Quickly Tyree sprang to his feet and ran to the dry wash where the steeldust was grazing. He caught up the reins and swung into the saddle, then galloped toward the canyon mouth.
He had no intention of letting Will escape to bush-whack him another day when his shooting shoulder was better healed and his aim surer.
Ahead of Tyree the canyon entrance yawned open, a clean-cut cleft in the rock not a whole lot wider than a slot, its sheer sides climbing six or seven hundred feet to the flat top of the mesa. Will was obviously gambling that the canyon had an outlet on the other side of the mesa, an uncertain thing since so many of them were boxes, ending in an impassible barrier of rock.
Tyree reined in the steeldust and entered the canyon at a walk, his Winchester ready to hand across the saddle horn. There was a thin trickle of water along the canyon bottom and a few deer and cattle tracks. The light was thin, picking up an amber tint from the walls, and the sandy bottom was broken in places by clumps of prickly pear and ocotillo. The canyon smelled of cows and the dust kicked up by Will’s horse.
Down here it was very quiet, the only sound the creak of Tyree’s saddle leather and the soft thud of the steeldust’s hooves on the sand. His stirrups scraping against the walls, Tyree rode around a tight bend and then entered a rock passageway about fifty yards wide with smooth, curved walls. Here the water had pooled in a long, shallow tank but was only a couple of inches deep.
Ahead of him, its top hidden from sight by an outcropping of rock, a shallow trough rose from the canyon floor and slanted upward, following an unexpected, gradual slope in the wall. The basin had been gouged out in ancient times by the fall of heavy boulders, and later by rain erosion. Tyree guessed it went clear to the top of the mesa.
He rode around the outcropping and immediately reined in the steeldust. Roy Will, probably fearful that he’d ridden into a box, was urging his horse up the trough. The rustler rode to his left, then turned right again, creating his own switchback trail up the slope. He was attempting to reach the summit of the mesa, trusting to luck that he’d find a way back onto the flat.
But Will wasn’t going to make it.
The rustler fought his horse as it faltered, its hooves skidding on loose sand and talus, frightened arcs of white showing in its eyes.
“Will!” Tyree yelled. “Throw down your gun and get down from there.”
“Damn you, Tyree!” the man cried, surprised, his face twisted in fury. “I’ll see you in hell first!”
Will savagely swung his struggling horse around and headed down the slope, his mount sliding most of the way on its haunches. The rustler had booted his rifle, but the Colt in his hand barked. The bullet missed Tyree’s head by inches, caromed off the canyon wall then ricocheted wildly, the whining lead bouncing back and forth from rock to rock, dangerous and lethal.
Will had almost reached the bottom of the canyon and was firing as he came. His plunging horse was an unstable platform for accurate shooting, but his bullets rebounded from the rock walls and Tyree was aware of the peril of all that wildly flying lead.
Tyree fired his Winchester from the hip, working the lever fast, hammering bullets into Will. Sudden red roses bloomed on the rustler’s blue shirt and the man screamed, threw up his arms and fell backward out of the saddle, hitting the sandy floor with a thud.
The hollow echoes of his gunshots were still reverberating through the smoke-streaked canyon as Tyree swung out of the saddle and stepped to the fallen rustler.
Will’s eyes were wide open, but he was seeing nothing. The man had been already dead when he hit the ground.
The rustler’s horse was also down, its right leg shattered by a ricocheting bullet. Tyree put the animal out of its misery with one well-aimed shot, then holstered his gun.
Suddenly he was tired, tired beyond belief, the wound in his side a dull, relentless ache that pounded at him. He stepped into the saddle once more and turned his horse toward the mouth of the canyon.
For some reason he could scarcely fathom, he badly wanted to see Sally again.
Chapter 15
Tyree was still a mile from the cabin when he met Luke Boyd on the trail alongside the creek. The old rancher rode up to him and his eyes searched the younger man’s face, a question forming on his lips.
“Yes, Luke,” Tyree said, beating him to it, “I ran into Roy Will.”
“He dead?”
Tyree nodded. “Back in a canyon. He didn’t give me any choice.”
“Heard guns. Noise travels far in these canyons. I was on my way to help.” He looked Tyree over. “You hurt any?”
“Shallow bullet burn across the back of my leg is all.” Tyree smiled. “Nothing to speak about.”
“You look all used up, boy. Tell you what. Why don’t you come back to the cabin and let’s you and me share a jug?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day, Luke.” Tyree grinned.
The day was hot, and Lorena and Sally were sitting in chairs outside, under the shade of a spruce growing near the cabin. Despite the heat, both women looked cool and lovely, and Tyree’s breath caught in his throat, like a man who’d unexpectedly come across a pair of blooming prairie roses in the desert.
“Chance,” Lorena said, jumping to her feet as Tyree swung out of the saddle, “we heard shooting. We’ve been so worried.”
Tyree held the reins of the steeldust and nodded. “It was Roy Will. He bushwhacked me, or at least he tried to.”
“Is he . . . ?”
“Yes, he’s dead.”
Sally, looking crisp and pretty in another of Lorena’s dresses, took the reins from Tyree’s hand. “Chance, you look exhausted. Best you sit for a while and I’ll see to your horse.”
“Sally, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to.” The girl smiled. “But I want to.”
Later, Boyd brought out his jug. He and Tyree passed it back and forth, and Tyree was pleased when Sally refused a drink. Maybe her heavy drinking had been a onetime thing and it was over.
Rustler or no, the killing of Roy Will seemed to cast a pall over everybody, and even Sally didn’t talk much. Lorena seemed oddly withdrawn, as though she was busy with her own thoughts. As to what those thoughts might be, Tyree could not hazard a guess.
As the long day shaded into a warm, starlit evening, Boyd brought a couple of lanterns outside and set them up, their flickering flames casting dancing circles of orange light on the hard-packed dirt of the yard. A few moments later he produced a fiddle and said, “We’re all of us sitting with long faces and I reckon it’s time I livened things up around here.”
Grinning wide, he tucked the fiddle under his chin and played. It was immediately clear that Boyd was a fine musician and he performed an excellent rendition of “Ducks in the Pond,” followed by a lively version of “Old Joe Clark.”
“Let’s have some dancing,” Boyd yelled, the music and the whiskey taking ahold of him. “Here, Chance, let’s see you and Sally step it out.”
Taking his cue from Boyd and caught up in the moment himself, Tyree grinned, walked to where Sally was sitting and bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Brennan?”
“Why, of course, Mr. Tyree.” Sally beamed, extending her hand.
Tyree was a fair dancer, as was Sally, and together they made an attractive couple as they went through the complex circles, promenades and allemandes of the “Virginia Reel” and then “Money in Both Pockets.”
Lorena joined in the fun, her dancing both enthusiastic and elegant. For a few hours she, Sally and Tyree forgot their troubles and the dark shadows that lay between them, letting the music lift them to a different, happier place.
It was well after midnight when Tyree sought his bunk. He lay on his back, smiling into the darkness, and
