Free Guns of the Canyonlands by Ralph Compton Page A

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.”
    Tyree saw the logic in what Boyd was saying. He went back inside the bunkhouse, retrieved the gun belt from the peg and strapped it around his hips, then lifted his Winchester from the rack. When he passed the cabin the door was open. Lorena had her back to him, putting away dishes, and she didn’t turn.
    “We’re heading out to make a tally of your pa’s cows,” Tyree said. “Will you be all right here alone?”
    “I can use the Sharps about as well as Pa,” the girl answered, still without turning. “I’ll be just fine.”
    Tyree pulled his canvas suspenders over his shoulders and settled his hat on his head. He was about to step toward the barn again, but Lorena’s voice stopped him.
    “Be careful out there, Chance,” she said. “Those canyons can be treacherous.”
    Lorena still had her back to him as Tyree said, “Worried about me, Lorena?”
    The girl turned to face him. “Yes, you and Pa and Owen. All of you.”
    Tyree could not read Lorena’s eyes. But was there something there, real concern, maybe? Was it something he might hold on to, to give him hope? He had no time to ponder those questions. The girl turned away again, her back straight and stiff.
    He stepped through the bright light of the morning, confused, feeling no closer to Lorena now than he had for the past eight days.
     
    Luke Boyd had been right about the steeldust. The horse bucked a few times, enough to justify his reputation, then settled down and seemed eager for the trail.
    “We’ll head east along the creek and search the canyons,” Boyd said. He wore a battered black hat, a plaid shirt and corduroy pants tucked into muleeared boots. An old cap-and-ball Remington rode on his hip and, like Tyree, he had a Winchester under his knee.
    His Henry shattered and inoperable, Fowler had Luke’s Greener scattergun tied to the back of his saddle with piggin strings, and he wore a Green River knife on his belt. A copy of Thomas Carlyle’s History of Frederick the Great was stuffed into a back pocket of his pants. Seeing the book, Tyree smiled. It seemed Owen planned to do more reading than cowboying.
    Lorena stood at the door of the cabin as Tyree and the others rode out, and he waved to her. She waved back, but whether to him or her pa he did not know.
    Under a flaming sky streaked with banners of dark blue cloud, the riders followed the creek south. Around them spread a desolate, silent land of high, serrated ridges, great flat-topped mesas, rocky basins and slender spires and pinnacles of pink, red and yellow sandstone. Sparse growths of Douglas fir, mountain mahogany, scrub oak, sagebrush and mountain shrub grew high up the canyon walls, piñon and juniper at the lower levels.
    It was still early, but the morning was already hot, the steep, rocky crags on all sides beginning their shimmering dance in the heat. Dust devils spiraled ahead of the riders and sand began to work its way inside their clothes and make their eyes red and gritty. Among the canyons phantom blue lakes glittered, mirages formed by the strengthening sunlight and the clear, dry air.
    Along the creek, grazing in the shade of cottonwoods or standing knee high in the cool water, they counted eighty Herefords, all carrying Boyd’s LB brand. The cattle were fat and sleek, wary and wild as deer.
    But as they rode Boyd’s eyes were shadowed with concern. He had yet to cut sign of his bull, and that