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his men rode into the valley undetected, he and Fowler would be caught in a death trap.
    The canyon grass showed signs of overgrazing, in some places worn down to bare patches of mud. If Quirt Laytham wanted to expand his empire, he’d have to push constantly for more water and grass, both hard to come by in the barren canyon country.
    But there was another way—take away grass and water from those who already owned it. That had been done before in Texas and a lot of other places. From what he’d learned of Quirt Laytham, the man was ambitious enough to be capable of anything.
    Tyree allowed himself a wry smile. He’d thought to ride into the canyonlands to find peace and quiet, away from guns and gunfighting men. Instead, he’d kicked over a hornet’s nest, and it seemed like every man he’d come in contact with had his stinger out and was spoiling for trouble.
    Then so be it. He would give Laytham and the rest all the fight they could handle—and then some.
    After making a round of the canyon, Tyree returned to the camp under the rock overhang and studied the colored drawings on the wall. Fowler had said the Utes had occasionally used this place for shelter, and he found small scraps of the finely woven baskets in which they’d stored food. There were also fragments of water jugs, made with coiled ropes of tough yucca or bear grass lined with pine pitch.
    Related to the Comanche, the Utes had earned a reputation as mighty warriors with an implacable hatred of the white man. But now, like all the once mighty horse Indians, they were penned up in reservations and the passing of time was already fading the drawings they’d made. Soon those, like the Utes themselves, would be gone forever.
    Suddenly weary, the bullet wound in his side seeping blood, Tyree sought his blankets and lay on his back, staring at the moon-splashed sky. The stars looked so close, he felt like he could reach up and grab a handful and let them trickle, shining like silver dollars, through his fingers.
    He smiled at the thought; then, the soft cropping sound of the grazing cattle lulling him, he surrendered to sleep.
     
    “Wake up, Tyree! We got to get out of here!”
    As is the way of a man who has ridden dangerous trails, Tyree was awake instantly, every sense alert.
    “What’s happening?” he asked, settling his hat on his head. “Is it Laytham?”
    Fowler nodded, his dark eyes revealing his unease. “Probably Laytham. Big dust to the south, coming on fast. We have to move.”
    Tyree rose to his feet, swaying from weakness and fatigue. The night was dying around him, brightening into dawn, a burnished gold sky showing to the east banded by thin streaks of dark blue cloud. There was a slight chill in the air that would soon be gone, and a faint breeze fanned his cheek.
    Fowler was already tightening the cinch on the buckskin when Tyree stepped beside him. “Where are we headed?” he asked.
    “North,” Fowler answered, “toward Dead Horse Point. Three, maybe four miles this side of the point, there’s a slot canyon that branches off to the east off the wash. We’ll be safe there”—a faint smile touched Fowler’s lips—“at least for a while.”
    Fowler hurriedly threw what remained of his food into a sack then swung into the saddle. Tyree slipped a foot into the stirrup and climbed up behind him. He bit back a groan as the wound in his side reopened, suddenly staining his shirt with fresh blood.
    “The Arapaho Kid could track a minnow through a Louisiana swamp,” Fowler said. “He’ll find us eventually and we’ll have to move again—unless . . .”
    “Unless what?” Tyree asked.
    “I just had a thought. But I need time to study on it some. I’ll let you know later what I decide.”
    They left the canyon at a fast trot then looped north along the wash, walls of red rock rising sheer on either side of them. After ten minutes Fowler glanced over his shoulder. “They’re riding after us, Tyree. Laytham must have sent