Guns of the Canyonlands by Ralph Compton Page B

bleeding from cactus spines. He was yet to regain all of his strength, and he felt hot, irritable and completely worn-out. Making his way through scattered boulders, Tyree reached the meager shade of a stunted juniper and built a cigarette, the smoke tasting hot, dry and acrid on his tongue.
    Tyree finished his cigarette and ground out the butt under his heel. He walked back toward the run-off and had just begun his hazardous descent when a brownish-yellow smudge in the sky far to the north stopped him in his tracks.
    He used his hat to shade his eyes against the glare of the sun, scanning the hazy distance. But there was no mistaking what he’d seen, a dust cloud hanging in the still air, thick enough to have been kicked up by several riders.
    Tyree studied the dust, wondering at its meaning. Fowler had told him there was a settlement to the north called Moab, a farming and ranching community run by Mormons. It could be the dust was being raised by punchers from there, though it was a fair piece off their home range.
    But Tyree immediately dismissed the thought. Dust to the north coupled with Boyd’s missing bull was too much of a coincidence—or at least enough of a coincidence to justify an investigation.
    He came off the butte in a hurry, sliding on his rump most of the way. When he reached the bottom he jumped to his feet and yelled, waving his hat to Boyd and Fowler, who were some distance off by the creek.
    The two men loped toward Tyree, Boyd leading the steeldust.
    “What’s all the fuss, boy?” the old rancher asked, reining up beside the younger man. “You seen my bull?”
    Tyree shook his head at him. “There’s dust to the north, Luke: three, maybe four riders. It could be that your bull is with them.”
    A frown gathering between his eyes, the rancher sat his saddle for a few moments, thinking it through. He glanced at the sun, as though seeking the answer to a question he’d just asked himself.
    “How far?” he asked finally.
    “Four, five miles.”
    Again Boyd sat lost in thought. Then he said, “That bull wouldn’t have wandered far from the cows. We’ve searched high and low for him and he ain’t here, so he’s someplace else.” He glanced at the sun again. “We still have a couple of hours of daylight left, time enough to catch up with the rustlers if that’s what they are.” He tossed the reins of the steeldust to Tyree. “Mount up, boy. Slip the thong off your Colt, and let’s go talk to those gents and see what they’re about.”
    It did not occur to Tyree, for even an instant, to refuse. He had enjoyed Boyd’s hospitality and he was therefore expected to ride for the brand if the need arose. Among Western men, to do otherwise would have marked him as a man of low character and, even worse, a coward.
    The three men rode north, working their way through narrow, sandy canyons and wider draws, a few of them with grass and water. Whenever possible they kept to the grass or rode through stands of cedar to settle their own dust.
    After an hour, at the mouth of a canyon between high, heavily corroded bluffs, Tyree cut sign. The tracks of three horses led into the gulch and among them what could only be the wide, split-toed prints of Luke Boyd’s bull.
    “I reckon they’re planning to head all the way north to Salt Lake City,” the rancher said, his face grim. “They’ll sell my bull cheap, but even so, the money will keep them in whiskey and women for a long time.”
    “Could be Salt Lake, Luke,” Fowler allowed. “Unless they make a turn east and head for Colorado.”
    Boyd shook his head in irritation. “North, east, it don’t matter a damn. I’m going after them.” He turned in the saddle and looked at Fowler. “Owen, you’re not a gunfighting man. I wouldn’t think any less of you if’n you was to ride back to the cabin.”
    Fowler shook his head. “I reckon I’ll stick.”
    Boyd’s smile was slight but genuine. “Good man. Then let’s get it done.”
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