The Curse of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  Harve Calhoon started to get worried.

  His mind tried to work out how much dynamite it would take to bring down such a magnificent structure. This was way beyond anything he had experience of. In the past, Calhoon had used explosives to blast a dozen or more bank vaults open with remarkable success but he had never once thought of demolishing a bridge.

  Where did you start with something like this?

  He focused on the trestles at the very base of the bridge. Was it possible to blow them apart and bring the rest down like a house of cards?

  Calhoon had no idea how the bridge was constructed. He knew that he would have to get up close to see if he could find a weak point.

  His mind wrestled with the problem as they continued to advance towards the bridge.

  The river flowed swiftly between the wooden trestles at the base of the bridge. The high moon above made it appear that a thousand fireflies were dancing on the wide river.

  The dozen horsemen and heavily laden wagon rode down on to the level ground next to the fast-flowing water.

  Calhoon was riding next to the wide-shouldered giant Big Jack and could hear the man getting more and more excited the closer the long line of horses got to it.

  ‘Looks mighty fine, huh?’ Brady asked.

  Calhoon grunted. ‘Yep. Mighty fine, Big Jack.’

  Every few paces of their horses, Calhoon glanced over his shoulder and watched as Black Roy Hart steered the wagon’s four-horse team along the rugged route towards the place known as Honcho Wells.

  He had inspected the explosives before they had ridden out of Calico a few hours earlier. There were thousands of sticks of top-grade nine-inch dynamite and boxes full of fuses on the flat bed of the wagon.

  Calhoon began to think that he might require every one of them to bring down a bridge so well constructed as the one before them.

  The outlaw watched as Brady’s huge right hand plucked a pocket-watch out of his coat and opened its golden cover.

  ‘What’s the time, Big Jack?’ he asked.

  ‘Four fifteen, Harve.’ Brady smiled, patting him on the back for the umpteenth time. ‘I can tell ya eager to start work on that bridge. Don’t you fret none. We’ll be there in less than half an hour.’

  Calhoon cleared his dry throat.

  ‘I can hardly wait.’

  ‘We have between seven to eight hours for you to bring down that bridge and get all the boys in place ready to strike in the confusion,’ Brady announced.

  ‘What if the train is early, Big Jack?’ Calhoon posed the question that most of the other men had thought of but none been brave enough to ask.

  For the first time since he had met Brady, he saw the venom for which the big man was famed. The eyes widened and looked across the distance between the two lead horses. There was a madness in them.

  ‘Ya better pray that the train is on schedule and you’ve blown the bridge apart before it reaches Honcho Wells, Harve,’ Brady warned. ‘’Cause if it is early and ya ain’t done your job, I’ll surely kill ya.’

  Harve Calhoon felt his throat tighten. He looked away from the angry face and stared again at the bridge. The closer they got to it, the bigger it looked.

  ‘Understood, Big Jack,’ Calhoon said as every bone in his body began to wish that he had stayed with the rest of his gang and headed on to Waco instead of riding to Calico.

  It had been the promise of a big payday that had tempted him away from the rest of the Calhoon gang in the first place.

  Now he was beginning to realize that one way or another, he might not live to collect.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dynamite man Harve Calhoon had taken the biggest gamble of his entire life. He had studied the high bridge from the banks of the river which flowed beneath it and decided that he did not have to bring the entire structure down to achieve what Big Jack Brady wanted.

  The locomotive would have to stop even if only ten or twenty feet of the bridge was missing. If it didn’t, then there would be one almighty mess in the valley.

  It was more guesswork than anything, but he knew the damage the explosives could do if carefully placed in large enough quantities. Even though he had never had to demolish anything like the bridge before, he knew that it ought to fall once the dynamite bundles started to blow.

  That was the theory.

  Would the reality prove him correct?

  Calhoon had strapped ten bundles of dynamite sticks to upright wooden trestles at the base of the bridge exactly at the point directly below where the bridge left the solid ground of the western side of the hilltop high above. His reckoning was simple, if he blew the lowest trestles away, the sheer weight of everything above ought to be too great for it to do anything but collapse.

  Calhoon knew that it sounded logical, but he had to make sure by giving himself a second string to his destructive bow.

  The outlaw filled a sack with bundles of dynamite sticks and some more fuses. He climbed up the trestles until he was standing on the rail tracks high above the valley. The light of the moon gleamed off the steel tracks as they rested on the sleepers along the bridge. Calhoon squinted at them stretching off into infinity.

  Calhoon knew that they might hold together even if he were to destroy everything beneath them. There was only one way to ensure that did not happen.

  Carefully walking across the precarious wooden joists and trying not to look down, his skilled hands tied four bundles of dynamite sticks to the metal tracks roughly twenty feet from the start of the bridge. After inserting the fuse caps into the center dynamite stick in the bundles he moved to the edge of the bridge and dropped the long fuse coil down to where the rest of the outlaws were watching his every move.

  Harve Calhoon rubbed the sweat off his face and started to climb back down. He had ensured that the top and bottom of the first section of bridge would be blown apart; he just prayed that everything in between would follow suit.

  Big Jack Brady watched Calhoon descending towards him and then turned to allow the light of the moon to illuminate the face of his pocket-watch.

  It was nearly dawn.

  He looked at the rest of his men.

  ‘I want you all up there waiting on either side of the tracks for when that train gets here,’ Brady said. ‘Black Roy stays down here with me, Harve and the wagon. After all, there ain’t no way we can move boxes of gold coin out of here without a wagon.’

  ‘How many boxes of gold coin do you figure there’ll be, Big Jack?’ one of the outlaws asked as he gathered up his reins.

  Brady smiled. ‘Might be hundreds, boy.’

  The gunhands nodded, mounted their horses and rode up the steep incline. They knew that they would have to wait hours for the train to arrive at Honcho Wells, but they were used to waiting.

  Waiting and then killing.

  It was what they did best.

  That was why they had been chosen by Brady from all the other outlaws who roamed the badlands. The big man knew whom he could rely upon to turn his ambitions into reality.

  Big Jack Brady said nothing when Calhoon got to the base of the bridge. His hooded eyes watched, though, as the man wove the various long fuses together until he had just one in his gloved hands.

  ‘You gotta match I can borrow, Big Jack?’ Calhoon called out to Brady.

  The big man reached into his vest pocket, hauled out a box of matches and tossed them across to the outlaw. Harve Calhoon smiled as he caught the box in his left hand.

  ‘I thought that maybe you’d want to light this yourself, Big Jack,’ Calhoon grinned.

  Brady waved a huge hand at Black Roy Hart. ‘Get the wagon away from here, Black Roy. I don’t wanna have it crushed by all the timber that’ll be fallin’.’

  Hart scurried up the side of the wagon, grabbed hold of the reins and hauled them to his left. He released the brake-pole and then got the team of horses moving.

  ‘How far shall I take it, Big Jack?’ Black Roy shouted down from the driver’s seat.
<
br />   Brady pointed down the riverbank. ‘About a quarter mile should be OK. Now git going.’

  Calhoon suddenly noticed that the sky above them was changing color. The sunlight traced across the cloudless sky faster than the blink of an eye. He glanced across to the mouth of the valley and noticed that the sun was starting to rise.

  ‘You sure you don’t wanna light the fuse?’ he asked the big man again.

  Brady did not reply. He was walking away from the bridge with his horse on a short rein. There was an urgency in his step that told Harve Calhoon a lot about the man who liked to pretend that nothing frightened him.

  But Calhoon could sense the truth, he was afraid of the dynamite and it showed.

  Harve Calhoon opened the box and pulled out a match. He looked up the embankment at the rest of the gang, who had just reached the flat ground near the steel rails.

  ‘You better take cover up there, boys!’ Calhoon yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘There’s gonna be an awful big bang in a couple of minutes.’

  The outlaws pulled their reins hard and turned their dust-caked mounts. Then they galloped away.

  Harve Calhoon turned away from the rising dust that drifted into the morning air. He glanced back at Brady, running now as he desperately sought cover.

  The outlaw struck the match along the side of the box and cupped the flame carefully to the end of the fuses. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then they burst into spitting fiery action.

  The outlaw who was known as the dynamite man carefully lowered the fuse to the ground and watched it for a moment. When satisfied that it would not go out, he strode to his waiting horse, stepped into the stirrup and hurriedly mounted. He swung the horse around and jabbed his spurs.

  The horse sprang into action. Calhoon rode after the fleeing Brady and the wagon.

  The ground was hard along the riverbank. The outlaw had no idea at what speed the fuses would burn to reach the explosives but he had no intention of waiting to find out. He hoped that they had roughly a couple of minutes before the first explosion, but even that was a guess.

  As he urged the mount on he realized how much easier it was to blow open bank vaults.

  When Calhoon reached the puffing Brady, he stopped his mount and looked down at him. He pointed at the wagon, which was another few hundred yards further along the riverbank.

  ‘I reckon that Black Roy’s about the right distance away from the bridge, Big Jack.’ Calhoon smiled, then spurred his horse and galloped to where the wagon was waiting. Brady grabbed hold of his saddle horn, hauled his immense bulk on to his saddle and followed.

  Just as the large rider reached the wagon and the two men who were taking cover behind it, the first of the dynamite bundles strapped to the bridge trestles exploded. Within seconds, the rest of them blasted.

  None of the three outlaws had ever heard anything like it.

  It hurt.

  The massive bulk of Brady scrambled off his saddle to the ground and stared in disbelief at the sight of scores of well-placed explosives igniting into deafening action.

  The dynamite bundles exploded one after another at intervals of a few seconds. The explosions went up the trestles at ten-foot intervals until the burning fuses reached the rails at the very top.

  Then it was like a volcano erupting.

  Fire and smoke shot hundreds of feet into the morning air as plumes of dust were blasted off the dry valley wall. Even more black smoke and debris spewed out in every direction as the shock waves sent clouds of choking dust over the entire area.

  Suddenly Brady dived beside Calhoon and Black Roy. The pair of outlaws had no chance to ask why. Thousands of fragments of wood showered over them and the wagon.

  Their startled horses reared up and vainly kicked out at the very air itself.

  The smoldering downpour seemed to last forever as the stench of burning wood filled their nostrils. Blinding dust swept over the trio as they tried to breathe and the wagon above them shook violently. At last the deafening explosions gradually stopped as the smoke and dust drifted across the river, leaving the three men lying beside the wagon.

  Harve Calhoon was first to his feet.

  His keen eyes squinted into the sun as he looked at the bridge. It seemed an eternity before the billowing smoke thinned out enough for him to see his handiwork.

  As Brady staggered to his feet and leant on the side of the wagon next to him, Calhoon felt a sudden relief overwhelming him.

  He had done it.

  He had completely demolished a quarter of the massive bridge with only half the dynamite in the wagon.

  ‘You done it, Harve!’ Big Jack yelled happily. ‘You blew the hell out of the damn thing.’

  ‘I sure did.’ Calhoon leaned on the tailgate of the wagon and looked at the unused sticks of dynamite and boxes of fuses still under the tarp.

  ‘The train will have to stop now!’

  Black Roy was hitting the side of his head frantically.

  ‘I can’t hear nothin’,’ he wailed.

  Harve Calhoon looked into the wagon at the surplus dynamite.

  ‘Reckon you’ll want to dump this here to make room for the gold, Big Jack?’

  Brady shook his head. ‘Nope. I ain’t throwing that dynamite away, boy. It’ll come in useful on our next job. Besides, it cost a lot of money.’

  Black Roy got to his feet and kept rubbing his ears in a vain attempt to stop the ringing inside his head.

  ‘I’m deaf,’ he shouted.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s permanent,’ Brady chuckled.

  ‘Yeah.’ Calhoon rubbed the dust off his face. He had a feeling in his craw that it might not be easy to ride away from Big Jack Brady.

  In fact, it might be impossible.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The explosions at Honcho Wells rattled the windows of every building in Calico, but few were awake at dawn to notice. Only one man noticed. He stared at the window in his small room above the Wayward Gun saloon.

  Iron Eyes had not slept during the night. He had just been smoking one cigar after another and sipping his whiskey from the neck of his second bottle.

  Even though the distant explosion had shaken the entire badlands, Iron Eyes seemed unconcerned. He did not bother to get up from the bed that he was lying upon, with his primed Navy Colts to each side of his lean, scarred body.

  When the panes stopped rattling in the window-frames, he looked back at the hotel door. It was bolted against any unexpected intruder wishing to claim the life of the infamous bounty hunter.

  Iron Eyes wondered whether any of the hard-drinking men who had been in the saloon when he arrived might have recognized him. If they had it was only a matter of time before they came looking for blood.

  His blood.

  His only consolation was that covered in sand-filled wounds he might not have looked his awesome worst. Maybe the sight had made the witnesses to his arrival in the saloon think that it was impossible they had been actually looking at Iron Eyes himself. For the myth of his apparent invincibility was known far and wide.

  Either way, he could not give a damn.

  If they came looking for him, he would kill them. It was as simple as that.

  Iron Eyes thought about the explosions again. He knew that Harve Calhoon must have had something to do with them, because it mentioned that he was an expert with dynamite on the crumpled Wanted poster.

  He sucked on the wet end of the cigar, then nodded to himself as his eyes continued to stare at the door of the room.

  At last he knew why the outlaw had left the rest of his gang and ridden here. It had something to do with Big Jack Brady’s needing a man of Calhoon’s talents.

  Iron Eyes wondered what he had blown up.

  He knew that it must have been big for it to be felt here in this remote town. But his curiosity was not like other men’s. He could wait to find out.

  Suddenly a knock came at the door.

  The long thin fingers of the bounty hunter clawed the Navy Colt
s into his hands and stroked the gunmetal fondly. His head was propped up by three pillows so that he could see the door at all times.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The barkeep, sir,’ came the recognizable voice from the other side of the wooden door.

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘I brung you the clothes that you wanted and another bottle of whiskey,’ the bartender replied.

  Iron Eyes’ thumbs hauled the hammers of his twin pistols back until they locked fully.

  ‘I thought you said that the clothes store didn’t open until about ten?’

  ‘It don’t. But the owner came in for a few drinks and I got him to open up early.’ The man’s voice sounded nervous.

  Iron Eyes raised himself up until he was sitting. He swung his long naked legs off the soft mattress and placed his feet on the floorboards.

  He stood and walked silently to the door with both his Navy Colts at hip level. Iron Eyes used the barrel of the gun in his left hand to slide the bolt across before stepping backwards two paces.

  ‘Come in real slow, amigo.’ His voice had a warning in it.

  A warning that the bartender heeded.

  The cold gray eyes watched the door handle turn and the door open towards him. His fingers were resting on the triggers of the guns waiting to see if this was yet another trick.

  There had been so many in his long life.

  The bartender entered with the clothes over one arm and a bottle of whiskey under the other. He tried not to look at the tall naked figure as he made his way to the bed and placed everything on top of the crumpled sheet.

  Iron Eyes kept the guns trained on the man.

  ‘You did OK,’ the bounty hunter said, looking at the new clothes.

  The bartender tried to avert his eyes from the scarred body before him. He had never seen such injuries on anyone before and it upset him.

  ‘Are them knife wounds, sir?’

  Iron Eyes nodded. ‘Yep. I had me a disagreement with some Apaches.’

  The bartender cleared his throat and offered the tall man his change from the golden eagle coin.