“Chance, was she . . . was she . . . ?”
“Yes,” Tyree said. “She was.” He stepped to the girl and took her in his arms. “Now just let it go. Don’t think about it.”
Sally laid her head on Tyree’s shoulder and sobbed, her shoulders heaving. After a few minutes, Tyree led her from the bedroom and out of the house and into the bright light of the day.
He left Sally sitting head bowed on the steps to the veranda and went back to check on the cook. The man was dead.
Tyree had vowed to never hate another man, but his loathing of Nick Tobin went deep, and with it came a killing fury. He knew exactly what he was going to do—ride to Crooked Creek, gun the fat albino and leave him dead in the street.
That was to come. But first he had a burying to do.
Tyree went back to the Lorena’s bedroom, wrapped her up tightly in the quilt and carried her downstairs. With Sally at his side, he walked with the dead woman in his arms until he found a shady spot surrounded by trees a ways from the house.
He went back and got a shovel and buried Lorena in the dry earth, then Sally read words from a Bible she’d found in the house.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul . . .”
After she’d finished reading, Sally closed the Bible. She and Tyree stood in silence by the graveside for a long time, then turned away, their faces like stone, and walked back to the ranch.
The dead cook was a complete stranger to Tyree, but he would not leave him to the coyotes. No matter what he was, what kind of a man he’d been, he deserved to be decently laid to rest. Tyree was there, so he had it to do. The cook’s dying had ceased to be his own affair and had become a matter for the living.
There were still a couple of hours of daylight left after Sally and Tyree buried the ranch cook and swung into the saddle and headed for Crooked Creek. Neither of them felt much like talking until they reached the brush flats just as the sun was dropping in the sky and the first lamps were being lit in the town.
“I’m going to Tobin’s office. If he’s not there, I’ll try the saloon,” Tyree told the girl. “Sally, maybe you should wait at the livery stable until I deal with Tobin.”
The girl shook her head. “I plan to be with you every step of the way,” she said. “Lorena was my friend.”
Tyree saw by the stubborn set of Sally’s chin that he could not talk her out of going with him. “All right, but just make sure you take every step of the way real careful.”
The sky had turned a dark scarlet to the horizon, banded by thin, violet clouds as they cleared the flats and rode into town. Lamps glowed pale orange in the houses and businesses along the main street and the bright lights of Bradley’s splashed a rectangle of yellow on the boardwalk.
As Sally and Tyree rode past the livery, Zeb Pettigrew hailed Tyree, and waved him over.
“If’n you’re looking for Luther Darcy you’re a spell too late,” the old man said, looking up at Tyree sitting tall and grim in the saddle.
“Him,” Tyree said. “And Nick Tobin.”
Pettigrew scratched under his beard. “Tobin’s gone too. Rode in here late this morning with his face all clawed up, like he’d had an argument with a cougar, then him and Darcy talked and left in a hurry.”
“Which way were they headed?” Tyree asked, disappointment tugging at him. He’d badly wanted Tobin to be in town. And Darcy too, come to that.
“North,” Pettigrew said. “Maybe hunting you.”
Tyree glanced around him, at the crowding darkness, and knew there could be no going after Tobin until sunup.
Pettigrew read Tyree’s grim face, and asked: “You got something to tell me, boy, seein’ as how I’m what you might call an interested party?”
Tyree nodded, and the old man said, “Let’s step into my office. We can talk there.”
Tyree swung out of the saddle and so did Sally. They walked their horses to the barn, then left them inside while they stepped into Pettigrew’s tiny office by the door of the stable.
The old man poured coffee for them both. “Here,” he said, handing them each a steaming tin cup, “you two look like you could use this.”
Pettigrew sat back in his creaking chair while Sally and Tyree perched on his desk. “Well, tell me all,” the old man said, smiling under his beard. “Let the play begin.”
Tyree rolled a smoke, thumbed a match into flame and lit the cigarette. While he smoked he began by telling Pettigrew about his fight with Clem Daley and Len Dawson.
The old man nodded his approval. “The world’s a sight better off without them two,” he said. “An’ that’s a natural fact.”
Then, his face strained, Tyree told about the events of the morning.
Pettigrew looked like he’d been struck. “So that’s why Tobin’s face was all tore up.” He shook his head. “I remember Lorena when she was just a skinny kid in pigtails,” he said. “She rode this old paint mare, half the time without a saddle, and she explored just about every corner of the whole territory.”
Swallowing hard, Pettigrew rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I just can’t believe Lorena is gone. She was such a beautiful girl.”
“Now you know why I want to find Tobin,” Tyree said.
“He won’t come back here,” Pettigrew said. “After I spread the word around town, if he shows his face in Crooked Creek again, he’ll be lynched and I’ll haul on the rope my ownself.”
“Why would a man, any man, do a thing like that?” Sally asked, her voice faltering a little.
Pettigrew’s grin was bitter. “Girl, I’ve known Nick Tobin for a long time, and he isn’t a man—he’s a freak. He doesn’t think like other men. One time he told me all his plans are long-term, years from now, and that he’d be a big man in the territory one day and walk a wide path. In the meantime he was happy to sit there in his office with them pink eyes of his shut and dream his big dreams, biding his time. I figure he only went along with Quirt Laytham because he wanted all the things Quirt had: a big ranch, a beautiful woman, money and power. Tyree, I’m a watching man, but I’m also a thinking man, and I always reckoned Tobin planned on someday taking them all away from him.”
“Zeb, do you think Tobin killed Laytham?” Tyree asked.
The old man nodded. “Could be he got tired of waiting. If he didn’t kill Laytham his ownself, he had somebody else do it for him.”
“Lorena’s father is dead, killed by Luther Darcy, and so is Steve Lassiter,” Tyree said. “And I found a couple of Laytham’s punchers murdered at Lassiter’s ranch.”
“And Jean?” Pettigrew asked, his faded eyes troubled.
“Found her grave,” Tyree said. “I don’t know how she died.”
The old man sat deep in thought for a few moments, then said, “Son, you surely do have a tiger by the tail. I think Tobin had already made his move to take over the Laytham’s place and every other ranch between here and Moab.
“Killing Luke Boyd and Steve Lassiter was the beginning. Then he got rid of Quirt Laytham and the way was wide open for him.
“Only trouble was, his big dreams ended when he rode into Laytham’s ranch this morning with a woman’s body on his mind. Now all he can do is leave the territory, but I reckon he’ll try to get even with you afore he does.” Pettigrew shrugged. “You’ve been a big part of his downfall.”
“I’ll be waiting for him,” Tyree said. “I’m heading back to—” He realized he was about to say, “Luke Boyd’s place,” but corrected himself and said, “My place. I’ll make myself an inviting target.”
The reference was not lost on Pettigrew. “You’ve staked yourself out a spread?”
Tyree nodded. “You could say that. Luke Boyd signed his ranch over to me just before he died. I intended to ask Lorena if she wanted it”—he hesitated, his face bleak—“but that’s not going to happen now.”
Rising to his feet, Tyree said, “Well, I’m riding, Zeb. I want to be at my cabin come first light. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.” He nodded to Sally. “And take care of my best girl while I’m gone.”
“Zeb, there’s no need to do that,” Sally said. “I won’t be staying in Crooked Creek.”
