Iron Eyes the Spectre

by Rory Black

  With the skill of an acrobat, Sally patted the inside of the deep box until her bare foot located her tobacco pouch. She lifted it and then grabbed it with her fingers. Without taking her eyes off the distant lights, Sally managed to pull the drawstring and pull out a small thin cigar and a match.

  As the stagecoach jolted up and down and swayed like a drunken dog, the tiny female suddenly became aware that she was vulnerable sitting so high off the ground.

  Her beautiful eyes darted around the desert in search for the danger she felt was close. Then she struck the match with her thumbnail and just managed to light the cigar before the breeze extinguished the flickering flame.

  Sally sucked frantically until she managed to fill her lungs with smoke. She closed her eyes for a brief moment to savour the satisfied feeling that engulfed her.

  Her pleasure was short-lived. It lasted only until she opened her eyes again.

  The sight that greeted her caused her to press her foot hard against the brake-pole. She sound of the stagecoach brakes screaming echoed through the darkness. As the vehicle beneath her rocked on its springs, Sally stared in disbelief to where the lights had been.

  Yet again, they were gone.

  Sally looped the long leathers around the pole and then rested her knuckles on her shapely hips. She shook her head and then scratched her wavy mane.

  ‘Now that just ain’t possible,’ she shouted angrily. ‘One minute there’s a town out yonder and then there ain’t and then there is and then. . . .’

  Angrily she spat the cigar at the sand and then leapt from the high driver’s board. The sand was still soft but no longer hot. She moved to the coach and dragged its door open again. The floor of the stagecoach was wet where water had splashed during the hectic ride, but it was not the water that she was looking at.

  It was her beloved man.

  Sally clambered up into the coach and entered. She placed her hand on his temple. He was hot. Too hot.

  ‘That don’t feel right,’ Sally reasoned. ‘Iron Eyes has got a fever brewing. He’s burning up.’

  She sat on the wet floor beside the motionless bounty hunter and wondered what she ought to do for the best. The trouble was that Sally had never been faced with a problem like this before.

  As she pondered whether she should try and cool him down or maybe light a campfire to warm him up, she heard something out in the vast ocean of sand.

  It was a noise that sounded like a coyote, but Sally had never heard of any coyotes hunting in the middle of arid deserts. Her eyes tightened in her head as she stared out into the starlit dunes.

  Another more troubling notion came to her.

  What if it were someone trying to sound like a coyote?

  She gulped as a sudden realization gripped her. Indians were said to call out to one another using sounds that imitated various animals or birds.

  Sally moved away from her unconscious Iron Eyes and edged closer to the open door of the coach. She rolled over on to her knees and knelt staring out into the eerie starlight.

  ‘Whatever that is, I sure hope it ain’t Injuns,’ she muttered to herself before reaching to Iron Eyes’ blood-stained trail coat and fishing one of his Navy Colts from its deep pockets.

  The six-shooter was far heavier than she had imagined it and far more awkward to handle than her trusty rifle. Sally placed both thumbs on its hammer and vainly tried to pull it back into a cocked position. It was useless, she fumed angrily, and returned the hefty weapon to his pocket. Sally needed her trusty rifle, she thought. She was a crack-shot with any type of rifle, but virtually pitiful with most handguns.

  Faster than spit, Sally swung out of the interior of the stagecoach and climbed up its side. Her small hand grabbed the luggage railing and hauled herself upward. She clambered on to the roof’s flat surface and crawled toward the front of the vehicle.

  She reached down and plucked her Winchester off the driver’s seat and then swung around with the deadly repeating rifle in her hands.

  Suddenly another chilling animal call echoed from out in the dunes. Sally had only just turned to where the strange sound had emanated when its howling was answered from behind her back. She rolled over and over across the roof until she was looking through the railing at the rear of the coach.

  Sally rested on her belly. Her well-formed bosom prevented her from getting as flat as she would have liked.

  ‘Damn these chests,’ she complained. ‘It’s like trying to hunker down on two damn puppies.’

  She squinted hard at the starlit dunes. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit ocean of rolling sand but she could not see anyone. A bead of sweat rolled from her golden waves and dripped on to the cocked and readied rifle.

  More unnerving howls echoed around the stationary stage as Sally rubbed her nervous brow with her naked arm. She swallowed hard and began to accept the fact that it had to be Indians.

  ‘They’re getting closer by the sound of it,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘Whoever them critters are, they’re heading this way.’

  She shook her mane of wild hair.

  ‘Damn that selfish Iron Eyes,’ she cursed. ‘That skinny bastard sure could be useful around now. He wouldn’t have to do no shooting, all he’d have to do is let them varmints see him. His ugly features would give them the willies.’

  Sally leaned over the railings and shouted into the stagecoach. ‘Wake up, you ornery bonehead. Your betrothed could sure use some help about now, darling.’

  There was no response. The bounty hunter was still sleeping like a baby and totally unaware of the potential danger that was getting alarmingly close to the long stationary vehicle.

  It was becoming clear to the fiery female that if Iron Eyes did not awaken from his delirium soon, he might never be able to do so. Sally had always relied upon her beloved Iron Eyes when it came to the various tribes they had encountered since she had first started travelling with him.

  Most tribes were usually hostile to the strange bounty hunter, yet not all of them. Sally wished that she was more knowledgeable about them.

  She sniffed the air in a desperate attempt to locate the men that she knew were moving closer yet she was still unable to spot with her keen eyesight.

  ‘Them critters must be downwind,’ she frowned.

  The words had barely left her lips when another sound filled the arid terrain. The high-pitched noise grew louder until an arrow embedded itself into the wooden edge of the stagecoach roof a mere inch below the metal luggage railing.

  Sally’s eyes widened. The pulsating arrow had only just narrowly missed its target and she knew it.

  ‘That was too close,’ she raged before leaping to her feet and racing back to the driver’s seat. Without missing a step she crossed the lengthy stagecoach roof and jumped down into the box.

  A flurry of arrows came hurtling from out of the darkness and passed over the box as she ducked down. It was clear that she was the target and that did not sit well with her. She poked the long rifle barrel over the edge of the box and squeezed its trigger. A deafening blast sent a flame out into the darkness.

  ‘Eat my lead, you sand-sucking varmints,’ Sally growled before staggering to the opposite side of the stage and firing her rifle again. ‘You can’t scare me with your damn toothpicks. I’m an ornery critter and I don’t die easy.’

  Another volley of arrows suddenly flew through the air like a flurry of crazed hornets. They peppered the side of the stagecoach with such force, the vehicle rocked under the impact. Knowing that the next barrage of lethal missiles might land amid her precious horses and cause carnage, she decided to act.

  Sally freed the reins, released the brake pole and whipped the team. She frantically screamed at the horses and then ducked down into the box as the stagecoach began to move.

  The team bounded forward and within seconds were thundering through the dunes at breakneck speed. As the black horses thundered into the darkness amid another torrent of arrows, Sally crouched in the driver’s box
and began blasting her rifle at the still unseen archers.

  With the stagecoach hurtling even deeper into the unknown terrain, Sally could hear countless arrows striking the woodwork of her battle-bruised vehicle. She realized that she had to get the team moving faster if she were to escape the deadly attack. She dropped her smoking Winchester, swung around and then collected the loose reins in her hands.

  She lashed the backs of her racing team again and kept the powerful animals ploughing forward. Then something caught her attention. Sally looked to the distant lights. Her hands gripped the edge of the driver’s box as she stared through the starlit sand dunes.

  Whatever they were, she thought, they were getting brighter and a lot bigger. A cold shiver traced down her spine. It had nothing to do with the falling temperature.

  Sally was scared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Diablo Crest had been constructed on the very edge of the land it had been named after. The two dozen red brick and wooden buildings had been sapped of every drop of moisture in the decades since they had been first built. The monstrous mesas loomed over the desolate and remote settlement, defying anyone to venture into the desert canyons that separated them.

  None of the townspeople of Diablo Crest ever dared enter the mysterious land for it was said that the Devil himself dwelled there amid his blood-coloured towering spires. Some of the more imaginative citizens even thought that the desert was the gateway to Hell.

  Only strangers unfamiliar to its infamous reputation ever made the mistake of travelling south into the arid and uncharted terrain. For, as everyone in Diablo Creek knew only too well, those that went in, never came back out.

  The scarlet spires of jagged rock pointed up into the cloudless heavens like accusing fingers. After Iron Eyes had claimed the two thousand dollar bounty on outlaw Mason Holt’s lifeless body, he had quickly left the area alongside Squirrel Sally’s stagecoach.

  Yet unknown to his feisty female companion, Iron Eyes had been severely wounded before his deadly accuracy had brought Mason Holt down.

  Sally had guided her stagecoach beside the man she was besotted with and not realized until it was too late that the infamous bounty hunter was badly wounded. Iron Eyes had automatically mounted his majestic palomino stallion in Diablo Creek and started riding as his pitifully lean frame bled and bled.

  Mile after mile, Iron Eyes had battled with his own delirium and was totally unaware that he was leading the trusting Sally into a place where even he would never willingly venture.

  That had been two days before the three riders slowly approached the sun-baked Diablo Creek in search of their fellow outlaw and sibling.

  Sunlight raced across the dusty town as dawn abruptly arrived. Its inhabitants stopped going about their daily rituals and looked out toward the trio of horsemen as they approached through the morning mist.

  The dust-caked riders looked like ghosts as the shimmering dew was sucked from the ground and swirled around the lathered up horses beneath them.

  Mason Holt’s three brothers had arranged a month before to meet him in the remote settlement. As they approached, they recognized his horse standing outside the small sheriff’s office. It belonged to the youngest of the Holt brothers.

  Delmer Holt was the oldest of the outlaw’s siblings and had been rustling steers throughout Texas and its adjoining territories for more than a decade. His brothers Caleb and Spike were a handful of years younger and had joined Delmer after a few failed attempts on their own. Delmer had proven a skilful rustler and commanded top prices for the cattle he drove south of the border. The trio of outlaws had become wanted less than a year after they had joined forces and had sizable bounties on their heads. They had only allowed their baby brother Mason to join their well-oiled outfit a matter of ten months earlier. They knew the youngster was more of a liability than an asset but he was kin and Delmer tolerated the far younger Holt sibling against his better judgement.

  The sound of their jangling spurs alerted the inhabitants of Diablo Creek to their arrival long before the morning mist cleared. Delmer was used to the curious eyes that always greeted them when they entered a new town and paid little notice to it. He only watched out for star-packing lawmen with itchy trigger fingers.

  As the Holt brothers entered the outskirts of the bleached settlement, they were quick to spot their brother’s tethered horse. The disconcerting fact that the horse had obviously spent the night tied to the hitching pole outside the sheriff’s office did not sit well in Delmer’s always alert mind. He had taught his far younger sibling that it did not pay to draw the attention of men with tin stars pinned to their shirts. As usual, Mason seemed to have ignored the advice.

  ‘Look,’ Delmer pointed a finger as his mount led Caleb and Spike down the middle of the main street. ‘There’s his buckskin.’

  Both Spike and Caleb shook their heads at the sight.

  ‘That young fool has tied his horse up outside the sheriff’s office, boys,’ Caleb sighed heavily. ‘That kid never realizes you just can’t do that when you got bounty on your damn head.’

  ‘That boy sure is spunky,’ Spike chuckled as he trailed his brothers toward the mount. ‘Only Mason would have the guts to do that.’

  ‘That ain’t guts, Spike,’ Delmer argued as he teased his reins. ‘That’s stupidity. A halfwit would know better. Mason’s gonna get us killed one of these damn days.’

  Caleb nodded agreement as Spike shrugged.

  Delmer Holt rubbed the trail grime from his unshaven features and then spat at the ground as his eyes darted at the faces that observed their every move. As he focused on the gathering crowd to either side of the street, he observed that none of them were armed. A wry smile crept across his unshaven features.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled for the sheriff, boys,’ he said in a breathless tone. ‘The last thing we want is to run into an ambitious lawman.’

  Spike pulled one of his six-shooters from its holster and rested it on his saddle horn in readiness. ‘If I see a sheriff packing a scattergun, I’ll send him into early retirement, Delmer.’

  Their three mounts were turned toward the small sheriff’s office and the horse they knew belonged to their younger brother. Delmer straightened up on his saddle as his eyes studied the buckskin gelding and the situation they were facing.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Delmer admitted to the surprise of his younger siblings. ‘Something’s wrong here.’

  Caleb looked nervously at Delmer.

  ‘What you mean?’ he asked as he stared at his grim-faced elder. ‘What could be wrong?’

  Delmer gave a tilted nod at Mason’s horse.

  ‘The kid’s green but even Mason wouldn’t leave his nag saddled up all night outside a lawman’s office,’ he observed. ‘I taught him better than that.’

  All three horsemen eased back on their reins and stopped their mounts at the hitching pole next to their brother’s beleaguered buckskin gelding.

  Delmer threw his long left leg over his saddle cantle and then lowered his long frame to the parched sand. He gathered up his reins and then secured them to the pole.

  ‘I’ve got a gut feeling about this,’ Delmer said as he patted the neck of his trail-weary mount. ‘And it don’t feel good.’

  Caleb looked at the townsfolk who were watching their every action. ‘We’re sure drawing a crowd, Delmer. I don’t like this one bit. We should ride out of here while we still can.’

  Delmer shook his head. ‘We agreed to meet Mason here. We can’t go until we’ve found his sorrowful hide.’

  Never one to argue with his older brother, Caleb just chewed on the tails of his bandanna and watched the watchers.

  Spike hastily dismounted and looped his long leathers around the twisted hitching pole. He removed his hat and then wiped his forehead with his grubby jacket sleeve.

  ‘Mason’s just a kid, Delmer,’ he said as he ducked under the pole and stepped up on to the boardwalk where Delmer was standing like a statue. ‘He probably
found himself a filly and forgot all about his nag and meeting back up with us.’

  ‘That sure sounds like Mason, Delmer,’ Caleb agreed as he looped a leg over his horse’s head and slid to the ground. ‘The kid ain’t smart like us.’

  Delmer shook his head and then placed a long thin cigar between his lips and struck a match against the porch upright, hard and fast. His narrowed eyes looked into the dark interior of the sheriff’s office as he cupped the flickering flame between his hands. Denver sucked smoke and then shook the match and flicked it at the white sandy street.

  Spike placed a hand on Delmer’s shoulder.

  ‘Quit fretting, Delmer. There ain’t nothing to fret about. Mason’s probably holed up in the hotel with a bargirl or a hangover,’ he postulated.

  Delmer pulled the cigar from his cracked lips and pointed it at his brother. Even the dust that covered his face could not hide the grim expression carved into it.

  ‘You reckon, Spike?’ he drawled ominously. ‘Ain’t you seen it yet? Ain’t you seen what I seen as soon as we stepped down from our horses?’

  Caleb stood beside Delmer. His brow was furrowed.

  ‘Seen what?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, what are we supposed to have seen, Delmer?’ Spike added. ‘I see you and the horse and this damn office. There ain’t nothing else.’

  ‘Look,’ Delmer snarled and then pointed at the boardwalk beneath their feet. The droplets of blood had dried long before their arrival but were still clearly visible. They did not know it but they were staring down at the evidence of their brother’s lifeless body being carried from the buckskin into the sheriff’s office.

  Caleb rubbed his neck. Although he knew what he was looking at, he could not bring himself to acknowledge the fact that their younger brother had spilled so much of his blood. To do so was to accept that Mason had met his Maker.

  ‘Can’t you see the blood, boys?’ Delmer growled angrily as he poked the cigar back into the corner of his mouth and stepped back toward the buckskin gelding. He stepped down on to the sand and paced to the horse’s saddle.