by Rory Black
They were not what they seemed, and he knew it.
The half-dozen bandits stared at the strange rider who was blocking their way towards the town of Cripple Creek. It was Malverez who edged his horse forward first and grinned broadly at the bounty hunter.
‘We wish you no harm, senor.’
‘That’s lucky for you,’ Iron Eyes said coldly. ‘I’d hate to have to kill you all.’
Malverez glanced at the cocked pistol in the rider’s hand and shrugged.
‘Why do you hold a gun on us? We are simple vaqueros looking for honest work.’
Iron Eyes raised an eyebrow.
‘You ain’t wanted. I’d know them faces if I’d ever seen them on Wanted posters, friend. But I don’t think you’re simple vaqueros.’
Malverez felt the hairs on his neck rising as sweat trickled down his back. He had no desire to tangle with anyone who looked as dangerous as the horseman before him. A man who was obviously more than capable of honoring his threats.
‘Are you a bounty hunter, amigo?’
Iron Eyes stared hard at the bandit leader.
‘Yep. I’m a bounty hunter. Does that trouble you?’
Malverez smiled. ‘An honest man does not fear anything.’
Iron Eyes glanced around the faces of the sheepish men who flanked Malverez. None of them seemed willing to look up from beneath his straw sombrero.
‘I got me a feeling that you men are more than you pretend to be, but if there ain’t a bounty on your heads, it don’t much concern me.’ The bounty hunter allowed his mount to walk to the side of the trail without taking his eyes off any of them.
One of the bandits drew his pistol from its expensive holster and tried to aim at the skeletal rider.
Iron Eyes swiftly lifted his Navy Colt and squeezed its trigger. The bullet tore through the hand of the bandit sending the gun flying high into the air.
‘That was a stupid thing to do. I ought to kill the lot of you,’ Iron Eyes growled.
Malverez waved his hands around frantically. ‘Please, senor. Do not kill us. My friend is a fool.’
The bounty hunter drew his other pistol and cocked both hammers at once. He trained the weapons on the six men.
‘Drop them guns, boys,’ he ordered.
‘Do as he says, amigos,’ Malverez instructed his men.
The riders peeled their guns from their holsters and dropped them to the ground. Malverez carefully picked his own pistol from his holster with his index finger and thumb and let it fall to the ground.
‘What is your name, senor?’
‘They call me Iron Eyes.’
Malverez nodded. He had heard the tales of the infamous bounty hunter and knew that they were lucky to be alive still.
‘I have heard of you, amigo.’
‘Many men have.’ Iron Eyes waved his guns at the bandit. ‘I’ve killed most of the ones who have, though.’
‘Please excuse my hot-headed friend, Senor Iron Eyes. He is most ignorant.’ Malverez knew that if there was one man who could stop his small group of bandits from completing their chosen task, he was looking straight at him.
‘The next time our paths cross, I hope you’ll remember all them stories about me,’ Iron Eyes said coldly. ‘Because they’re all true. If any of you varmints cross my path again, I’ll kill you all, even if you ain’t worth a dime.’
‘But why would a famous bounty hunter kill innocent men when there is no profit in it?’ the bandit leader asked.
‘Because I like killing, friend. It’s what I do best.’ Iron Eyes chewed on the unlit butt of his cigar and turned the dapple-gray away from the motley group of riders. He spurred his horse and rode past them towards the distant river and the Mexican border.
Malverez dismounted and picked up - his gun as his men did the same.
‘Why did we not just kill him?’ the bandit with the bleeding bullet-hole in his hand asked angrily.
Malverez slid his pistol into its hand-tooled holster. ‘You cannot kill this gringo so easy, amigo. They say that he is already dead.’
Chapter Eight
Iron Eyes had spotted the ten Apache braves to his right a few minutes after he had crossed the shallow fast-flowing river and made his way deep into the Mexican countryside. They had appeared silently high above the trail and rode in single file, watching his every movement. Every so often the lead rider would disappear behind the ridge and then reappear at the rear of the line of Apache horsemen.
Iron Eyes did not like being followed so blatantly but knew that that was the way of the Plains Indian. They liked to torment their prey before striking. The brush was sparse here and there were too many narrow gulches for his liking.
A perfect place for an ambush, he thought.
Iron Eyes recognized the distinctive broad, colorful headbands wrapped around the skulls of the braves, holding their long black manes of hair in check. The yellow paint across their noses only confirmed the bounty hunter’s worst fears. These were the Ochawa Apache and they were a long way from their home up in the Arizona territories.
They were also the most deadly of all the Apache people he had ever had the misfortune of running into. Like himself, they seemed to enjoy killing for killing’s sake and did not require any excuse to start doing so.
Iron Eyes had encountered Ochawa braves before and knew they were not to be trusted. He had killed many of their kind in the past when they had attacked him for simply being on their land. The Ochawa were far more dangerous than any other Apache tribe he had encountered.
He still bore the scars of their last meeting.
Iron Eyes nursed the dapple-gray along the dried-up creek-bed and kept his head tilted so that he could see where his observers were at all times.
The blazing sun bounced off the metal tips of the war-lances which were secured to the necks of their ponies with rawhide. The flashes danced down over the troubled Iron Eyes as he continued to ride slowly along the well-used trail. Unlike most Apache, the Ochawa seemed to relish displaying their vivid colors for all to see. They had rifles wrapped in beaded sheaths resting on their thighs as they steered their painted ponies along the top of the sandy ridge.
The Ochawa knew that they could demoralize most of their enemies by their sheer presence. It was a ploy that had worked on all their foes except Iron Eyes. He was not impressed by anything except an opponent’s skill. Unfortunately the Ochawa also had this in abundance.
Iron Eyes knew that his reputation amongst the numerous tribes of Apache had made his head a prized trophy that few could resist trying to collect.
With the dried-up riverbed winding its way through the ever-narrowing ridges of white sand that flanked the rider, the bounty hunter knew that his time was running out and the Apache braves above him would soon attack.
An arrow landed a few feet in front of the dapple-gray but Iron Eyes sank his spurs into its flesh and forced it to continue.
Then he noticed that a few of the Ochawa had disappeared from the ridge leaving only seven braves in the silent line of riders. This time the bounty hunter instinctively knew that the warriors would not return to their fellow braves but come charging out at him from any of the dozens of hiding-places along the narrow trail. Iron Eyes carefully raised his left hand and pulled the handle of one of his Navy Colts from his belt.
His thumb cocked the hammer of the pistol and rested it on top of the saddle horn.
Iron Eyes did not have time to wonder where or when the Indians would attack. Suddenly, the three Ochawa who had peeled off the main group galloped from around a corner in front of the dapple-gray.
The deafening screams made the powerful horse rear up and kick out at its attackers as Iron Eyes raised his pistol and fired point blank at the lead rider. The brave was sent headlong off the back of the painted pony and landed at the hoofs of one of the trailing mounts.
The second pony went down, sending its rider crashing into the white sand.
Iron Eyes blasted his gun again when he hea
rd the sound of the rifles being cocked above him. Deadly bullets flashed through the afternoon air, tearing up the ground all around the grim-faced bounty hunter. Iron Eyes fought to control his terrified horse as the seven other Ochawa came charging down from the ridge.
Luckily for the bounty hunter, their rifles were single-shot Springfields, probably captured from a raid on a cavalry fortress somewhere up in the distant territories of Arizona. Even for well-trained troopers, it was no easy task to control a horse and reload the carbines.
The dapple-gray swung full circle as its master fired his pistol in all directions at his attackers.
Gun smoke filled the narrow gulch, making it impossible to see all of his enemies clearly. Iron Eyes dropped the empty gun into his deep left pocket, then hauled the other Navy Colt from his belt.
Without even thinking, Iron Eyes spurred his gray straight at the descending Apache braves. His long arm thrashed out at the riders frantically. He could feel the impact of his gun barrel as it smashed into one skull after another whilst he forced the strong horse up the sandy incline.
Iron Eyes did not want to waste a single shot on these warriors because he knew that he would not have any time to reload. Every shot had to count and there were only six bullets in the chambers of the Navy Colt.
Reaching the top of the ridge, the rider pulled back on his reins and turned the gray mount around to survey what was left of his attackers.
An arrow swept out of the gun smoke and hit him squarely in his left leg just below the knee. He felt his leg being pinned to the thick fender of his saddle.
The horse reared up when Iron Eyes blasted at the remaining Indians who were attempting to ride up through the soft sand of the ridge. He did not waste time counting how many fell from the backs of their painted ponies.
Iron Eyes sank his spurs into the dapple-gray and thundered off into the depths of the Mexican sand dunes. He had no idea whether the Ochawa were chasing him. All he could think about was the arrow that had pinned his leg to the saddle fender. He had to find a place where he could extract the shaft of wood and stop the bleeding.
The dapple-gray stopped when Iron Eyes was convinced that the Indians had not continued following him into the barren wastes of the Mexican heartland. The rider reached back to his saddle-bags, opened one of the satchel flaps and extracted a half-bottle of whiskey. He pulled the cork from its neck and raised the bottle to his dry mouth. He swallowed a quarter of its fiery contents.
The pain in his innards now matched the one in his leg.
Iron Eyes stared down at his leg and the distinctive feathered flight on the arrow which had skewered his calf muscle to the leather fender.
He gritted his teeth and poured some of the whiskey sparingly down into his boot. He could feel the liquor burning the bleeding flesh. Iron Eyes knew he would not be able to dismount until he had pulled the arrow out of his saddle leather.
He dropped the bottle into his trail-coat pocket, held on to the shaft of the arrow and pulled at it hard. He could feel its metal point coming out of the thick leather of his saddle. Iron Eyes carefully dismounted.
He sat down on the sand and stared at the arrow which had driven its way through his boot and leg. Blood dripped from the arrowhead.
Iron Eyes slid his long Bowie knife from its hiding-place inside his right boot and stared at its razor-sharp blade. He carefully cut the arrowhead off the wooden shaft and tossed it away. Iron Eyes pulled one of the many bullets from the same deep trail-coat pocket and used his knife to lever the lead ball free of the brass casing.
After cutting a small groove in the wooden shaft of the arrow the bounty hunter poured the black powder into it.
Iron Eyes located a long cigar in his vest and placed it between his sharp teeth. He struck a match and cupped the flame to the tip of the cigar. He inhaled deeply, removed the cigar from his mouth and blew at the white ash until only the glowing red of its fiery heart could be seen.
Iron Eyes knew that the Ochawa often tipped their arrowheads with snake venom; he had no other choice but to try to burn the poison out.
Holding firmly on to the arrow shaft with his left hand, Iron Eyes lowered the smoldering cigar-tip over the gunpowder-filled groove which protruded from his calf. He ignited the powder, and dragged the blood-coated arrow from his leg at exactly the same time; the ghostly figure felt the burning powder move through his calf muscle.
Any normal man would have passed out, but Iron Eyes refused to be like other men. He refused to acknowledge the pain that tore through him.
Iron Eyes propped himself up against the sand-dune and stared at the smoke drifting from the arrow holes on either side of his left boot. He bent forward and pulled the boot free of his leg and then poured the blood away.
Chewing on his cigar and staring through the smoke, Iron Eyes picked up the whiskey bottle again. He thought about pouring some of its contents over his smoldering leg but then decided to drink it instead.
The liquor burned its way down into his innards. It made the bounty hunter reel back and look straight up into the blinding sun.
Yet again he had somehow survived.
His thoughts drifted between the beautiful Rosie Smith back in Cripple Creek and the man he had been told was holed up in Sanora.
A man he wanted to kill for the price on his head.
Iron Eyes pulled his boot back on and then grabbed at his reins hanging from the bridle of the dapple-gray. He pulled himself off the sand-dune. He leaned over the saddle and stared out into the shimmering heat haze.
He was hurting and angry.
Chapter Nine
Sanora was a sleepy town of more than a hundred whitewashed adobes resting thirty miles south of the border. Their red-tiled roof-tops could be seen from twenty miles away in any direction amid the white sandy terrain. This was a place where people came to drink, sleep and hide.
Men like Tucker. Black Ben Tucker dressed entirely in black and rode a stallion to match. His was a charmed life but he knew exactly where to head when it had become too hot for him in Texas. He had aimed his trusty mount at the border and headed for Sanora.
He had ridden here because he wanted a safe haven where he could spend the money he had made from his last job, unhindered by the Texan lawmen who were hunting him. He was a train-robber who had only one equal and that was the legendary Jesse James. But unlike James, who had a large gang, Tucker worked entirely alone.
He had managed to steal more than ten thousand dollars from the Southern Pacific Railroad a few months earlier but found his every turn blocked by the Texas Rangers.
Riding with the law dogging his tail, Black Ben had decided that it was far healthier to head south of the border and disappear rather than wait for the inevitable.
For nearly two weeks the famed robber had rested amid the peaceful Mexican surroundings spending his newly acquired fortune on wine, women and song. He had decided that once he had had his fill of these he would cut across country and head into Southern California. From there he could head up the coast to the gold fields. There were plenty of trains there shipping not only money around but gold ore. A man of his talents could make a lot more money there than by remaining in Texas.
Black Ben Tucker knew that the Texas Rangers would not venture into Mexico in order to capture him. They had rules which made it impossible. But Tucker had no idea that there was another man who was trailing him to the sleepy Mexican town.
A dangerous man who did not live by the rules of others. A wounded man who followed the tracks of his prey wherever they led.
Iron Eyes did not recognize any man-made borders.
He went wherever he liked to claim the bounty upon the heads of those who were wanted dead or alive.
Even with blood running freely down inside his left boot, Iron Eyes had continued his quest for the man with the two thousand dollar bounty on his head. At first he had not noticed the delirium which confused his usually keen mind and slowly overwhelmed him. Iron Eyes had been riding for
more than an hour since the Indian attack but could not remember any of the miles that now lay behind him.
Only dogged determination had brought him here to capture the outlaw whose trail had led him into this hell-hole.
The strong dapple-gray beneath his saddle galloped into Sanora just before two o’clock on the hot afternoon. The bounty hunter stared at the dozens of men who sat with their backs against the whitewashed adobe walls and slept beneath their sombreros. They lined both sides of the quiet Sanora streets as Iron Eyes pulled back on his reins and slowed the powerful horse to a walk.
The bounty hunter felt sweat running down his face. He was burning up and his leg throbbed with every movement of the tall horse. Yet there seemed to be nobody awake to notice that the wounded rider was swaying on his saddle.
He had made it to this remote town but it had cost him a hefty price in blood. Iron Eyes knew that the arrow that he had pulled from his leg must have been tipped with poison because he had lost blood before and not felt like this. Poison must have entered his body and was now wreaking its toll upon him.
Iron Eyes had never felt truly at ease in Mexico during the hours of siesta. It did not seem natural to the bounty hunter for people to sleep during the hours of daylight. Now with a fever raging inside his confused mind, Iron Eyes imagined that the sleeping people were only pretending and would rise up and start shooting at him at any moment.
Yet the bounty hunter could not manage to find either of his trusty Navy Colts. His hands could barely hold on to the leather reins any longer.
The heavy-lidded eyes wandered aimlessly around the sleeping townspeople as he stopped the horse outside one of the many cantinas and slid from his saddle. Hanging on to the saddle horn with every ounce of his strength, Iron Eyes stared at the beaded curtain that swayed before him.
Black Ben Tucker strolled out into the blazing sun and looked at the tall emaciated figure.
