Lorena’s chin lifted in a stubborn tilt. “Quirt told me about that. He said he mixed his stuff in with yours and that he planned to give you a share of the profits when you got out of jail. He was doing you a favor, Owen. Can’t you see that?”
“And was Laytham doing me a favor when he told Sheriff Tobin’s deputies to hang me?” Tyree asked, annoyance starting to niggle at him. Lorena seemed so sure of Laytham’s innocence, and that burned him.
“That was obviously a case of mistaken identity,” the girl flared in return. “The canyonlands are infested with rustlers. Quirt is trying to run them clean out of the country. Just ask Pa. He’s lost cattle and he’s losing more by the day.”
Boyd nodded. “Can’t argue with that, Chance. I don’t quite know how many head I’ve lost, but it’s a passel. That’s why I graze my Hereford bull close to the cabin.”
“Lorena,” Tyree said, keeping his voice level despite his growing irritation, “Laytham knew who he was shooting at along Hatch Wash. He called Owen and me by name.”
The girl bit her lip, then shook her head defiantly. “I’ll ask Quirt about this. I know there’s been some kind of terrible misunderstanding.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “However, cattle are being stolen from the range and you are a stranger in these parts, Chance. And . . .”
Lorena swallowed hard, as if what she was about to say was not coming easy. “Owen, you’ve known me since I was a little girl in pigtails, but you are a convicted murderer.” She waved her hands helplessly. “Oh, I’m messing this up completely, aren’t I? But what I’m trying to say is that you can understand how Quirt might have jumped to certain conclusions, wrong as they might be.”
Tyree lifted his eyes to Lorena’s flushed face. The cabin was very quiet, the only movement a tiny silver moth that fluttered around the oil lamp above the table.
The girl was obviously sweet on Laytham and was determined to defend him to the bitter end. Did that mean she was in love with him? Did I, Tyree thought bitterly, jump to my own wrong conclusion that I could make her my wife?
Boyd’s voice, gently chiding, cut across Tyree’s thoughts. “Lorena, I’ve told you often that I didn’t think Owen was capable of murder. I believe someone else killed and robbed John Kent.”
For a few moments Lorena stood still, her eyes revealing a knot of different emotions. Finally she walked swiftly across the cabin and threw her arms around Fowler’s neck. “Owen, I know you’re not a killer,” she said. “You’re a gentle, loving man. When I was young, I used to marvel at how animals came to you, especially when they were sick or injured. Animals have an instinct about people—they can sense goodness in them, just as I have always sensed the goodness in you.”
She kissed Fowler on the cheek, then stepped back and brushed away a stray lock of hair that had tumbled onto her forehead. “It’s just . . . just that when I heard you and Chance say all those terrible things about Quirt I got quite angry.” Her eyes moved from Fowler to Tyree. “I can’t explain it, but when I’m with him, I also sense a goodness in Quirt.”
Tyree thought about Laytham, with his handsome, brutal face, his expensive clothes and his cattle and blood horses. He was a suitor of wealth and power, the kind to turn any young woman’s head. Lorena had not yet learned that it’s fine to judge a wild-flower or a butterfly by its appearance, but not a man.
He was about to say so, when Boyd interrupted him. The rancher slapped his hands together and grinned. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you folks, but I’m getting real hungry for supper.” He turned to Lorena. “What are we having, daughter?”
Later, as Lorena busied herself at the stove and Owen and Luke talked and smoked their pipes outside, Tyree stepped beside the girl and lightly touched her shoulder. “Lorena, I’ve got something to say to you. The first is yes, I’ve ridden a few owl-hoot trails in my life, but I’m no rustler and neither is Owen Fowler. The second is that someday I plan to make you forget all about Quirt Laytham and take you as my wife.”
The woman’s back stiffened; then she slowly turned to face him. “Mr. Tyree,” she said, her beautiful eyes blazing, “I certainly wouldn’t count on that if I was you.”
Chapter 7
A week drifted by and Tyree’s strength grew as his wounds began to heal. He moved his gear into the bunkhouse, no longer wishing to crowd Lorena and her father in the cabin.
Lorena still bathed and bandaged him every day. She even washed and mended his shirt, but she was frosty and distant, polite to a fault, the looming shadow of Quirt Laytham lying between them.
Tyree was yet to tell Lorena that he planned on destroying Laytham, wiping out even his memory from the canyonlands. He would have to let her know soon, but he feared how she would react. There was a distinct probability she’d run into Laytham’s arms and he would lose her forever.
His frustration growing, Tyree considered another possibility—he could step away from his showdown with Laytham and ask Lorena to leave with him. But even as he mulled over this option, he soon dismissed it. A devil was driving him and it would not let up until justice was done. He had been a stranger passing through, but Crooked Creek lawmen, men Laytham kept in his pocket, had seen fit to hang him. There could be no going back from that. Tyree was a man who measured things only in the light of his own experience, a seasoning he had gained among tough, uncompromising men. He had no other yardstick. He knew he had been badly wronged and for that, there must be a reckoning. It was a principle as old as the Bible—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Even his growing love for Lorena, coldly distant as she was, would not sidetrack him from his purpose.
On the morning of the eighth day of his stay at Luke’s ranch, Tyree stepped out of the bunkhouse door after breakfast and saw the old rancher and Fowler saddling their horses in the barn.
He strolled over and Boyd answered his unasked question. “It’s high time I made a tally of my herd, Chance. I’ve been prospecting some this past three months and during that time they’ve scattered to hell and gone, them that haven’t been rustled. I’ll drive them out of the canyons toward the creek and count them there.”
Interested, Tyree asked, “You planning on making a drive, Luke?”
The old rancher nodded. “I figure come spring I’ll hire me a couple of men and push a herd to the Union Pacific railhead at Salt Lake City.” He shrugged. “Money’s been tight for a spell, and I want Lorena to be able to afford some nice things, women’s fixin’s and the like.”
“I was once pretty handy with a rope,” Tyree said. “Mind if I tag along today?”
“You up for it, boy?” Luke asked. “That bullet wound in your side has some healing to do yet and you still look a mite peaked.”
“I’ll be all right,” Tyree said. “I’ll need a good cutting horse, though.”
Luke thought the younger man’s offer through for a few moments, then said, “We could sure use another hand. Glad to have you along.” He nodded toward the corral. “Throw a saddle on that steeldust. He’ll buck a time or two just to keep you honest, but after that he’ll settle down. He’s a first-rate cow pony.”
The old rancher’s eyes moved to Tyree’s waist. “Better wear your gun.”
Tyree smiled. “I thought we were rounding up your cows, not shooting them.”
“Wear your gun just the same,” Boyd said, his face solemn. “Back in seventy-eight, Governor George W. Emery told the legislature that the Utah Territory had more rustlers to the square mile than any other place in the country. It was the only damn thing I ever agreed with him on.” Boyd’s eyes met Tyree’s. “Wear your iron, boy. I’m not saying we’ll run into shooting trouble, but out there among the canyons a man never knows.”