Guns of the Canyonlands by Ralph Compton Read Free Book Online

that damned Arapaho breed to check the canyon and discovered that we’d lit a shuck. Now he knows we’re right in front of him.”
    Tyree turned and studied their back trail. A dust cloud was rising into the air about a quarter of a mile behind them, and judging by the way it moved, Laytham’s riders were coming on at a fast gallop.
    At first the buckskin stretched out, setting a good pace. But, carrying a double load and worn out from yesterday’s long ride, the horse began to falter, its steady gait slowing.
    They’d soon be caught and out here in the open they wouldn’t stand a chance.
    He looked over Fowler’s shoulder to the trail ahead. Like the prow of a great ship, the wall of a dome-topped butte jutted into the wash. At its base were heaps of talus, sandstone rocks that had tumbled down from higher up the slope. The wash rounded the wall then turned sharply to its right, so that what lay beyond was hidden from Tyree’s sight.
    If they had to make a stand, that was as good a place as any.
    “Fowler!” Tyree yelled. “Rein up this side of the butte.”
    “Why? Man, they’re almost on top of us. They’ll shoot us all to pieces.”
    “Don’t argue,” Tyree snapped. “Damn it, Owen, just do it.”
    Fowler pulled the buckskin to a ragged halt at the base of the butte, and Tyree clambered awkwardly off the horse’s rump. He reached out a hand to Fowler. “Give me the Henry and your canteen.”
    “But you’re in no shape to—”
    “The Henry!” Tyree snapped. “And the canteen. Now!”
    Fowler looked down at the younger man and read something in his green eyes that chilled him. Without another word he slid the rifle from the boot under his knee and passed it, with the canteen, to Tyree.
    “This is my kind of game, Fowler,” Tyree said, his drawn, tight face suddenly softened by a smile. “And, unlike you, I shoot pretty good.”
    “What do you want me to do?” Fowler asked. “I can’t leave you here to face Laytham and his men alone.”
    “Get round the other side of the butte,” Tyree said. “When I come a-running, be ready to fog it on out of here.”
    Fowler’s eyes lifted beyond Tyree to the rising plume of dust bearing down on them. He seemed to realize that the younger man’s skill as a gunfighter was the only thing that stood between them and death, and he gathered up the reins of the buckskin.
    “Tyree,” he said, “buena suerte, mi amigo.”
    Tyree’s smile grew wider. “Thanks. Something tells me I’m going to need all the luck I can get.”
     
    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