Tyree shook his head. “No, I recognize the horse and it couldn’t have strayed this far from its home range.”
He kneed the steeldust into motion and rode toward the bay. The pony lifted its head again and studied the approaching riders with mild interest, then went back to grazing.
Steve Lassiter lay about twenty yards from his mount. He was lying on his belly, and when Tyree swung out of the saddle and pulled the man over on his back he counted three bullet holes in the rancher’s chest.
“Is he dead?” Sally asked, kneeling beside him.
Tyree nodded. “Been dead awhile—since late yesterday, I’d say.”
“Do you recognize him, Chance?”
“Yes. His name is Steve Lassiter. He has a ranch north of here. He was forever running out of tobacco, and his wife got testy when he came home late for supper. That’s all I know about him.” His eyes bleak, he added, “Isn’t much of an epitaph for a man.”
“Who could have done this?” Sally asked. “A rustler maybe?”
Tyree shook his head at her. “No, this is the work of somebody Lassiter knew and trusted. He was shot at close range, judging by the powder burns on his coat. Out here a man doesn’t get that close to someone he doesn’t know.”
Tyree scouted the area but found nothing. The killer of Steve Lassiter had left no clues behind. The rancher had not been robbed. He still had a wrapped plug of tobacco in his pocket and a small package of colored ribbons, no doubt intended for his wife.
Tyree was worried. By all accounts Quirt Laytham was not a patient man. Was he already moving against the other ranchers? Was the murder of Lassiter the first move in the deadly chess game that would eventually win him all the available grazing land between his ranch and the Moab settlement?
And what about Lorena? How did she fit into all this? Was she still seeing Laytham and did she approve of his plans? Did she approve of Lassiter’s murder? That hardly seemed likely and Tyree was ashamed that he’d even given thought to the possibility. But in a land where every man’s hand was turned against him, he realized it was easy to see enemies behind every tree.
A sense of impending danger nagging at him, Tyree turned to Sally. “We’ll take Lassiter to Luke Boyd’s place. I don’t know where the man’s ranch is located and in any case, his wife has never met us and she’ll need words of comfort from a friend.”
With Sally’s help, Tyree got the dead man across the saddle of the bay, the mustang dancing nervously at the scent of blood.
They rode east to the wash then swung north, arriving at the Boyd cabin just before noon. Luke must have seen them coming from a distance because he was already at the door when Sally and Tyree reined up in the yard.
“It’s Steve Lassiter, Luke,” Tyree said, dropping the reins of the mustang. “He’s dead.”
Boyd’s face looked like it had been carved from a block of granite. “How did it happen?”
Tyree shrugged. “Sometime yesterday he was shot three times at close range. Sally and me found him just west of the Hatch Wash. He had a new plug of tobacco in his pocket and some ribbons for his wife, so chances are he was riding back from Crooked Creek when he was murdered.”
“Steve had been losing cattle, told me so,” Boyd said. “Then, about a week ago, his barn was set on fire. He got the horses out, but the barn itself burned to the ground. Nothing left but ashes.” Boyd looked uncomfortable. “Quirt Laytham offered to take the place off his hands, told Steve that more and more rustlers were coming down from Moab and out of the Disappointment Creek country in the Colorado Territory and that pretty soon they’d pick him clean. Laytham mentioned a good price but Steve refused.” Boyd’s face was suddenly old. “And now this.”
“Luke, do you think Laytham’s behind Steve Lassiter’s murder?” Tyree asked.
The old rancher shook his head. “Chance, I don’t know what to think anymore.” He waved a hand toward the cabin. “Lorena moved out. She’s staying at Laytham’s place. Now they’re talking about getting hitched come the fall.”
This last was like a punch in the gut to Tyree. For a few moments he sat his saddle stunned, unable to believe his own ears. Lorena was living at the Rafter-L and planned to marry Laytham. It didn’t make any sense. Couldn’t she see past the man’s flashy exterior to the rot underneath?
“Chance, step down and set, and you too, Sally,” Boyd said. “There’s a good beef stew on the stove and a fresh-baked loaf of sourdough bread. You two he’p yourself while I take Steve home to his missus.” Boyd looked hard at Tyree. “And when I get back, you can tell me where the hell you’ve been for the past two weeks.”
Darkness was falling around the cabin when Luke Boyd returned. He stomped inside and immediately asked, “Did you two eat? I swear you’re both as skinny as bed slats.”
Tyree smiled. “Yeah, Luke, we ate, and it was good. Hope we left enough for you.”
Boyd waved a hand. “Don’t matter none. I haven’t got much of an appetite. Poor Jean Lassiter took her husband’s death hard and then we had a burying to do, the two of us.” The old rancher cast around in his mind for the right words, then said, “When I left her, she was sitting alone in the dark grieving. She’d traveled to a place I couldn’t reach and she no longer heard a word I said.”
“Luke, I’ll ride out there tomorrow morning,” Sally said. “You can tell me the way. Maybe being close to another woman will help.”
Boyd nodded. “Maybe so.” He turned haunted eyes to the girl. “Yes, Sally, maybe that will help right enough.”
Tyree rose from the table and poured coffee for the rancher. Then he found the jug and added a generous shot of whiskey. “Drink this, Luke,” he said. “Make you feel better.”
The old man nodded his thanks and drank. After a few minutes the color began to return to his cheeks. “Now tell me what’s been happening since I saw you last.”
Tyree told Boyd about his search for Sally and his shoot-out with the bartender at Bradley’s. He described how Sally had brought him to a canyon and Zeb Pettigrew had removed the chunk of steel from his back.
“My suspenders were ruined and since then I’ve had a time holding up my britches.” Tyree smiled, trying to lighten the mood around the table.
“Got me a spare set, Army canvas like you was wearing,” Boyd said. “You can have them.” The old man reached for the jug and splashed more whiskey into his cup. “Chance, about a week or so ago, Steve Lassiter was talking about you, stuff he’d heard. He said you were wanted dead or alive for the murder of Benny Cowan at Bradley’s saloon. Said a couple of Laytham punchers swore you drew down on Cowan and gunned him while he was a-squealing like a pig for mercy.” Boyd sipped his whiskey. “Son, it almost seems like every man in the territory is against you and your life isn’t worth a plug nickel. My advice to you is to get out of the canyon country while you still can.”
Tyree’s eyes hardened. “Luke, you know I can’t do that, not while I still have a score to settle with Quirt Laytham.”
Boyd shifted in his chair, uneasy about what he had to say. “Chance, I like you. I like you a lot. But you’re talking about the man my daughter intends to marry.” He hesitated, then added, “If it comes right down to it, I may have to take a side.”
Tyree nodded. “You do what you have to, Luke. I believe you are an honorable man and you’ll do what you believe is right.”
“I’ll make that decision when the time comes, if it comes,” Boyd said. “No hard feelings, Chance. You see how it is with me.”
“No hard feelings,” Tyree said, a lost, lonely ache inside him.
Sally left early in the morning to bring what comfort she could to Jean Lassiter, and after breakfast Tyree helped Boyd with chores around the ranch.
The sun had reached its highest point in the sky when Boyd straightened up from the wagon wheel he was greasing and looked toward the creek, shading his eyes with his open hand.
“Riders coming, Chance. Three of them. Maybe best you stay out of sight.”
As the riders splashed across the creek, Tyree faded back to the bunkhouse and partially closed the door behind him, leaving it open a crack to watch what was happening. He drew his gun and waited.
