Tyree took up a position among the jumble of talus, his front and sides protected by slabs of sandstone rock, the steep slope of the butte behind him. He looked down the wash, his far-seeing eyes probing the distance.
The dust was much closer now, maybe only a few minutes away. Tyree levered a round into the brass chamber of the Henry and studied the land around him.
Laytham had no way to flank his position. He and his men would have to come at him along the bank of the wash. Apart from a few scattered cottonwoods, to his right there was no cover. Tyree would place his trust in the rapid fire of the Henry to break up their charge.
The sun had just begun its climb into the sky, but the morning coolness was gone and the day was already hot. Tyree felt weak and light-headed, and sweat prickled the grazed skin of his neck. He took off his hat and laid the back of his head on the slope of the butte, his burning, red-rimmed eyes closing. It would be so easy to drift into sleep. . . .
The drum of hammering hooves on the bank of the wash jolted Tyree back to wakefulness. A dozen men were riding toward him at a breakneck gallop, a big, handsome man in a black broadcloth suit and flowered vest in the lead.
Now was not the time for carefully aimed fire. Tyree had to shoot fast to break up Laytham’s charge and turn back his oncoming riders.
Rising to his feet, he threw the Henry to his shoulder and cranked off four quick rounds. The results of his firing were devastating.
Hit hard, a man yelled, threw up his arms and toppled backward off his horse. A big sorrel in the lead went down, throwing its rider. Coming on fast, another horse crashed into the fallen animal’s flailing hooves and it too tumbled, cartwheeling headfirst into the ground. Its rider, a man in a black hat and black-and-white cowhide vest, screamed as he fell under the horse and the saddle horn crashed into his chest.
Tyree fired at the man in the broadcloth suit, guessing he was Laytham. A miss. Now their trailing dust cloud had caught up with the riders, shrouding them in a shifting, swirling yellow fog.
“Back!” somebody, probably Laytham, yelled. “Damn it, get back!”
His blood up, Tyree fired rapidly into the dust, at the wild tangle of bucking horses and cursing men. He thought he saw another man jerk from the impact of a bullet, then Laytham’s riders were heading back the way they’d come, the thick dust that roiled around them making further shooting useless.
Tyree lowered the rifle and a grim smile touched his lips. Quirt Laytham had thought this was going to be easy, twelve against two—one of them wounded and maybe dying, the other a man who couldn’t shoot. Instead he’d sure enough grabbed a cougar by the tail.
At least three of his men were dead or wounded, and a third, the man in the cowhide vest, was pinned under his horse, gasping out his life, his face ashen.
As the dust settled, Tyree saw that Laytham and the others had drawn out of rifle range. They were milling around, as though uncertain of what to do next. They’d been badly burned and didn’t seem overly anxious to mount another charge.
Tyree turned as Fowler stepped beside him. The man’s eyes scanned the destruction Tyree had wrought and he whistled between his teeth. “You sure played hob,” he said.
“They’ll be back,” Tyree said, a sudden weariness in him. “And next time they’ll be more careful. From what I’ve been told about Laytham, he’s not a man to quit so easily.”
Fowler dug into the pocket of his threadbare coat and gave Tyree a handful of .44 shells. He watched as the younger man fed them into the Henry, then asked, “You think maybe this is a good time for us to make tracks?”
Tyree shook his head. “They’d only take out after us, and if they catch us in the open without cover, we’re dead.” He smiled and lightly tapped the Henry. “When Laytham makes up his mind to come this way again, I aim to discourage him for good. I want to make damn sure that old dog is done hunting before we fog it on out of here.”
“He won’t charge us next time,” Fowler said, so low and soft it was like he was talking only to himself. “He’ll maybe send the Arapaho Kid. That breed can move like a ghost.” He turned to Tyree. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Tyree said. “And I feel worse than I look. I reckon I’d have to be three days dead before I’d start to feel better.”
“You want me to stay close?” Fowler asked.
Tyree shook his head. “No, go back to the horse. Like I told you before, if I come running, just be ready to hightail it out of here.”
“Suit yourself,” Fowler said. He dug into a pocket again and passed Tyree a chunk of antelope jerky. “It isn’t tasty, but it will keep you going.”
After Fowler was gone, Tyree chewed on the tough jerky and studied the open ground in front of him. Laytham and his men had drawn off about a half-mile along the wash, taking refuge behind a jutting outcrop of sandstone rock. Judging by all the shouting that was going on, they were arguing among themselves about their next course of action.
Most of these men were the same stamp as Len Dawson and Clem Daley, riders hired for their gun skills, their loyalty stretching only as far as next pay-day. They’d been badly shot up by a skilled rifleman and no longer seemed eager for the fight.
Tyree smiled as he built himself a smoke. He’d never been a soldier, but he’d learned enough about tactics over the years to know that attacking an entrenched enemy along a narrow front was always a losing proposition.
He calculated that right about now Quirt Laytham must be fuming, and the thought pleased him immensely.
Tyree thumbed a match into flame and lit his cigarette. He pushed the Henry out in front of him and waited. When would Laytham renew the attack? That question was answered less than ten minutes later.
A bullet hit a rock near where Tyree was crouched, splattering stinging splinters into his cheek. A second thudded into the butte above his head and a third smashed into the Henry, sending it flying from its place on the rock.
Tyree stretched out and picked up the rifle—and his shocked eyes beheld a disaster. The shot, luckier than most, had badly mangled the magazine tube close to the chamber.
He swore under his breath. The rifle would shoot the round under the hammer, but the chances were that it would not feed a second. Without the Henry, he was as good as dead and Fowler with him. It was not a thought to comfort a man.
Tyree scanned the bank of the wash and saw a flash of metal behind a cottonwood about a hundred yards away. Laytham’s men were coming at him on foot, using whatever cover they could find.
Drawing a bead on the cottonwood, Tyree waited. A few slow seconds ticked past, then he saw a man in a blue flannel shirt step out from behind the tree, his Winchester coming up fast.
Tyree fired at the same time as the Laytham rider. The man jerked under the impact of the Henry’s .44 bullet and his rifle spun away from him. Clutching a shattered and bloody shoulder he turned and, crouched over, stumbled away, his face white with shock.
Lead whined off a rock in front of Tyree as he worked the lever of the Henry. To his relief, he heard a reassuring
There was no time to ponder that question. A man was working his way along the canyon wall toward him, a second close behind. Both were carrying Winchesters and were stepping warily, their eyes on Tyree’s position.
Tyree sighted on the man in the lead. He took a breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. His bullet hit the tobacco sack tag hanging over the man’s shirt pocket dead center. The Laytham rider spun, then slammed against the mesa wall. He slid to a sitting position, his head lolling loose on his shoulders, dead before he hit the ground.
The second man fired a wild shot that split the air above Tyree’s head; then he was running, looking back fearfully over his shoulder.
“Five down, seven to go,” Tyree whispered to himself, his smile a grim, tight line. He tried to crank the Henry,
