch on the fire and watched a foot-long leopard lizard panting on a rock close to him. From nearby he heard the stealthy slither of a snake through the long grass. He rose, stretched, then froze into immobility as a pair of startled ravens burst from the branches of a juniper growing close to the sandy base of a mesa opposite him, near the dark entrance to a canyon.
An animal instinct taking over, he immediately hurled himself to the ground, drawing his gun as he hit flat on his belly behind a low hummock of sand and sagebrush. The flat statement of a rifle shot echoed through the canyons and a bullet
A drift of smoke rose from a jumble of talus rock to the right of the juniper, and Tyree thumbed off a couple of fast shots in that direction. He had seen no target, but he hoped to keep the hidden rifleman’s head down.
Tyree turned onto his back, punched out the empty shells from his Colt, then, thumbing cartridges from his belt, filled all six chambers. He rolled on his belly again and lifted his head, trying to see better. Immediately a bullet kicked a stinging spurt of sand into his face.
He was pinned down where he was and it was only a matter of time before the rifleman found the range and nailed him. Somehow or other he had to outflank the man and get a clear shot at him.
Tyree hammered a fast, offhand shot at the rifleman and heard his bullet clip a rock, whining wickedly. A couple of rifle shots probed for him, one thudding into the roots of the bunchgrass an inch from his head.
He couldn’t stay where he was.
Slowly Tyree inched his way back from the hummock and regained the comparative shelter of the dry wash. Crouching low, he followed the wash to the creek and dived into the shelter of thick brush growing around the roots of a stand of cottonwoods. A bullet rattled through the branches above him, then another.
Tyree worked his way to the creek and rolled off the bank into the water, a drop of several feet. Here he was shielded from the rifleman by a high dirt embankment crowned with tall grass and scattered white and pink wildflowers. His boots slipping and sliding on the rocky bottom, he followed the creek east for twenty yards, the embankment slowly diminishing in height until he had to bend over to stay hidden.
Now and then a bullet split the air near him, but mostly the rifleman’s probing shots went well wide, behind and in front of him.
Ahead of Tyree the creek took a sharp bend to the left, around a high, jutting sandbank crested by coarse bunchgrass and a stunted willow that trailed drooping branches into the water. Between Tyree and the tree lay thirty yards of open ground where the creekbank was broken down and trampled flat by the hooves of cattle. Before he reached the cover of the willow, he’d be exposed to the rifleman’s fire for four or five seconds. The risk was great, but it was a chance he’d have to take. He couldn’t stay where he was. To go back would mean taking up a position behind the high embankment. He’d be out of danger but would have no hope of getting a clear shot at his bushwhacker. If the man left his position and came at him he wouldn’t see him until the last moment and by then it could be too late.
Tyree made up his mind.
He straightened, then made a dash for the willow. Immediately he heard the crash of the rifle and felt a bullet tug at the back of his shirt. He ran on . . . twenty yards to go. Running flat out, awkward in spurs and high- heeled boots, he covered another few yards, then his foot rolled on a loose rock and he stumbled and fell flat on his face in the water. A bullet spurted a small fountain near his head, then a second burned across the back of his right thigh. Tyree got to his feet and ran, thumbing off wild shots toward the rocks where the rifleman was hidden.
The sandbank was very close now and he dived for its shelter as bullets whapped into the water or creased the air around him. Tyree splashed into the creek, throwing up a cascade of water, rolled, and came up against the bank, a four foot high ledge of soft yellow sand tangled with willow roots.
For a few moments, he leaned against the bank, breathing hard, his chest heaving. Then he took off his hat, filled it with creek water and poured the water over his head, enjoying its welcome coolness.
It was time to move again.
After several attempts, his boots slipping on the loose sand, Tyree managed to get a toehold on a thick root and clambered up the bank. Heavy clumps of Indian grass grew around the base of the willow, and he worked his way through those until he had a clear view of the rocks where the rifleman was hidden.
There had been no time to grab his own rifle, and Tyree was keenly aware of the uncertainty of his Colt at this distance. Between him and the bushwhacker lay fifty yards of open ground, too far for accurate revolver work.
But he couldn’t get any closer without exposing himself to the hidden marksman’s rifle, so for better or worse, here he had to stay.
There was no movement among the rocks, and Tyree took the time to reload his gun. The day’s heat was building and the sun was hot on his damp back, steaming off the creek water.
He waited, scanning the rocks with eyes that missed nothing.
There it was, a movement, just a flash of blue cloth against the drab dun of the rocks!
Tyree pushed the Colt straight out in front of him, holding the handle of the gun with both hands. He thumbed back the hammer, the metallic triple click loud in the quiet, and sighted on the rocks.
A few slow minutes inched by as beads of sweat gathered on Tyree’s forehead and his mouth ran dry. Around him the rugged land lay still, silent and unchanging, except in the far distance where the buttes, crags and mesas were already shimmering, shifting shape in the growing heat.
Another fleeting glimpse of blue. And another. More of it that time.
Slowly, looking around him like a wild thing, a man emerged from the rocks, a rifle slanted across his chest. Tyree recognized the yellow hair under the man’s hat and the bloodstained bandage on his shoulder. It was Roy Will. As he’d expected, the outlaw had wasted no time on making good his promise to avenge his brother’s death.
Will took a few steps toward the creek, then stopped, his head turning, checking the land around him. Warily, he angled toward the spot where Tyree was hidden, advanced three or four yards, then stopped again, his eyes speculatively scanning the willow.
Tyree laid the front sight of his Colt on Will’s chest and his forefinger took up the sixteenth of an inch of slack on the trigger. He held his breath, gripped the gun rock steady—and fired.
Will jerked as the bullet burned across his left arm. He threw the rifle to his damaged shoulder and hammered off three fast shots in Tyree’s direction, all of them crashing into the branches of the willow well above his head.
The man was close enough that Tyree saw him wince as the recoiling rifle pounded against his broken shoulder.
Tyree fired again. A clean miss. But it was enough. It seemed Will was an outlaw who clearly understood his limitations and he had decided this was not his day. The man ran back to the shelter of the rocks and a few moments later Tyree heard the echoing clatter of a horse’s hooves in the canyon.
