The Curse of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  Bodine leaned over the neck of his charging mount as the horse continued to gather pace.

  The only sound within Devil’s Pass was the noise of his own mount. It echoed all around the young trooper. He had never known any place so frightening or unholy. It troubled him as he urged the chestnut on. Every hair on the nape of his neck felt as if it were standing on end beneath his yellow bandanna.

  His hands gripped the reins tightly as he listened to the horse’s hoofs pounding across the surface of the soft sand.

  To Billy Bodine it began to sound like the beating of war drums.

  Were there any other living creatures in this place, Bodine asked himself. If so, where were they?

  It would only take another few seconds before he knew the answer.

  The powerful horse thundered around a bend. Suddenly its rider leant back on his saddle and hauled the mount to an abrupt halt.

  Bodine wrestled with his reins and stood in his stirrups. His keen young eyes spotted something a few dozen yards ahead and he hauled the quarter horse around full circle while he tried to work out what it was that was lying in the center of the sandy trail.

  Whatever it was, he thought, it was dead.

  The skilful horseman quickly dismounted and flicked the leather pistol flap up on his belt. He withdrew his service pistol from the holster and cocked its trigger.

  Bodine held firmly on to his reins and studied the sight carefully before he led the nervous horse towards a large boulder. His mount could smell the stench of death hanging in the hot canyon.

  What was left of the dead horse had already gone rigid in the intense heat that still filled Devil’s Pass. As Bodine got closer, Bodine could smell the flesh already beginning to rot as he walked his horse past the carcass.

  The moonlight did not make the sight any less ugly.

  Then Bodine’s attention was drawn to the dark shadow beside the boulder. For a moment he hesitated, then he aimed his pistol in the direction of the shadow. It soon became apparent that he did not need his weapon.

  He stared down at the dead man seated where Iron Eyes had left him. It was a chilling sight.

  The body was still propped up against the canyon wall staring blindly into hell itself.

  Bodine looked all around him for any sign of the victor in this battle. There was no one else to be seen.

  The corporal suddenly felt very afraid.

  The two bullet holes were clearly visible when Bodine crouched down beside the body. Two clean shots in the center of the dead man’s chest.

  Whoever had done this was good, he thought. Darn good.

  Bodine looked around and then spotted the large buffalo gun lying in the soft sand. He plucked it up and checked it carefully.

  To his utter surprise, he found that the lethal weapon was still loaded.

  Billy Bodine holstered his own pistol and then turned to his horse. He jumped up into the air. His left boot entered the stirrup, he threw his right leg over the army saddle and then laid the buffalo gun across his lap.

  Billy Bodine’s imagination began to race. He sat silently atop his horse and held the reins in check. His eyes scoured the area around his nervous mount. Even the eerie moonlight could not disguise the horror that lay all around him. Bodine knew that he had to get back to the rest of the platoon and inform them of his grisly discovery. He dragged his reins hard to the right and spurred his mount.

  The chestnut galloped back in the direction of the rest of Captain Wallis’s men. Bodine knew that he would have to ride his mount as he had never done before if he were to alert his comrades of what he had found before sunrise. He was alone and scared.

  Where was the man who had created this bloodbath? Or was this the work of something less than human?

  The cavalryman thundered along the pass knowing that he too might fall victim to the same fate as the body behind him.

  Then suddenly, as his mount was almost at full flight, he spotted something ahead of him on his left. He pulled back on the reins and slowed the chestnut to a halt. The horse responded immediately and allowed its master to stare into the eerie moonlight.

  Bodine squinted into the half-light at the trail, which led into a small canyon pass. It was a narrow route, no more than eight feet wide; a trail that he had not spotted when he had been riding in the opposite direction.

  He looked at the ground and then saw two distinctive sets of hoof-tracks in the otherwise undisturbed sand.

  Bodine dismounted and knelt.

  He could tell that two horses had ridden up this trail recently.

  One was a shod horse and the other unshod.

  Could old Hanks have been correct? Could it have been an Indian who had killed the man back at the boulder? He had heard a thousand tales of the horrors that the Apaches had inflicted on their enemies.

  To the youthful horseman, they were all true.

  Although he had found evidence of only one unshod pony, he allowed his fertile imagination to run unchecked.

  Where there was one Apache, there had to be an entire tribe of them. This could be the beginning of another Indian War. After all, Devil’s Pass was close to the Indian Territory and who knew what other barbaric acts of carnage went on there?

  It was a terrified Billy Bodine who threw himself back on to his saddle and allowed the horse to continue to race along the main pass.

  This was important.

  There could be an entire war party of hundreds of warriors waiting for Wallis and his men, hidden in the canyons of this unholy place, he concluded.

  He had to inform Captain Wallis about it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The bounty hunter stared hard at the town bathed in moonlight before him. He knew that it should not be there, but it was there. Calico was strangely quiet as Iron Eyes steered the exhausted mount towards it. He could hear music playing somewhere in the heart of the town, but there were few people on the streets. The rider was totally confused. He had completely lost track of time as he had followed Harve Calhoon’s hoof-tracks through the narrow maze of canyons. Now Iron Eyes was starting to doubt his own sanity as he focused on the wooden buildings ahead of him.

  Was he dreaming?

  Perhaps it was the blood loss that he had suffered from the knife wounds inflicted on him during the valiant battle with the Apache warrior that was playing tricks on his weary mind.

  Whatever it was, he was confused.

  He was also thirsty.

  He needed whiskey real bad.

  Iron Eyes eased back on his reins, stopped the pony and then stared at the town again.

  For a few moments he was totally baffled.

  Where was he?

  The bounty hunter had thought that he was heading for the Indian Territory. Yet he was looking straight at dozens of wooden buildings where there should not be a single one.

  Where was this place?

  Iron Eyes tried to fathom out what had happened. Had he somehow gotten lost and ridden into a place that he did not know existed? Could he have succumbed to the effects of his injuries and lost consciousness long enough for his pony to have ridden so far off course?

  He looked down at the sand and saw the tracks of Calhoon’s horse. He had trailed the man to this place, exactly as he had thought.

  Another thought entered his mind.

  Iron Eyes knew that he had lost an awful lot of blood during the hot afternoon, but had he lost so much that his mind was creating hallucinations?

  He leaned back in his saddle and stared down at his sand-caked chest and stomach. The sand had stopped the blood flowing from his wounds but he hurt like a thousand rattlesnake bites.

  ‘This is real,’ Iron Eyes growled to himself.

  He rubbed his throat.

  It was dry, but he did not want to quench his thirst with water.

  Iron Eyes needed whiskey to wash the dust out of his mouth and throat. He needed to burn the pain out of his body and knew that only hard liquor could do that. His keen eyes could make out at
least three signs ahead of him which had the word ‘saloon’ painted on them.

  Yet as far as he could see, there were no signs declaring the word ‘sheriff.’ Iron Eyes wondered why not. Of all the hundreds of towns that he had ever ridden into over his long life as a bounty hunter, he had never once entered a town where there was no sheriff’s office.

  Maybe it was tucked away around a corner or in a side street, he thought. He would have to find it if he caught up with the last of the Calhoon gang, if he were to collect the bounty on the outlaw’s head.

  Iron Eyes knew that all towns had a sheriff’s office. Just as they always had barbershops and undertakers.

  But he did not dismiss his concerns totally.

  He pulled one of his Navy Colts from his belt and emptied the spent bullets from it on to the sand beside his pony. His thin bony hand reached down into his deep coat pocket and gathered six bullets up. He pushed them into the chambers of his weapon and then snapped it shut. He repeated the action with his other pistol, then pushed them into his belt. Both gun grips jutted out from his waist.

  Whatever doubts filled his tired brain the overwhelming thirst that burned his throat persuaded him to continue.

  The bounty hunter gritted his teeth and then allowed the pony to walk on. He watched every structure as he rode closer and closer to the outskirts of the town.

  A crude sign informed him that this was Calico.

  The name meant nothing to him.

  Iron Eyes leaned down from his saddle and touched the wooden sign. It was real and so was the town itself. This was no mirage.

  It actually existed.

  The Indian pony approached the closest of the saloons and he hauled back on his reins. He stared up at the large sign nailed to the balcony rail above him.

  The Wayward Gun Saloon.

  The bounty hunter could smell the aroma of whiskey floating on the warm evening air. He dismounted slowly, wrapped his reins around the hitching pole and tied them tightly. He still did not trust the skittish animal. He knew that given half a chance, it would gallop away from its new master, taking his saddle and bags with it.

  He opened one of the saddlebags’ flaps and pulled out a bag of golden eagles. He then dropped the fist-sized bag into one of his deep trail-coat pockets.

  Iron Eyes stepped up on to the boardwalk and gazed over the swing doors at the gathering inside. An annoying tinny piano was being played in a corner whilst a dozen men were scattered around the large interior drinking and gambling. A few bar girls were still trying to encourage the less than sober men to buy them drinks.

  He rested his left hand on top of one of the swing-doors and pushed it. He walked into the room and heard a stunned hush suddenly envelop the entire area. Even the man at the piano stopped playing halfway through a tune.

  Iron Eyes walked slowly across the room towards the bar from where hundreds of bottles and glasses lured him on.

  Iron Eyes knew that every one of the people inside the Wayward Gun were watching him.

  But he did not care one bit. All he wanted to do was drink his fill of whiskey.

  He ran the fingers of both hands through his limp, long, black hair and then stopped when he reached the bar. He rested one boot on the brass rail next to a spittoon and stared at the solitary bartender.

  The man reluctantly approached the bounty hunter.

  ‘A bottle of whiskey,’ Iron Eyes whispered.

  ‘We don’t serve redskins in here. Get going,’ the bartender said bluntly.

  Iron Eyes lowered his head until his chin touched his bloodstained shirt collar. He took a deep breath, then, faster than the blink of an eye, grabbed the man’s head with both hands and dragged him up over the bar counter.

  Iron Eyes was furious. ‘I ain’t an Indian, you dumb bastard. Now get me a bottle of whiskey or I’ll surely kill you.’

  The startled man had never been so frightened before. He had looked into the eyes of the most dangerous bounty hunter in the West and survived.

  He knew that Iron Eyes was not bluffing.

  ‘OK, mister,’ the bartender stuttered. ‘It’s ya hair. I ain’t never seen a white man with such long black hair before. I’m sorry. Let me go and I’ll get you your whiskey.’

  Iron Eyes released his grip. The man felt his shoes hitting the floor again.

  ‘Any particular brand of whiskey?’

  ‘Good whiskey!’ Iron Eyes slammed down a few coins and the bartender cautiously picked them up.

  The bounty hunter used the reflection in the long mirror behind the bar to study the faces of the saloon’s bemused patrons. Every one of them was staring at him with wide-eyed respect and terror.

  Then Iron Eyes caught sight of his own image in the mirror as the bottle of whiskey was placed before him. It had been a long time since he had seen his own reflection and he was not pleased at the sight.

  ‘Will this do, mister?’ the bartender sheepishly asked.

  Iron Eyes nodded. ‘Yep. That’ll do.’

  The bartender began to wipe the wet counter with a cloth that had been draped over his shoulder. He kept looking at his tall customer. He had never seen a living man with such horrific injuries before. In fact, he had never seen a corpse with such injuries either.

  ‘Are you OK, mister?’ he eventually managed to ask.

  Iron Eyes pulled the cork from the bottleneck with his teeth and spat it into the spittoon at his feet. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long hard swallow.

  It was good liquor.

  ‘Do I look OK?’ Iron Eyes asked when he once again caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

  ‘No, sir. You don’t.’

  ‘I’ve had me a real bad day.’ The bounty hunter shrugged as he poured more of the fiery liquid into his mouth.

  ‘You had an accident?’ the bartender asked as he moved closer with his cloth.

  ‘An accident?’ Iron Eyes almost smiled. T reckon that’s a darn good way of putting it, amigo. I’ve had me a day full of accidents. Real bad ones.’

  The bartender moved closer. ‘Do you need to see a doctor? We got one down the street. Reasonable rates.’

  Iron Eyes swallowed more of the whiskey and then looked at the amber liquid in the clear bottle. He had consumed a third of the contents and knew that he could finish it off without its having any effect on him. For he had never once been able to get drunk and he had spent years trying real hard.

  “You got any rooms for rent here?’ Iron Eyes asked.

  ‘We got one free room upstairs at the back of the building,’ the bartender answered. ‘Big Jack Brady has taken up the rest of them for his boys.’

  ‘Big Jack Brady?’ Iron Eyes repeated the name. He knew of the outlaw from his Wanted posters. He was worth $1,000 dead or alive.

  The man behind the bar noticed the reaction in the bounty hunter’s scarred face.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Only by reputation.’ Iron Eyes took another sip of the whiskey and stared more closely at the saloon’s layout. ‘So Big Jack and his boys have rooms here, huh?’

  ‘Yep. And a new one turned up today,’ the bartender eagerly informed him.

  ‘Harve Calhoon?’ the bounty hunter glanced at the man, who nodded.

  ‘Yep. That was his name OK.’

  Iron Eyes rubbed his chin. ‘Don’t the law mind so many outlaws hanging around Calico?’

  ‘There ain’t no law in the badlands, mister,’ the bartender laughed. ‘You sure got a keen sense of humor.’

  ‘Yep. I sure have.’ Iron Eyes nodded as the words sank into his tired brain. So this was the badlands. He had heard rumors of this place but until now had thought that they were just that. Mere rumors.

  No wonder he had not seen a sheriff’s office.

  That would be the last thing the inhabitants of Calico would either need or want.

  Iron Eyes rested the bottle on the counter and studied his appearance in the mirror again. What was left of his clothing barely covered his lean
body. Everything he wore was either covered in blood or full of bullet holes. Or both.

  ‘You got a store in this damn town that sells trail clothes, amigo?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep. Won’t be open until the morning, though,’ the bartender replied. ‘I can get you anything you want.’

  ‘That’s soon enough for me.’ Iron Eyes pulled out a golden eagle from the bag in his pocket, rested it on the bar counter in front of the bartender, then stared at him. ‘You go to that store in the morning and buy me some trail gear.’

  ‘Same as you got on?’

  ‘Yep. Shirt, pants and trail coat.’ Iron Eyes nodded.

  The bartender accepted the coin and tucked it into his vest pocket.

  ‘Do you still want the room?’

  Iron Eyes nodded.

  The man plucked a key off the shelf behind him and handed it to the bounty hunter.

  ‘Room twelve.’

  Iron Eyes reached across the counter, pulled a cigar from the man’s shirt pocket and placed it between his teeth.

  The bartender struck a match and lit the end of the cigar for Iron Eyes.

  ‘Send another bottle up with a box of cigars,’ Iron Eyes said as his lungs filled with the acrid smoke.

  ‘What about the doctor?’

  ‘The whiskey and cigars will do for now, amigo.’

  The bartender nodded as his eyes watched the bounty hunter strolling across the quiet room towards the staircase with the bottle in his hand.

  Slowly Iron Eyes climbed the staircase.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The bridge was big. Far bigger than he had ever imagined it would or could be. So big that Harve Calhoon had seen it when he and the rest of Big Jack Brady’s team of handpicked outlaws were more than a mile away from Honcho Wells.

  Even the moonlight could not lessen its sheer awesome splendor.

  Spanning the entire valley, Calhoon had quickly calculated that it had to be nearly three hundred yards across and at least fifty foot high at the center. The outlaw had seen bridges before but never one like this.

  It was made up of thousands of large wooden trestles, bolted together and supporting the single-span tracks at its top, spanning the width of the valley.