The Spirit of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  ‘Thank you, Marshal,’ she said. ‘Say, I’d be careful if I was you. They don’t cotton to the law in this darn town. There’s still plenty of back shooters who’d kill ya for the gold in ya fillings.’

  ‘In my experience, there ain’t many towns which do cotton to the law, ma’am.’ Tom Quaid smiled. ‘And my teeth are store-bought anyway.’

  Quaid touched the brim of his Stetson and nodded. He watched as she went on her way.

  ‘Who the hell are you, dude?’

  The marshal turned to face the gravel voice that came from the saloon doorway. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the large figure standing with one hand on the top of the swing-doors and the other resting on the grip of his Colt.

  ‘You talking to me?’ Quaid asked, squaring up to the man.

  The dying rays of the sun flashed off the well-polished star pinned to the silk vest.

  ‘Are you a lawman, dude?’ the man gruffed in a mixture of shock and surprise. ’Cause if’n ya are, ya must be damn loco to come to Dry Gulch.’

  Quaid lowered his head slightly so that he could watch the eyes of his adversary.

  ‘I’m looking for Diamond Back Jones, friend.’

  The big man spat a lump of dark goo on to the bleached boards between them.

  ‘He rode out hours back with that bounty hunter on his tail.’

  ‘I know,’ Quaid said, flexing his fingers over the grips of his guns.

  ‘Then what are ya still doing in town?’ the man growled like an angry bear. ‘Get going. Your sort ain’t welcome in Dry Gulch.’

  ‘I figured that already, friend.’ Quaid sighed heavily as he could sense that once more his gun skills would be tested. ‘But if I was you, I’d go find myself a rock to hide behind.’

  The man released his grip on the swing-doors and then lowered his hand to waist-level.

  ‘We’ve had a real bad day here. I think ya ought to quit while you’re ahead. Get going.’

  ‘I’m going when I decide to go and not when some fat scum tells me. OK?’ the marshal said firmly.

  ‘I ain’t fat!’ the man protested. ‘I just got me big bones, ya old bastard.’

  ‘Even your fingers are fat, son!’ Tom Quaid said. ‘You try to draw on me with those fingers and you’ll surely regret it.’

  The large man made a noise that sounded like a stuck pig. Whatever words might have spewed furiously from his mouth, the marshal could not understand any of them.

  Quaid saw the man’s right hand move as it began to haul the Colt from its holster. His own hands moved far more swiftly. Both his Remingtons were drawn from their hand-tooled holsters in one fraction of a heartbeat.

  The marshal cocked the gun hammers and squeezed both triggers at exactly the same moment.

  One bullet severed the holster from the large man’s gun belt as the other tore the battered Stetson off his head.

  There was a look of astonishment on the man’s sweat-soaked face as his gun fell on to the boardwalk. His left hand patted the top of his head in a vain search for his hat.

  ‘Stop fretting, tubby. Your head’s still there,’ Tom Quaid said. ‘Not that you seem to use it much.’

  ‘Who the hell are ya?’ the confused figure asked.

  ‘Tom Quaid.’

  ‘I heard of ya. Texan trash.’

  Quaid walked up to the large figure and poked one of his gun barrels into the bulging belly with as much force as he could muster. The man yelped. As the sweating head came forward it was met with the ivory gun grip which glanced across his chin-bone. The sound of teeth breaking echoed inside the large man’s mouth. He staggered, then felt the boot catching him across his wide rear. The dazed man fell like a sack of potatoes on to the sand beside the boardwalk.

  ‘Reckon you’ll not try and draw on a stranger quite so quickly in future,’ Quaid said. The man rolled over on the sand until his bewildered face was looking straight at him. ‘Some old folks are a damn sight more lively than they look.’

  The marshal slid both his guns back into their holsters and shook his head in disbelief at the pitiful figure who was staring up at him.

  ‘Tell me, my big-boned friend. What are you?’

  ‘I’m an outlaw.’ The man mumbled as blood and teeth fragments trickled from his mouth.

  ‘An outlaw?’ Quaid tried not to laugh.

  ‘Yeah!’ More blood fell from the crimson mouth. ‘I’m an outlaw.’

  Quaid exhaled. ‘Well I suggest you quit, sonny. I reckon it’s time you found yourself a new occupation.’

  ‘What ya trying to say?’

  Tom Quaid shouted down at the man. ‘Find yourself a new career! You just ain’t no good at this one, you dumb bastard.’

  The large man watched helplessly as Quaid defiantly entered the saloon. Somehow, he knew that the veteran lawman was right.

  Chapter Six

  The sky was on fire with every tone of red that nature could muster on its infinite palette, but the cornered bounty hunter had no time to notice. Bullets tore all around the mouth of the cave entrance as Iron Eyes lay on his belly with his long coat beside him. He had just managed to crawl into the cave only moments before the screaming Apache horsemen had reached the base of the ridge and started firing at him with their rifles and bows.

  The arrows had no power in them by the time they had reached the high sanctuary but the bullets were as deadly as ever.

  The Apaches continued firing for more than five minutes after they had witnessed their prey scrambling up the sand-colored rocks and into the dark cave. Their bullets were relentless as they vainly tried to shoot the exhausted bounty hunter. Dust showered over Iron Eyes as he waited for the volley to ease up for just a single moment.

  A heartbeat of precious time to try and work out what was happening to him.

  All he needed was a little time to get his thoughts together so that he could work out what his next move should be.

  If there was a next move.

  Iron Eyes was beginning to wonder if this was how it was going to end. Was this his last stand? His personal Alamo?

  Then suddenly the shooting eased up and eventually stopped.

  Iron Eyes rose on to all fours and pushed his long dust-caked hair off his face. A sudden pain traced through his skull as he felt the bloody graze on his scalp with his thin fingers.

  He stared at his hand and the blood which covered it.

  Iron Eyes knew that he was bleeding again but that was nothing new for the gaunt man. He had lost more blood over the years than probably now flowed through his veins, because of the wounds his enemies had inflicted upon him.

  He rubbed the blood on to his torn and tattered shirt and sighed heavily.

  Iron Eyes leaned over the edge of the high rocks and fired his guns at the figures far below him. Even in the haunting red light of the setting sun, he could still see them. He watched with no emotion as another handful of the more determined Indians were hit by his deadly accuracy.

  Their lifeless bodies crashed down over the jagged rocks.

  Iron Eyes studied the remainder of the tribe taking cover far below the cave. He had spotted Diamond Back Jones in his outlaw clothing moving with the rest of the heavily armed braves behind the rocks and sparse brush. But they were out of range of his Navy Colts.

  ‘Damn you, Diamond Back!’ he cursed angrily as he thought about the bounty on the outlaw’s head. Dead or alive, $1,000. It was a reward that might never be collected the way things were going.

  More bullets hit the roof of the cave above him as the Apache retaliated to his killing even more of their number. But this time Iron Eyes did not flinch as red-hot tapers of lethal lead passed within inches of him.

  Blood trickled down the limp strands of hair that hung in front of his narrowed eyes. He could feel his scalp throbbing as the graze continued to bleed.

  The bounty hunter knew that this was not his sort of fight and that the Indians had the advantage. They had rifles which had far greater range than his pistols. Iron E
yes was used to fighting men up close. He liked to see the whites of his enemies’ eyes before he killed them.

  With the fading light, he was now even more vulnerable. They were calling the shots and all he could do was take everything they dished out and try to survive.

  Iron Eyes did not like it.

  He was the hunter! Not them!

  How could he have gotten himself into this situation? His head ached as it tried to work out what exactly had happened to turn the tables on him.

  But no matter how much he tried, he could not work it out.

  Iron Eyes piled every bullet he could find in the long coat’s deep pockets beside him and carefully reloaded the Navy Colts. He had roughly eighty rounds left from the two boxes he had emptied out on the prairie.

  It seemed that there were probably as many if not more Apache left below him.

  Iron Eyes was slowly beginning to realize that he could no longer afford to miss. He had lost that luxury. Every single bullet had to count or he would be reduced to trying to fend them off with the Bowie knife in his boot.

  Did he have enough rounds to get them all?

  The thought haunted him.

  The sun was sinking lower and lower and yet every minute seemed like an eternity. As more rifle bullets continued to splinter off the soft golden rock surface around him, he wondered what would happen when all his bullets were gone.

  He had always been the hunter.

  Now it was he who was trapped like one of the animals or outlaws he had chased over the years.

  Iron Eyes did not like the feeling because he knew that it was always the hunter who had the advantage. The hunter knew when he was going to strike. How he was going to outwit his prey.

  Iron Eyes removed the crude stopper from the Indian water bag and lifted it to his cracked lips. He swallowed the still-cool liquid, then sighed heavily.

  His attention was drawn into the cave. It seemed to stretch off into the distance but he could not be sure of anything in the darkness.

  The way my luck’s been goin’ today, I reckon that there must be a bear or puma in them shadows,’ Iron Eyes mumbled to himself as more shots rang out from below him.

  A million pieces of rock showered over him again as the rifle bullets hit the roof of the cave directly above his head.

  Iron Eyes flinched again as the small stones cascaded on to his bleeding scalp.

  ‘No wonder I hate Apaches!’ he spat.

  Yet no matter how angry he found himself becoming, he knew he had to remain calm. He could not afford to waste any of his bullets with so many men seeking to kill him.

  He placed one of his guns beside the bullets and cocked the hammer of the other, then edged his way back to the lip of the cave. He squinted down and aimed carefully at the braves who were ascending the rocks.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The deafening noise bounced off the damp walls that surrounded him, but he did not notice. His entire attention was on his chosen target.

  Another of the Indians was dead. He repeated the action again and again until the warriors were either dead or had retreated out of range of his Navy Colt.

  He moved back into the relative safety of the cave and tried to think. It was almost impossible as his head pounded like a million war drums. He knew that he ought to have a plan by now, but there was nothing in his mind except the instinct to survive.

  Iron Eyes dragged his coat towards him, reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a handful of cigars. They were all broken but could still be smoked.

  His eyes drifted up and looked at the sun again. It was now sinking beneath the distant horizon.

  He struck a match with his thumbnail and touched the end of the cigar between his teeth. Smoldering leaf fell on to his legs as he puffed on the putrid smoke.

  Would these Apaches stop once the sun had set?

  He opened the gun’s chamber and allowed the hot casings to fall on to the cave floor as he plucked another six bullets off the pile beside him.

  One by one he slid the bullets into the narrow holes before closing the chamber again and locking it. He cocked the hammer and sucked hard on the cigar as the sun finally disappeared.

  Darkness seemed to sweep over him like a blanket.

  Chapter Seven

  Marshal Tom Quaid had wasted no time in riding out after the outlaw Diamond Back Jones and the bounty hunter who already seemed to have managed to kill more men in one day than his notorious prey had done in the previous few years. Quaid had purchased a fresh mount in the sun-bleached town and driven the chestnut mare far harder than he had ever driven any horse before. Quaid had tied the bridle of his black gelding to his saddle cantle and led the horse across the arid prairie until his fresh mount was totally exhausted.

  Only when Tom Quaid was convinced that his new mount could no longer maintain the speed he had demanded of it, did he dismount and transfer his saddle and trail bags to the black gelding. He left the lathered-up chestnut and rode on.

  The black gelding had managed to keep pace with the chestnut mare easily, having no saddle or trail tack on its back. Now it was also being forced to race across the hard ground beneath the bright moon as its master tried to gain on the two men who were ahead of him. The marshal knew that using two mounts instead of one had enabled him to reduce the distance between them by several hours.

  It was not the first time he had used this trick to gain on his prey. But there had never been so much urgency in his desire to catch up with anyone before.

  He wanted Diamond Back Jones.

  There was nothing that could stop him.

  After more than two hours of forcing the long-legged gelding to continue its reckless pace, Quaid eventually drew in his reins, stood in his stirrups and gazed ahead across the moonlit prairie. He had managed to get all the information concerning Diamond Back Jones that he required back at Dry Gulch. Even the town’s most drunken of men realized that the veteran lawman was more than capable of using the matched Remington pistols he sported.

  They had told him everything that he had wanted to know about the elusive outlaw and the strange bounty hunter who was chasing him.

  But there had been no mention that the trail both riders had taken led deep into Apache territory. It seemed to the lawman that the citizens of Dry Gulch had conveniently forgotten that small detail.

  Marshal Quaid dismounted from the tired mount. He removed one of the four canteens from the saddle horn and then slowly unscrewed its stopper.

  The sound of gunfire out in the distance had led him to this place. But with the setting of the merciless sun, the shooting had suddenly stopped. Quaid knew that meant that the men firing their rifles had to be Indians. Most probably one of the numerous Apache tribes which reigned supreme in this desolate land.

  He dropped his Stetson on to the ground before the black gelding and poured half the canteen’s contents into the upturned hat. He then sipped at the water, never once taking his eyes off the distant rocky ridges which were now illuminated by the bright moon.

  Quaid knew that the shooting had come from somewhere directly ahead of him. He had aimed his mount straight at the sound of the shooting until it had ceased more than an hour earlier. He glanced down at the ground and could still see the two sets of hoof tracks less than a few feet away from his mount. Even in the moonlight, the trail was clear.

  His eyes drifted back up to the distant ridge. It was deathly silent out there now but Quaid knew that meant nothing.

  Every instinct told him that he was now venturing into unknown territory. He had never had any dealings with Indians during his long career as a law officer but he knew that there was no alternative for him.

  He had to keep following the trail.

  He wanted Jones.

  Jones was an Apache.

  To get him, he had to continue onwards.

  The water tasted bitter to the dry-mouthed marshal but he carried on drinking until his thirst was quenched. He returned the stopper to the neck
of the canteen and secured it before hanging it back on the saddle horn.

  The sound of many rifles had rung out across the arid land earlier. So many rifles that Quaid began to wonder exactly how many Apaches there were out there. Twenty? Fifty? A hundred or more?

  Even a half-dozen of them would be more than most men could cope with. A cold shiver traced down his spine.

  A million thoughts crept through his mind. Who were the Apache firing at? Was Iron Eyes their target? If so, how was it that the shooting had carried on for so long?

  It seemed strange to the lawman that any one man could maintain a battle with so many Indians for such a long time.

  Who was this Iron Eyes character anyway?

  Whoever he was, he seemed to have a knack of surviving against all odds.

  Quaid removed his bandanna from his neck and wiped the mixture of sweat and dust from his face. He was troubled by the way things were going.

  Vengeance had driven him for so long that he had become almost impervious to anything else except the man he wanted to capture and kill. Quaid knew that he had allowed the green-eyed demon of hatred to drive him into a situation that he was ill-equipped to handle.

  Now it was no longer the hunter and the hunted.

  Now the Apache nation was in the stewpot.

  Diamond Back Jones had managed to stay ahead of his pursuers long enough to return to his people. Tom Quaid knew that his marshal’s star meant even less to Indians than it had to the people back in Dry Gulch.

  This was not going to be easy.

  He had faced gangs of killers before but never a whole tribe of angry Indians. And Apaches were more ruthless than most of their brothers further north.

  How did you fight the Apache?

  It had sounded as if the bounty hunter was doing a good job of it before sunset. Maybe the darkness held the key, Quaid thought.

  The marshal lifted his hat off the ground and shook it before carefully returning to his white-haired head. He inhaled, grabbed hold of the saddle horn and mounted.

  To have any chance of getting Jones away from his fellow Apaches, the marshal wondered if he ought to try and reach them before dawn.