Iron Eyes, no. 1

by Rory Black

  Iron Eyes was heading due east. The grey soon began to flag with total exhaustion as it climbed the steep ridge which led to a valley of ample cover.

  The Apache warriors were not slow to spot the dust rising, and soon the entire hunting party had thrown themselves on to their bareback ponies and were in pursuit.

  Thrusting his spurs into the grey was doing little but sending spurts of crimson over Iron Eyes’ filthy pants and boots. The rider soon realized that his escape was not going to happen easily with this horse.

  He had ridden every ounce of strength and energy out of the poor beast. Iron Eyes pulled the reins up hard and felt the horse’s legs buckle beneath him as he slid from the saddle, grabbing his Winchester from the sheath as his boots hit the soft sand.

  The horse staggered away, seeking rest and water, as its owner marched up the remaining few yards of the slope.

  Even in extreme danger, the ruthless bounty-hunter knew no reason to become overly concerned.

  The breeze that swept the top of the dune lifted his long coat allowing it to flap like Old Glory. The matted hair whipped across his whiskerless face as he narrowed his hard, cold eyes to study the scene below him.

  Cranking the Winchester, he counted seven Apache heading straight at him upon their ponies.

  Ponies.

  Iron Eyes gave his horse a glance and knew that if he was truly lucky, he just might get himself one of those ponies. It would mean that he would have to kill all the approaching Indians, but that was nothing.

  Men were men. Their colour never concerned his bullets or their aim. These were real men that rode at him. Hunters. Not like the majority of cringing critters that he so often encountered.

  When you faced an Apache, you faced a real man that knew nothing of fear. Fear was for mere mortals.

  Iron Eyes decided to use his rifle first. That would allow him to pick off the leading braves. He had to time his killing perfectly.

  One shot too early would send the empty mounts racing off in all directions. He had to wait until the young warriors were close enough to strike out at him. They would want him dead and strung up for the buzzards to tear off strips of his flesh.

  He knew they would never allow a lone rider to get past them alive. He gritted his stained teeth and started to raise his rifle.

  His every action was slow and timed.

  The Apache grew closer with every passing second. Now he could see their war paint. These were young bucks out for glory to take back to their elders. A few deer or the scalp of a lone white man would gain them their feathers. They would prove themselves to the tribe.

  Iron Eyes drew his Winchester up to his shoulder and focused down the long barrel.

  The Indians still came. Now he could hear their war cries getting louder and louder in his ears.

  Any normal man with blood flowing in his veins would have been frightened.

  Very frightened.

  Yet this was no normal man.

  This was Iron Eyes.

  The brave young bucks were so close when he started to fire his repeating rifle they could smell his acrid aroma. One by one they were blown off their ponies.

  One by one they died where they fell.

  The sheer speed of the wrist-action of Iron Eyes was beyond comprehension to these young men.

  As he killed the last warrior, Iron Eyes dropped the rifle and raced forward, grabbing at the pinto stallion as it stumbled in the soft sand. With strength that came from hell itself the long thin man wrestled the pony to a standstill.

  The crude, grass-rope bridle was screwed so tightly around the stallion’s nose, the creature could do little but succumb to Iron Eyes.

  Within ten minutes, Iron Eyes had transferred his saddle and bags from the broken shell of his grey on to the new, fresh, Indian pony, and was continuing his journey.

  Even before the cold-blooded Iron Eyes had left the scene, the buzzards had gathered over his head, encircling the seven blood-soaked bodies below them.

  This was an unexpected feast for the black-feathered carrion, as they swooped lower and lower, sending their chilling screeches echoing through the bleak desert.

  None of this bothered the bounty-hunter as he continued his journey to El Paso. He smelled the blood money in his wide nostrils as he drove the pinto on at a speed the poor pony had never previously known.

  Iron Eyes rode all the remaining hours of that day and the next before he came across life again.

  The prairie was still as empty as ever to the rider as he approached the river ahead of him.

  Then he saw the swollen Rio Grande rolling before him in its never-ceasing journey.

  Even the relentless bounty-hunter had to stop.

  The pony almost sounded human as Iron Eyes leapt from the saddle. The relief to the poor sweat-lathered animal was evident, as it staggered to the water’s edge and drank the cold liquid.

  Iron Eyes stood watching the huge breaking water before him with the look of a man who has just discovered his wife in the bed of his best buddy. Losing a buddy can be hard.

  He knew that the high water was not normal for this time of the year and that meant that there were floods upstream.

  He sat down on a boulder before pulling out a twisted, thin cigar and raising it to his mouth.

  His teeth bit off the end of the smoke before he put it into his mouth and searched for his matches. He struck a long, thin, blue-tipped match with his thumbnail, before sucking it into the brown-leafed Havana.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered as he watched the millions of gallons of water passing him every second.

  Even he could not overcome nature, although he thought about trying.

  You cannot kill a river with a .45 but for a long while as he sucked in the smoke of his cigar he felt like shooting the liquid obstruction.

  Shaking his head, he decided to camp here for the night before making up his mind on how to proceed.

  The pinto was grained and unsaddled before being tethered to a tree-trunk. Iron Eyes wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and slept as he always slept, with both the deadly grey eyes wide open and a Navy Colt gripped firmly in one of his hands.

  Chapter Five

  The morning sun created long shadows from the opposite bank as it traced across the high, orange-coloured hills. The light that glared off the water soon flashed into Iron Eyes’ face and awoke him.

  For a long while, the bounty-hunter sat motionless watching the pony straining vainly to reach the tempting river-water. Iron Eyes got up on his long thin legs and moved to the horse, who nervously ceased his actions when catching sight of his new master.

  The day was young, but the river was still too damn high to cross. The anger that swelled up within the breast of the ghostlike figure was evident in the way he turned and kicked out at the scared stallion.

  Iron Eyes hated defeat, and this was defeat in its crudest form. Kicking the dust away as he strolled around the horse, he knew that the river was laughing at him. He could hear the laughter emanating from the breaking water as it continuously flowed past him.

  Iron Eyes kneeled down and watched the rolling water as it headed for the Gulf; knowing that he would have to head south along the river’s edge until he could find a shallow enough spot to cross.

  El Paso was only hours away but he could not get there and get his bounty money. His reward was sitting in a bank calling out to him as he watched a lot of brown water mocking his every move.

  By mid-afternoon, Iron Eyes had ridden at least twenty miles south along the rocky edge of the Rio Grande and knew that he was more than likely in Mexico and not his desired Texas. Yet the river continued to mock him.

  The waves were rolling as high as his pony’s shoulder as they made their lonesome way along the bank of the big wet.

  Every curse-word he had ever learned crept past his dry thin lips as he rode next to the dangerous breaking waves.

  Iron Eyes was becoming conditioned to the fact that he might never reach his destinatio
n during this day either as he turned a tight, tree-lined corner. There before him he saw something he had not expected to see.

  In all its glory, a single wagon stood unhitched.

  Four large oxen were tied to a long running rope, and flames from a campfire rose skyward, sending the smell of bacon into the bounty-hunter’s nostrils.

  He normally would have avoided such an obstacle blocking his path, but there was no other way to pass but by riding straight into this small encampment.

  Iron Eyes paused for a moment as his eagle vision spied out the scene, trying to detect life at the site. Whoever was cooking that side of salt-bacon was nowhere to be seen.

  Pulling out his favoured Navy Colt and checking it was fully loaded, Iron Eyes spurred the pony onward toward the fire, gripping the pistol in his right hand which he kept hanging at his side.

  The pinto trod carefully over the sharp stones as all unshod horses do. The man steered the mount closer and closer to the wagon, until he saw a sight which he had not expected.

  It was a woman.

  She was tall and thin for a female in these parts.

  The rifle she aimed at him from the cover of the wagon was cocked and ready For the first time in his life, Iron Eyes had ridden himself into a situation that confused him.

  He pulled the reins gently and tried not to focus on the young figure, who was dressed in jeans and shirt below him.

  The sun glinted off the long rifle barrel and danced over his cold, deathlike features.

  ‘Christ, you sure are ugly,’ the woman exclaimed aloud.

  ‘You ain’t no oil painting yourself.’

  Iron Eyes turned his head slowly and glared down at her with the grey pupils burning in anger.

  ‘Howdy, ma’am,’ he sneered through his discoloured teeth at her. His tone was sharp, and oozing deadly intent.

  ‘What d’you want?’ she snapped.

  ‘A way to get across this river.’ He gestured at the furious waves that thundered past the tailgate of her wagon.

  Her shadow was almost as long as his as she paced around the man who was like a statue upon his horse. She noticed the pistol in his hand and stopped. Raising the rifle level with his face she smiled.

  It was a smile that was as cold as his own.

  ‘Drop the shooting-iron, mister,’ she demanded.

  ‘Or I’ll part your hair for you.’

  ‘What?’ he growled.

  The rifle-shot that nicked the edge of his left ear sent agonizing pain racing through him. A pain that he had never experienced before. The blood gushed from the small wound and dripped over his dark, dirty coat-collar.

  ‘Drop that gun, mister, or the next shot will part your hair between your eyes.’ She had cranked the rifle swiftly and expertly.

  With satisfaction, she watched the man allow his Navy Colt to drop into the dust at her feet.

  ‘You crazy?’ Iron Eyes screamed at her.

  ‘Yep.’

  Chapter Six

  The two men that rode into Rio Drago were the sort of people every law-respecting person dreads to see arriving. Their horses showed the signs of hard riding as they plodded heavy-footed down the wide, sun-baked street. People scattered at the sight of the two riders.

  They surveyed the scene with an amusement born out of years of killing and bank robberies.

  They had arrived on time as instructed.

  Both men knew that this was a place that no smart person would ever visit and that made it perfect. They had been told to meet their brother here. They were low on cash and when his wire had arrived back in Laramie, they took the opportunity to skip out and ride. This had been a place where they always came to meet up with Dan.

  Tom and Whit Hardy were younger than their sibling by many years, and knew little about anything apart from doing as he instructed. They were just the hired help of a very clever man, even if they were kin.

  Tom Hardy had always been the second man behind Dan. He could not shoot as well as his elder brother, but knew how to scare folks into listening to the older man. He was back-up for the older, wiser, more skilled robber. Tom knew his place. His place was right behind Dan Hardy.

  Whit Hardy was young underneath all his whiskers. Young, and very drunk. Drunkenness was his natural state and had been for over five years. When he was drunk he could not remember to be scared, and he was always scared. His was the lowest rung on the Hardy ladder, and all he wanted from life was money women and liquor. Not necessarily in that order.

  Whenever they went into action he drank more and more until he reached a state that folks seldom ever reached without falling down. Whit had become a shadow of his former self; and the yellowing of his teeth was matched by the pupils of his eyes. No man could drink as much as he consumed without shooting holes in their liver. Whit was a young man on the brink of death, and quite happy to continue heading in that downward spiral.

  Drinking one’s self to death was a darn sight better way to go than the alternative. Whit was the man who stood in the street outside the banks that his elder brothers were robbing. His job was to hold the horses and shoot up the town, making sure that people ran away before his brothers came out with the loot.

  Not the most demanding of jobs, but when you are of a nervous nature, and pickled in alcohol, it takes every ounce of energy to do that simple task. Whit Hardy knew his place.

  The two riders drew their mounts up outside the cantina and dismounted. They tied the horses up firmly to the dried wooden poles that fronted the trough, before entering the place that rang out with the sounds of Mexican music.

  They were caked in the dust and grime that only days on such fiery terrain as that which led to Rio Drago could bake on to visitors.

  ‘I’m as dry as hell, Tom,’ Whit gasped as he stepped up on to the creaking boardwalk.

  ‘And you needs a drink,’ the elder man said.

  ‘That’s about it, I guess,’ Whit coughed, as they pushed their way in through the beaded curtain.

  It was dark inside this place. Dark and cool. A welcome relief from the exterior that seemed to burn under the blazing noon sun.

  As they walked to the bartender they watched as the few regulars seemed to cast their eyes away from them. It was obvious that something was wrong. Very wrong indeed.

  ‘Got any whiskey?’ Tom asked as they leaned on the filthy bar.

  ‘We only got tequila,’ the bartender said, in a very quiet tone.

  ‘Two bottles of that then,’ Whit gushed as he fumbled for a few coins in his pocket.

  Tom Hardy said nothing as he watched the man behind the bar get two of the bottles off the makeshift shelf behind him. The elder of the brothers turned to study the people who were sitting behind them, when his eyes caught sight of the blood-stained walls in the far corner. Tapping Whit’s arm he strolled across the cantina, past the guitarist who was trying to earn a few cents, up to the dark corner.

  Tom Hardy’s eyes travelled over the scene of the bullets and blood that confronted him.

  It was no normal sight, even for his tired eyes.

  ‘That weren’t there last time we was here, Tom,’ Whit drawled as he touched the holes in the wall. ‘Looks fresh to me.’

  Tom turned and retraced his steps back to the bar He was still silent as he poured himself a tall glass of the clear liquor and downed it in one. Then he repeated the action, before looking up at the timid man behind the bar.

  ‘Who did that?’

  A man. An evil man. Gringo like you,’ the stammering bartender replied.

  ‘Name?’ Tom snapped.

  ‘He called Iron Eyes, I think.’

  Whit grabbed his brother’s sleeve. ‘The bounty-hunter.’

  ‘Yep. The stinking gut-slime bounty-hunter.’

  Tom swallowed another drink.

  ‘Who did he kill?’ Whit swigged from his bottle.

  The man behind the bar went suddenly very pale as he trembled before them. ‘I am afraid it was your brother Dan, amigo.’
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  ‘Dan?’ Tom went weak at his knees as he spoke his brother’s name.

  ‘Not Dan,’ Whit dribbled in disbelief ‘Nobody was as fast as Dan. Nobody at all.’

  ‘This varmint called Iron Eyes was very fast.’ The barman shook his head in sorrow at the loss of such a good patron.

  Tom Hardy poured himself another drink in an attempt to try and calm himself down. He swallowed the drink and rubbed his wet mouth with his dirty sleeve before managing to speak once again.

  ‘Where is this Iron Eyes?’

  ‘I think he left town,’ the bartender replied.

  ‘With my brother’s body?’

  ‘No. He went alone.’

  Tom led the way out of the cantina, with his brother close behind, and headed for the small white building with the word ‘SHERIFF’ painted upon its frontage.

  ‘What we doing?’ Whit asked as he walked, holding on to his bottle tightly.

  ‘Going to see the sheriff,’ Tom replied.

  ‘What for?’

  Tom Hardy did not answer as he strode angrily across the wide open space between the cantina and the small home of the law. His feet were suddenly filled with a strength that only anger can muster.

  The door of the sheriff’s office flew open as the elder Hardy brother marched in and scared the life out of the small man with the star pinned to his chest.

  Before the shaking man could rise from his chair behind the brittle desk, the hands of Tom Hardy had dragged him up into the air.

  ‘Where is the body of my brother Dan?’ he screamed at the man he was holding.

  ‘Over in the undertaker’s. Across the street,’ came the reply that vibrated with every shake forced into it.

  Tom Hardy released his grip and watched as the man fell to his knees.

  ‘And Iron Eyes?’ he shouted.

  The smaller man clambered up on to his legs and shook with terror before answering. ‘He had to go to El Paso to collect his reward money.’

  ‘Reward money? Blood money you mean,’ Tom snapped as he stood breathing hard.

  ‘Si, amigo. Blood money,’ the man agreed. ‘I could not stop him. He was evil. Possessed.’