Ernest Haycox 
Whispering Range 

He rode alone now into the canyon. Behind him were the bodies of the decent men who had defied the odds and lost. With him was the memory that had driven him for all these years—the vulture-ravaged corpse of his best friend, shot down in ambush.

Now as dusk settled on Yellow Hill, he was facing the man that he’d sworn would pay. He didn’t know if he’d live out this night, but at the moment this hardly seemed to matter.