and yellow of the mesas and ridges and the occasional green of grass and trees. Once they saw a small herd of bighorn sheep mount the almost vertical slope of a mesa, and behind them a flash of molten gold as a hunting cougar bounded with fluid grace from rock to rock.
They reached Fowler’s canyon without incident, seeing no sign of Tobin’s posses. Tyree told Sally she was now the boss since she knew much more about hazing cows out of a canyon than he did.
Sally shook out a loop and for the next couple of hours she and Tyree moved cattle off Fowler’s grass to the east bank of the wash. Sally was an excellent puncher who made the hot, dusty work look effortless. Tyree helped by turning back the occasional stubborn maverick that didn’t want to leave, at first showing more enthusiasm than skill, until the remembered ways slowly came back to him.
“You know, Sally, a man could get used to this again.” He grinned as they stopped in the shade for a while and shared a canteen. “Especially if he was working his own cattle on his own place.”
In the end they moved more than two hundred head, and when it was over Tyree stuck his sign into the ground at the mouth of the canyon.
KEEP OUT
PRIVATE PROPERTY
Sally sat her paint and looked down in amusement at Tyree’s handiwork. “Of course, it could be argued that Laytham has as much right to the canyon as Fowler did,” she said. “I doubt this is deeded land.”
Tyree nodded. “That’s true, except that Owen was here first. As far as I’m concerned he staked his claim to the place.”
“Do you think that sign will keep Laytham from moving his cows back?”
“No,” Tyree answered. “But it will tell him that he’s been notified.”
Sally looked around her. “Well, where do we go from here?”
“We ride north,” Tyree said. “I want to check on Mrs. Lassiter. I don’t want the same thing to happen to her as happened to Luke.”
The Lassiter ranch lay five miles northwest of the La Sal Mountains, a scattering of buildings and corrals alongside a winding, narrow creek with plentiful grazing on both banks. Cattle lay in the shade of the cottonwoods lining the banks or stood belly high in the cool creek water. A red sandstone cliff, all of eight hundred feet high, was an impassible barrier to the north. To the east and west, beyond the creek, the land stretched away level, tufted with sparse grass, in the distance a few dark junipers and after those the sheer, towering walls of flat-topped mesas and rawboned ridges of craggy rock. The wind blew steadily here, coming off the high mountains, carrying with it the smell of sagebrush and pine.
Tyree reined up in the shade of a cottonwood, his eyes scanning the Lassiter ranch and the wild, broken land around him. Nothing moved but the wind that got tangled up in Sally’s hair, blowing shining curls across her cheeks.
Kicking the horse into motion, Tyree checked the brands on the cattle he passed. Most bore the Lassiter Lazy-S, but a few were marked with Quirt Laytham’s Rafter-L.
Tyree rode into the yard in front of the cabin. “Hello the house!” he yelled. His voice echoed away in the distance and the following dead silence mocked him. The cabin windows turned blank eyes to him and Sally, revealing nothing of what lay inside.
There was a feeling of death and danger in the air, an atmosphere so strong Tyree felt it reach out to him, unsettling him enough that he pulled his Colt from his waistband, grateful for its reassuring heft.
He waited a few moments, his restless eyes scanning the cabin and what he could see of the other buildings. The place was still, lifeless, and in the waning day shadows clung to walls and corrals, dark, mysterious and fraught with menace. Tyree swung out of the saddle. He let the reins of the steeldust trail then turned and looked up at the girl. “I’m going into the cabin.” He smiled, attempting to make light of what he was about to say. “Just be ready to hightail it out of here if anything real bad happens.”
The girl nodded, and gathered up the paint’s reins. She slid Tyree’s rifle out of the scabbard on his horse and laid it across the saddle horn. “I’ll be ready, Chance,” she said. “But I’m not hightailing it anywhere.”
Stepping to the door, Tyree knocked hard a few times. Nothing stirred inside. He pushed on the door and it swung open on oiled hinges. He stepped into the cabin, his gun up and ready.
After the bright sunlight, the place was dark. He walked into its different rooms and finally checked the bedroom. But the cabin was deserted. A coffeepot on the stove was still warm, though the fire had burned down to a few red coals, and the remains of breakfast were still on the table. Two people had sat there to eat, but hadn’t finished their food—scraps of salt pork and congealed, greasy eggs still lay on the plates.
Tyree searched further and found a metal box, like the one Boyd had kept at his cabin. The lock had been forced and the box was empty. Was this where Steve Lassiter had kept the deed to his ranch—or his money?
Stepping outside again, Tyree motioned Sally to follow. He walked around the back of the cabin, and found the first dead man. The puncher was sprawled facedown in the dirt, the back of his shirt covered in blood, fat blue flies already buzzing around his body.
Tyree turned the man over and recognized a face he’d seen in Bradley’s when Sally had braced Luther Darcy. He was one of Laytham’s riders and he’d apparently been shot in the back while trying to make a run for it.
The second Laytham puncher was in the barn. There were signs he’d tried to fight off his assailants, five .45 caliber shells scattered around him. He’d had time to reload his gun before he was killed. This man had been shredded by bullets, the last one between his eyes, the muzzle of the gun so close, black grains of unburned powder had been driven into his nose and forehead.
Where was Mrs. Lassiter?
Puzzled, Tyree scouted the area around the cabin. After a few minutes he found two graves dug side by side well away from the house, toward the cliff. One held the remains of Steve Lassiter, a rough wooden marker bearing only his name. The other was fresher and unmarked. It could only be Jean’s last resting place.
Short of opening the grave, there was no way of telling if the woman had died a violent death or had passed away from grief. The two Laytham punchers might have known, but they were beyond questioning.
Tyree was aware of Sally stepping beside him. The girl looked down at the grave, a sadness in her eyes. “She was a real nice lady,” Sally said. “She deserved better than this.”
Turning to Sally, Tyree asked, “Who would gun Laytham’s punchers? Something here doesn’t set right with me. As far as I know the man has no enemies but me.”
“It makes sense if there’s another party involved,” the girl said.
“The party of the third,” Tyree whispered, deep in thought.
“What was that?”
Tyree shook his head. “Oh, nothing. I’m just repeating something Nick Tobin said to me.”
“Maybe it was rustlers,” Sally offered. “Laytham said he was losing cattle and he blamed Owen Fowler. We know Owen wasn’t stealing his cows, so it had to be someone else.”
“No, Sally, not rustlers,” Tyree said. “Look around you. There are Lassiter and Laytham cows everywhere. If it had been rustlers the whole herd would be gone.”
“Then who?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know,” Tyree said. “But whoever he is, he took the deed to this land from a box in the cabin after he killed the punchers. I’d say he’s a dangerous man, with as much ambition as Laytham, and maybe more.” He took the girl’s arm and together they began to walk away from the grave.
Sally had been right all along: Someone else had taken cards in the game. But it didn’t change anything. As far as Tyree was concerned, Quirt Laytham was still the enemy.
The question was, how would Tyree get at him?
Chapter 21
Over the next couple of days, Tyree and Sally began the task of salvaging what they could from the Boyd cabin, especially the heavy logs, expensive and hard to come by in the canyon country. Tyree planned to rebuild one day, and the logs would be a start.
