by Rory Black
But there was no emotion on his face.
No hint of what the trapped man was thinking as he blasted his foes with the Navy Colts. He was killing because men were trying to kill him. It was as simple as that.
Again, his guns were empty.
Iron Eyes fingers searched his deep jacket pockets for more ammunition.
‘Damn!’ Iron Eyes cursed.
He was running low on the precious .36-calibre bullets. He rolled over to the saddle-bags. The aroma of whiskey from the crushed bottles filled the hot prairie air. Iron Eyes dragged the top satchel off the bleeding horse and tore its buckle from the leather body of the bags. Two cardboard boxes of bullets fell on to the damp liquor-soaked sand.
Feverishly the bounty hunter pulled the cardboard lids off the boxes and emptied their contents into his pockets. Suddenly an another arrow came out of the gun smoke filled air and hit the pony in the neck.
A spurt of steaming blood arced into the air. There was a gushing sound as air escaped from the deep wound.
Iron Eyes cocked his hammers and pushed his tall frame up as close to the dead animal as he could. The Apache were starting to circle the bounty hunter’s dead horse. Dust rose off the unshod hoofs and mixed with the gun smoke that hung on the hot prairie air.
Within seconds Iron Eyes could not see them and they could not see him.
For the first time since the painted warriors had given chase, Iron Eyes felt that he might just have a chance of surviving their relentless attack.
The dust from the ninety or more horses was blinding. The Apache braves continued to fire their bows and rifles but their target could no longer be seen.
He ignored the relentless volleys of bullets and arrows that came at him from all directions and raised himself up off the sodden sand. The animal’s blood covered most of his coat and right trouser leg but he neither noticed nor cared. He threw his lean frame over the saddle.
Iron Eyes landed on his boots and blasted both his pistols before stooping and running under the smoke and dust. He paused and listened to snorting Apache mounts approaching him from his left.
He ducked even lower and stared into the choking dust.
His keen eyesight could make out dozens of horses’ legs as their masters twisted and turned them in vain attempts to locate their elusive prey.
Rifle shots cut through the smoke and dust from the Apache rifles above his head. Red-hot tapers of lead traced through the air but Iron Eyes did not move a muscle.
Again he moved like a mountain lion closer to the scores of bareback riders who were continually circling the area.
Unseen and unheard, Iron Eyes paused briefly and cocked the hammers of his guns once more. Again he fired up into the swirling smoke and heard the muffled cries as his bullets found their invisible targets.
He rested on one knee. His dust-caked eyes tried to find a solitary rider, apart from the bulk of the screaming braves, whom he could surprise.
Iron Eyes knew that he needed a horse, and was determined to get one.
Suddenly the legs of a pinto came into view from his left. He could see its master’s moccasins hanging at the side of the pony. The eerie sound of arrows being unleashed from a bow whispered above the bounty hunter as he edged closer towards the pony’s legs. Iron Eyes slid both guns into his deep pockets and then pulled his Bowie knife from the neck of his boot.
Again he moved closer until he was right under the snorting pinto’s neck. He reached up and caught hold of the rope that was looped through its mouth.
Iron Eyes released his grip on the crude bridle and then swung around through the choking smoke and dust to face the Indian bowman. With the speed and agility of a puma, the tall ghostlike figure reached up and pulled the Apache towards him. The long lethal blade of the knife was thrust into the Indian’s chest as he was dragged off the pony.
Before the lifeless body crashed to the ground, Iron Eyes had grabbed the mane of the pony and thrown himself on to the back of the confused animal.
Iron Eyes turned the pony and was suddenly confronted by a half-dozen Apache riders.
Even through the thick dust, the bounty hunter could see the stunned expressions etched into their painted faces. He drove his spurs into the pinto and charged straight at them. He lashed the deadly blade to one side and then the other as he forced his mount to ride straight through their ranks.
Blood dripped off the Bowie knife’s gleaming blade as Indians fell all around the determined horseman.
When at last he had carved his way into the clear, Iron Eyes drove the Apache pony on towards the sandy ridge.
The pinto pony thundered across the flat ground as it felt its new master’s long, sharp spurs driving into its flesh. Yet no matter how fast it galloped, it could not escape the ruthless pain that Iron Eyes continued to inflict upon it.
Diamond Back Jones dragged his reins to his chest and shouted at the rest of the Indians through the clouds of swirling dust.
‘Stop shooting, my brothers. Listen!’
The sound of the fleeing bounty hunter’s mount filled all their ears as the Apache braves stopped their ponies next to the outlaw and their chief.
Slowly the dust drifted away from what remained of the painted warriors. The bodies of their less fortunate brothers soon became hideously evident on the blood-covered sand.
It was Conchowata who was first to spot their fleeing foe racing across the arid prairie atop the fresh mount. He raised his rifle and pointed at him through the dust.
‘There!’ Conchowata cried out. ‘Iron Eyes has escaped!’
‘Let’s get him!’ Diamond Back yelled out.
The Apache braves kicked the sides of their mounts and drove on after the dust of the bounty hunter.
Iron Eyes had managed to put a quarter of a mile between himself and the Apaches when he heard the screams starting once again behind him.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the sand-colored rocks before him. They were at least fifty feet high and seemed to go on forever in both directions. As he drove the terrified pony towards the ridge, he began to see the cave half-way up more clearly.
Iron Eyes gritted his teeth and clung to the crude reins, a single strip of rope which was looped around the pony’s head and through its open mouth.
‘C’mon, horse!’ the bounty hunter yelled at the small pinto. The terrified animal responded and increased its pace. Faster and faster the pony raced across the prairie until Iron Eyes began to realize that there was no safe trail through the high wall of sand-colored rocks.
Looking over his shoulder, he could see that the Apaches were not going to quit. They wanted his scalp on a war lance. He looked up at the blazing sun and knew that there was less than an hour of daylight left before darkness came.
He spurred again.
Could he survive for another hour?
The thought haunted him. He had never before faced so many enemies at once. But it was not the sheer volume of Apache braves which troubled the bounty hunter, it was whether he had enough ammunition to hold them off until sunset.
The Apaches whom he had met in the past would not usually fight during the hours of darkness for fear of upsetting their gods. He wondered if these Apaches were the same. Would sunset bring him salvation?
Somehow, he doubted it.
When Iron Eyes reached the foot of the ridge he pulled back on the rope and the mount’s mane and stopped the terrified animal. He threw his right leg over its neck and slid on to the sand.
He glanced up at the cave and then back at the eighty or so Indians who were still baying for his blood. Gripping the saddle horn with his left hand, Iron Eyes steadied himself and tried to get his breath back. He watched the charging Apaches coming through the heat haze.
‘Damn Apaches! Ain’t they ever gonna quit?’ He tried to spit but there was no moisture left in his entire body. For the first time he noticed the large half-full water bag hanging around the pony’s neck. Iron Eyes used his knife to cut the rawhide strap
and rested the bag on his broad bony left shoulder.
Its cool contents soothed his throat as his cold eyes darted between the approaching warriors and the high sandy ridge.
‘Looks like I ain’t got no place to go except up,’ Iron Eyes drawled. ‘This is turning out to be one real bad day.’
The sound of rifles being fired started again. The tall man snarled at the unholy vision which was heading through the swirling hot air towards him. He had managed to defy the odds so far but now there was nowhere left to ride.
Iron Eyes knew that the pinto was now useless.
He pushed the pony away and watched as it ran off across the prairie. It had served its purpose and was now grateful to be away from the vicious spurs of the merciless bounty hunter.
Iron Eyes turned and looked at the ridge of solid rock that loomed over him. He knew that it would not be easy reaching the cave, but there was no alternative. It was either climb or die and Iron Eyes was not ready to die just yet.
If this was to be his last stand, he was going to try and take as many Apache with him as possible. He had no intention of going to hell on his own.
The tall figure ran to the foot of the rock face and started to climb.
Chapter Five
Even trail dust could not disguise the fact that the elegant rider astride the black gelding was a man with whom it did not pay to toy. He looked every part a gunfighter and yet the marshal’s star pinned to his silk vest told a very different story. This was an old-fashioned lawman, the sort that had mostly gone the way of the buffalo over the past couple of decades. Marshal Tom Quaid had been able to smell Dry Gulch more than an hour before his keen eyes had seen the whitewashed buildings shimmering in the heat haze.
He had steered his horse well since leaving Texas and never faltered in his relentless pursuit of the outlaw known as Diamond Back Jones. He knew that his star meant nothing here in the territories and he should have long since ended his chase, but Quaid was not a man to allow the mere limitations of the law prevent him from executing the warrant in his vest pocket.
Whatever it took, he was determined to get his man.
He wanted Diamond Back Jones either alive or dead. It made no difference, although there was a demon inside him that could think of nothing but killing the ruthless outlaw.
If it had been any other outlaw he would have observed the borders and admitted defeat. But this time it was different. This time it was personal.
For the first time since he had become a United States marshal, he had allowed his heart to overrule his fifty-three-year-old head. Ignored the twenty-eight years experience of upholding the law and allowed his fury to guide him.
This time he had hit the trail alone because he wanted no witnesses and no one along who might just point out when he overstepped the mark.
Quaid would be judge, jury and executioner if need be. If he did break any of his precious laws, it would be he alone who would have to live with the consequences.
He had left Texas more than a month earlier and trailed the infamous outlaw further and further west until he realized that Diamond Back Jones was probably leading him into a trap. For he knew that this unforgiving landscape was home to the brutal Jones. Here the hunted would have the advantage. Yet Quaid did not worry over such things.
Tom Quaid was of the old school of lawmen.
He lived by his gun skills because there had been a time when that had been the only way you could protect the innocent from the lawless vermin who roamed this big land.
It took a certain sort of man to live life on the knife-edge of almost daily danger. To face death and not be afraid. But Tom Quaid was that sort of man. A rare breed that never flinched away from trouble. A man who could never be bluffed.
For over a month the rider had thought about the reasons why he had set out on this quest. The haunting images had flashed through his mind in every waking moment and turned his sleep into nightmares. In nearly thirty years of being a lawman nothing had affected him this way before. There was only one reason why he was after the outlaw.
This was revenge. Pure and simple revenge. Diamond Back Jones would pay for what he had done back in Texas. Quaid had vowed that over the graves of his two daughters.
There was nowhere on the face of the earth that the veteran marshal would not go in order to catch the bloodthirsty killer. Even if it meant riding into the bowels of Hell itself. He would never stop his avenging pursuit.
If there had ever been any fear dwelling in the marshal, it had disappeared since that chilling moment when he had discovered the bodies of his only remaining family members on his ranch just outside Waco.
Their murders had somehow stripped every ounce of caution from Tom Quaid’s soul. Now he had nothing left to lose except his life. But that was the one thing he had never truly valued.
Quaid pulled the front of his Stetson down until its brim was at eye-level. He knew that when facing his enemies it paid to be able to see their eyes without them being able to focus upon his. For the first to blink was usually also the first to die.
It had been a trick that had never let him down. He had managed to outdraw more than forty men in his long career and not lost a second’s sleep over any of them.
For the vermin that tasted the lead of men like Tom Quaid were bad and death was their just reward for the pain they inflicted upon others. Lawmen like Quaid were the only upholders of justice available for the innocent in the West.
He pulled back on his reins and slowed the tall black gelding as he entered the wide main street. He had heard tales of this town and its acrid aroma told him that every one of the stories must be true.
The sound of a million flies alerted the marshal that something other than stinking outhouses had excited them during the hot day. As he allowed his horse to pass the crude open-fronted funeral parlor, he realized what that something was. Blood-soaked bodies were stacked on top of one another. They spilled out on to the boardwalk. The sound of hammering echoed out from the rear of the building as coffins were being hastily assembled.
Tom Quaid inhaled through his gritted teeth and narrowed his eyes and continued on.
He knew that there had been a real big gun battle in Dry Gulch and wondered if Diamond Back Jones had anything to do with it.
There was no fear in Quaid. Others in his occupation might have hidden their gleaming star in a town such as Dry Gulch, but not him. He pushed the tails of his topcoat over the ivory grips of his Remingtons and allowed the star to catch the low red rays that indicated that the day was almost done. He aimed the head of his young horse towards the saloon and tapped his spurs gently to encourage it to reach the hitching rail.
His wrinkled eyes noticed the bloodstained sand and the walls that had been damaged by what could only have been a gun battle.
Quaid eased back in his saddle and stopped his mount. He sat looking all around at the nervous faces that peered at him from countless doorways and corners.
He dismounted and led the horse to a trough, then wrapped the reins around a pole. He stood defiant as his horse drank its fill.
‘You lookin’ for somebody, Marshal?’ a large woman asked as she carried a bucket and mop along the boardwalk past the saloon front.
Quaid looked at her. He could see that this was one resident of Dry Gulch who actually worked honestly to make ends meet.
‘Yep. I’m looking for a low-down critter named Diamond Back Jones, ma’am. You happen to know his whereabouts?’
She paused for a moment and pushed a long loose strand of hair off her face.
‘Is he kinda dark?’
‘Yep. He’s a full-blood Apache.’ Quaid nodded. ‘Although he pretends to be white. A dangerous killer.’
Her face altered. It was obvious that she did not like Apaches.
‘He’s an Indian? Damn! I hate redskins and no mistake. He was in Dry Gulch ‘til that bounty hunter came a-callin’. I figure that he got scared.’
‘Bounty hunter?’ The marshal stepped
up on to the boardwalk and looked down into her face.
‘Yeah. He was tall and mean and as thin as a beanpole,’ she informed him. ‘I never seen such a man before. His hair was long and kinda dirty. The word is that he wanted the bounty on Diamond Back. He sure got things all fired-up around here.’
‘I’ve heard of a bounty hunter like that.’ Quaid sighed, rubbing his chin. ‘I think they call him Iron Eyes.’
She smiled broadly. ‘That’s his name OK. I heard the boys saying so. Iron Eyes. What kinda name is that? Is he an Indian too?’
‘I don’t think he is. What actually happened around here, ma’am?’ Quaid inhaled again and stared into the low sun down the street towards the funeral parlor. ‘I seen a stack of dead folks piled up down there.’
There was one heck of a gunfight here earlier,’ she said rolling her eyes. ‘I thought that we was all gonna get killed the way them bullets was flying in all directions. Seems that Iron Eyes was after the same varmint as you.’
Jones?’
‘Yeah. Well, Jones paid some of the local gutter-rats to stop this Iron Eyes character whilst he made his getaway,’ she said as she adjusted the mop in her hand.
Tom Quaid inhaled deeply through his nostrils.
‘What happened?’
‘That Iron Eyes killed the whole bunch of them and then lit out after Diamond Back again,’ she gushed.
‘He killed them all?’ There was surprise in the veteran lawman’s voice.
‘Every darn one of them. Good riddance, I say. They were all scum like Jones himself.’ She spat at the boardwalk as if demonstrating her disgust. ‘They tried to bushwhack him and he didn’t cotton to it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Quaid pulled out a silver dollar and offered it to the woman who gratefully accepted it and slid it into her ample cleavage.
