by Rory Black
They charged towards one another.
CHAPTER FIVE
The knives flashed in the sunlight. Each man cut and thrust with nothing on his mind except the ultimate destruction of his equally determined opponent.
In very different ways, the two blood-drenched men were warriors. Each had learned to kill so long ago that neither knew any other way to exist.
It was part of what they were. They killed. Without emotion or regret, they simply killed.
Blood trailed across the white sand around the two men. Iron Eyes knew that he had been caught more than a dozen times by the lethal Apache blade yet he continued fighting. His own Bowie knife had slashed the painted flesh of the smaller, more agile Indian as many times.
The two bleeding men circled one another leaving trails of crimson droplets on the hot sand. There was nothing now in their fevered minds except death.
Each was equally confident in his own ability to destroy the other.
Iron Eyes knew that he had an advantage, being far taller than the warrior before him, but this was no protection against the darting knife that ripped at his already shredded shirt.
The Apache slashed out with the knife again. Its honed tip sliced through the bounty hunter’s sleeve. Iron Eyes could feel even more blood trailing down his arm.
There was only one way to have a chance of killing this foe, and it required that he used his superior height. Fighting up close meant giving the smaller man a target he could not miss and the multitude of bleeding wounds on the torso of Iron Eyes were testament to the warrior’s skill.
The Apache leapt once again toward his tall, ghostlike target and used his knife again.
Iron Eyes kicked out at the Apache and forced him backward once again. He glanced down at his right hand and saw the bloody gash across the back of it.
Keeping his keen eyes on the crouching figure before him, the bounty hunter switched his knife into his left hand, then slipped out of his long trail coat and dropped it on to the blood-soaked sand.
There was nothing in the face opposite him to give Iron Eyes any hint of what the skilled warrior would do next. But he knew that whatever it was, it would hurt. Just as every one of the countless other bleeding wounds also hurt. It felt as if half the surface of his skin had been attacked by crazed hornets.
Iron Eyes was angry with himself for not being able to finish this straightaway. He had missed the opportunity to kill the Indian swiftly. Now he was paying with blood for that mistake.
Crimson gore trailed from the numerous gashes all over the tall man as he stared at the wounds of his deadly foe. He too was covered in the vicious scars of their encounter. So far, they seemed to have inflicted an equal number of injuries on each other, neither man having been able to administer one last lethal strike.
Iron Eyes took a step backward and then moved his feet behind his discarded coat.
He had somehow to use his greater height and reach if he were to kill this man. If he did not, he knew that it would be the Apache who would triumph.
The crouching Indian leaned forward and charged for the umpteenth time. The sun flashed across the knife blade which was held high above the warrior’s head.
Iron Eyes knew he had to act swiftly.
He scooped the toe-point of his right boot under the coat and kicked it up into the air between them. The coat was heavy with the bullets which filled its deep pockets, but it still rose just high enough to hit the charging warrior in his face and stop his advance.
The Indian staggered for a few seconds, but it was more than enough time for the bounty hunter to act.
He strode across the sand and kicked at the Apache. He caught the near-naked brave low and watched the man’s head drop. The second kick caught the warrior in his face.
Before the stunned Apache hit the sand, Iron Eyes had buried the full length of his Bowie knife-blade into him.
Iron Eyes twisted the deadly dagger and heard the shocked gasp come from his victim’s mouth. He could feel the air leaving the burst lung over his hand as they both hit the ground.
He withdrew the blood-covered blade and then stabbed his opponent again and again. There was a madness in the frenzied attack but the bounty hunter wanted to ensure that he had finally finished off this opponent.
Iron Eyes continued ramming the knife into the helpless warrior’s chest long after the man was dead.
For the first time in his entire life, Iron Eyes had come within a whisker of being defeated in combat. It was a situation that he found hard to understand.
When the pupils of his cold gray eyes focused at last on the dead body beneath him, he rose quickly to his feet and turned away. He staggered back to his coat and lifted it off the hot sun-baked sand. Then paused.
He stared all around him at the lifeless bodies which were strewn across the white sand.
Iron Eyes slid the knife back into the neck of his right boot and then hauled the heavy trail coat on to his bleeding body. He staggered around, looked down at his dead pony lying where it had fallen only a few minutes earlier.
Then he concentrated on the closest Indian pony.
It took every ounce of his remaining strength to remove the coiled rope off his saddle and face the scattered Indian mounts. He knew that he had to try and capture one of the fallen warriors’ ponies if he were to carry on in pursuit after the elusive Harve Calhoon and escape this place.
Slowly he began to spin the rope above his head.
He then recalled the rider who had been following him.
Even though he knew that it might take the rider an hour to reach this spot, there was no time to waste. He had to capture one of the nervous mounts and ride out of here before that rider caught up with him.
For the first time in his brutal existence, Iron Eyes did not want to fight. He was exhausted and needed time to heal. There had been enough blood spilled this day and a lot of it was his own.
The rope was spinning above his head faster and faster as he glared at his chosen target. He unleashed the rope and watched its twirling loop encircle the neck of the closest of the painted ponies. He pulled on the rope and watched its loop tighten around the horse’s neck.
Slowly he began to draw the creature towards him.
CHAPTER SIX
It was known as Devil’s Pass. It had earned the name long before any of the men who rode across its blazing-hot sand between the high, narrow canyon walls were born. Even the once numerous Apache knew better than to spend too long in the place which, it was said, had been created by the Devil himself to capture lost souls.
For this was a place where nothing lived for long. It had a thousand ways to kill and it had used them all on the unwary.
Situated less than a score of miles away from the Seventh Cavalry’s most westerly outpost, Fort Dixon, Devil’s Pass was the only direct route to Waco from the north. Yet even so, few ventured into its deadly canyons which stretched for scores of lifeless miles. There were safer routes that encircled the entire region and had dozens of smaller trails leading to various other towns situated on the edge of the territory.
But for all its hidden dangers, Devil’s Pass still provided a short cut to those who dared to enter its unforgiving canyons. There was always someone either ignorant or foolhardy enough to risk his life by venturing into it.
The nervous platoon seldom rode into Devil’s Pass, because of its deadly reputation, but on this day, it had done so. For some reason that only Captain Hugh Wallis was privy to, they had been ordered to ride straight through its winding hot canyons.
Each man in the cavalry wondered why. What could be so important? Only Wallis knew the answer and he was saying nothing.
His orders had been sealed when they had left Fort Dixon. He had been instructed not to open them until he had led his men to the mouth of the great canyon.
Whatever were the details contained in the orders, Wallis had done exactly as they commanded. He had then folded up the two pages and placed them in his breast pocket
.
He did not reveal anything to the men in his command. But each of them knew that it had to be very important for him to be leading them into this place. Something was brewing and they could taste it on the dry sand that blew into their mouths as they teased their mounts on.
But what?
The soldiers rode in columns of two and totaled more than eighty in number. A supply wagon brought up the rear of the column and had massive water barrels strapped to its sides. Fort Dixon had ensured that Wallis and his men were well prepared for the mission they had been given.
Wallis was a seasoned officer who had been stationed at Fort Dixon for nearly a decade. He had the reputation of being a hard man and a cruel taskmaster, yet his men were loyal. For some men can muster loyalty in their troops by example. Wallis was such a man. They knew that he was one of that rare breed of commanding officers who led from the front.
It had been nearly three hours since the cavalry had entered the dry canyon. For all of that time, they had seen nothing living except the vultures that floated on the hot thermals above them.
For most of their number, this was the very first time that they had even come close to Devil’s Pass, let alone ridden into it. Yet none of them were afraid because Captain Wallis showed no fear.
He was the yardstick by which they measured everything. As long as he remained at the head of their column, then everything ought to be OK. It was a simple logic.
The soldiers moved slowly behind Captain Wallis, who sat astride his tall gray charger. He dictated the pace and they followed. As always, they trusted the experienced officer. For he was not a man to sacrifice the lives of his enlisted men.
Sergeant Hanks spurred his weathered mount until it drew level with Wallis and then teased back on his reins. He had done the same thing countless times before on previous patrols, but for some reason, he knew that this mission was different from all the others. He could sense it.
The two horses walked side by side for more than five minutes before the officer glanced across at the red-faced Hanks. He had known the man with the mutton-chop side-whiskers for his entire time at Fort Dixon. They had been on so many patrols together that they seemed to be able to read each other’s minds.
‘What’s wrong, Hanks?’ Wallis eventually asked the sergeant.
Hanks looked up at the captain.
‘I reckon you ought to know what’s eatin’ at my craw, Captain.’
Wallis nodded. ‘After all these years, I think I do.’
Hanks kept staring at the dusty trail before them. It was so bright that it hurt his eyes. It seemed that every mile that they travelled into this unholy place, the hotter it got. Sweat streamed down from beneath his hatband, burning his eyes.
‘What was in them orders, sir?’
Captain Wallis raised his head and laughed.
‘Curiosity killed the cat, Hanks.’
‘What cat, Captain?’ Hanks scratched his whiskers.
Wallis patted his breast pocket. ‘My orders are for my eyes only.’
Hanks shrugged. ‘Must be pretty important for us to ride into this place.’
The officer nodded. ‘Damn important, Hanks.’
‘We got Apache trouble?’
Wallis glanced at the trail ahead but did not respond to the question.
Hanks tried again. ‘Outlaw trouble?’
Wallis glanced at the inquisitive soldier and smiled.
‘Quit while you’re ahead, Hanks.’
‘How far are we going into Devil’s Pass, sir?’
‘All the way through and then some,’ Wallis replied.
Hanks felt his throat suddenly go drier than it had already been as the thought of travelling all the way through Devil’s Pass filled his mind. He looked up at the face of the man who, he knew, never joked. If Wallis said that they were going straight through Devil’s Pass, then that was what they were going to do.
The question was: why?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Time was against him. He had to find a place where he could see to all the bleeding knife-wounds before he could fight again. Iron Eyes hauled the near-full bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags and swilled a mouthful around his mouth before swallowing it. Then he poured the fiery liquor over the back of his gashed right hand and chest and stomach. The whiskey burned but he knew that it might help to slow down the blood-loss from his already emaciated body. His eyes darted all around him as if still not convinced that he had triumphed over the dead Apaches. Iron Eyes put the bottle to his lips again and then swallowed hard until only an inch of the amber liquid remained in the clear-glass bottle. He rammed the cork back into its neck and slid it into the bag that was tied behind the cantle of his saddle.
The weary ghostlike figure tightened and secured the cinch straps, then dropped the leather fender and stirrup back into place. He gripped on to the saddle horn, thrust his left boot into the stirrup and hauled himself up on to the back of the Indian pony. Its eyes flashed as the wounded bounty hunter slid his other boot-toe into the right stirrup.
Iron Eyes gritted his teeth and then looked down at his still-bleeding wounds. He knew that he would have either to find a doctor in this wilderness or try to sew up the knife wounds himself. He had a long needle and ball of catgut somewhere in one of the satchels of his bags, which he used to repair his saddle and tack with.
Then his mind drifted to the Bowie knife in his boot. He knew that if he made a campfire and heated up its blade, he could burn all the injuries into submission.
But there was no time right now. It had taken him far longer than he had expected to remove his saddle and bags from his dead mount and transfer it to the skittish Indian pony.
Holding tightly on to his reins, he spurred the pony and rode up to the top of the high sand dune. He stopped his mount and stared down at the trail that led from Waco. Iron Eyes squinted into the sun and knew that his pursuer had gained a lot of ground on him.
The rider was now close. Too damn close.
‘Who is he?’ he drawled angrily to himself. ‘And what the hell is he following me for?’
The sun glinted off the unmistakable metal-tipped barrel of a rifle jutting from beneath the saddle of the powerful mount as it charged ever closer towards the bounty hunter’s high vantage point atop the dune. It was a big rifle.
‘What’s he got there, an elephant gun?’ Iron Eyes mumbled under his breath as he vainly tried to make out the man’s features. Whoever he was, he did not recognize either him or his mount.
A thousand thoughts drifted through Iron Eye’s mind. Could this be Harve Calhoon? Could he have somehow managed to turn the tables on him? Turned the hunter into the hunted? Maybe it was some innocent drifter who happened to be riding the same trail as himself. Was that possible?
Suddenly, as Iron Eyes ran the fingers of his left hand through his long matted hair, he saw the rider leaning down, hauling the strange weapon from its scabbard. Before Iron Eyes had time to lower his arm he saw the plume of gunsmoke spew from the distant barrel and then heard the deafening sound echo all around him as a bullet tore into the sand at his pony’s unshod hoofs.
‘Buffalo gun! The bastard’s got a buffalo gun!’ Iron Eyes shouted at the heavens as it became obvious that whoever the rider was, the varmint wanted him dead.
Iron Eyes knew that the rider was now probably less than fifteen minutes behind him. He had no intention of facing anyone until he had time to tend his wounds. His bony hands hauled his reins to his right.
Then he saw the faint remnants of tracks left by Harve Calhoon’s horse’s hoofs in the sand beyond the bodies.
Another blast filled his ears as he felt the heat of the large-caliber bullet pass within inches of his already nervous mount. Iron Eyes spurred the pony hard.
The horse did not require a reminder from the jagged edges of his sharp spurs. It thundered through the scattered bodies of the Apache warriors and across the sand. He rode the pony for all it was worth.
Now, below the cres
t of the dune, Iron Eyes had a little time before the unknown rider with the buffalo gun could fire at him again. The dune provided him with cover until the rider rode up and on to it.
He had maybe ten minutes before the man reached the top of the high sandy rise and was able to take aim once more.
Iron Eyes urged the pony on and on. He had to try and get out of range of the weapon which, he knew, was capable of bringing down a fully-grown buffalo at over a mile’s distance.
Once the rider stopped his mount and was able to take careful aim Iron Eyes knew that he and his pony would be goners. The mysterious horseman had come close enough to his chosen target when riding at full gallop, there was no way he would miss once he had time to stop his horse.
The mount obeyed its new master and galloped towards the distant canyon. Iron Eyes stood in his stirrups and felt the pace of the pony quicken beneath him.
His keen eyes squinted into the shimmering heat haze at what was left of Calhoon’s trail, but it was the man behind him who kept returning to his thoughts now.
Who was he? Iron Eyes asked himself as he balanced in his stirrups and allowed the pony beneath him its head.
But men like the infamous Iron Eyes had a thousand enemies whom they had never seen or even heard of. It came with the occupation for which he had become legendary at doing so well. Every one of the wanted men whom he had killed to claim the bounty on their heads had either a father, brother or cousin who sought revenge if they were capable.
There were thousands of outlaws’ kinfolk out there who wanted to see the head of Iron Eyes on a pike.
As he galloped on Iron Eyes had no idea that he was heading straight into the jaws of a place that was probably more dangerous than any wanted outlaw or Indian whom he had ever encountered.
Iron Eyes was galloping into Devil’s Pass.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Big Jack Brady was indeed just that. Big by any definition of the word that anyone could think of. Standing over six feet seven inches in height and weighing nearly three hundred pounds, the outlaw had met few men who dared to challenge him. Those who had were all dead, either by his skilled use of the guns he wore strapped to his broad hips, or by the dozen men who trailed in his large shadow.
