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walls of the mesa hemming it in on three sides.
    “We’re here,” Fowler said. “This is where I call home.” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned without humor. “At least I did, nine years ago.”
    Tyree glanced around him. The valley was at least nine hundred acres in extent, and had probably been formed when the mesa split and part of it collapsed during some ancient earth shake.
    The grass was green and rich, watered by a stream Tyree heard bubble near the far wall. Close to a hundred cows were in the valley, grazing or hunkered down under scattered spruce trees. All of them were sleek Herefords branded with Laytham’s Rafter-L.
    Fowler kicked the buckskin toward the far parapet of the canyon and stopped at a wide rock overhang. The sheer wall behind the jutting slab of sandstone was covered in ancient paintings of tall, angular, human figures surrounded by zigzag patterns of red, yellow and blue.
    “That’s Ute work,” Fowler told Tyree. “Sometimes they used this valley as a hunting camp.” He swung out of the saddle, and Tyree, not wishful of being helped from the horse, slid off the buckskin’s rump. His feet hit the ground and immediately his knees buckled and he fell flat on his back.
    “Need some help?” Fowler said, a smile tugging at his mouth as he looked down at the younger man. “Seems to me like you do.”
    Tyree grimaced. “I can stand on my own feet.”
    He willed himself to rise, but when he did the canyon bucked wildly around him. His head spun and he staggered against the side of the buckskin.
    Fowler nodded. “Heard about the gunfighter’s pride—jail talk,” he said. “Never seen it in practice until now.”
    But this time there was no argument from Tyree.
    He allowed the man to grab him by the waist and help him into the shelter of the overhang where Fowler made him sit, propping his back against the wall.
    “Guess I’m weaker than I thought,” Tyree said, lifting his eyes to Fowler, his smile weak and forced. “I’m glad you were here.”
    It was an apology of sorts and Fowler accepted it as such. “You just sit there tight and I’ll rustle us up some grub.” He hesitated, his hands on his hips, then said, “Sorry about the accommodation. My cabin”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“was over there. It was a nice one, too. But Quirt Laytham and his boys burned me out.”
    Fowler shook his head. “All they left me was ashes and a few memories.”
    Easing his back against the hard stone of the wall, Tyree’s eyes lifted to the older man. “Fowler, you don’t look to me like a man who would shoot another man in the back. Someday you have to tell me what happened between you and that preacher.”
    “Sure,” Fowler answered, the bleakness in his face suddenly making him look old, “someday.” He nodded, his eyes distant. “Yup, maybe someday.”
    The man walked away and Tyree wondered at him. Fowler didn’t look like a killer, more like a dreamer than a doer, and he had a gentle, easy way about him, both with people and horses. Had he really put a bullet into a preacher’s back and then robbed him? It seemed hard to believe. And what of all that talk he’d heard from Clem Daley about him being a rustler? Certainly all the cows in this canyon bore a Rafter-L brand, but Fowler said Laytham had put them there and that rang true.
    Tyree shook his head. He had much to learn about Owen Fowler. The question was—did he have anything to fear?
    It was full dark, the sky spangled with stars, when Fowler started a fire and boiled up coffee. From his meager supplies he sliced salt pork into a pan, cooked it to a golden brown, then fried thick slices of sourdough bread in the smoking grease.
    “This isn’t exactly invalid food,” he said, handing Tyree a huge sandwich and a cup of coffee. “But right now it’s all I’ve got.”
    “It’ll do,” Tyree answered, suddenly realizing he was ravenously hungry. “My last meal wasn’t much, and I been missing