The Fury of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western #4)

by Rory Black

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  The infamous bounty hunter known as Iron Eyes finally manages to catch up with outlaw Dan Creedy. With his usual deadly resolve, Iron Eyes would have dispatched Creedy and claimed the reward. Yet this time it was different for, at last, he had met a man who was almost his equal. The seriously wounded Iron Eyes rides off towards the forest, but he has no idea Creedy's three outlaw brothers are now hunting him. For the first time in his life, it is Iron Eyes who is the prey . . .

  THE FURY OF IRON EYES

  IRON EYES 4

  By Rory Black

  First Published by Robert Hale Limited in 2001

  Copyright © 2001 by Rory Black

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover © 2013 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Prologue

  Since the first man walked upon the land which has come to be known as America, there have been legends. Tales of men blessed or perhaps cursed by the Great Spirit.

  One such legend still thrives throughout the cultures of the people known as Native Americans. But even long ago, when a thousand tribes were scattered across the land that stretches from sea to shining sea, this legend was said to be true.

  For there are those who are said to be able to change into creatures of the plains and forest as well as the sky. Men who somehow can transform their entire being into that of an eagle or a bear, a buffalo or a deer.

  Some, it is claimed, can actually become wolves.

  Whatever the truth of these stories, it must be said that even today, in various corners of the land that once entirely belonged to the various tribes of Indian, this belief is still harbored by even the most intelligent of souls.

  What would the infamous bounty hunter, known only as Iron Eyes, make of a young Cheyenne hunter who claimed that he was one of that rare breed who could turn themselves into a wolf?

  Perhaps if Iron Eyes had not been terribly injured when he encountered the handsome Indian, he might have dismissed the claim as nothing more than a brash boast from the lips of a youth trying to impress an elder.

  But there was something about the little hunter that made the infamous Iron Eyes consider the claim seriously. Something that made him feel that this was not idle boasting but perhaps, the truth.

  There were and still are many legends in the vast land known as America. Tales that span the entire continent. To dismiss any of them out of hand, might seem sensible to the well educated amongst us, but to those who are actually intelligent, it might just be wise to consider them seriously for more than a fleeting moment.

  Iron Eyes instinctively knew that the little hunter, called Silent Wolf, was unlike any other person he had ever encountered during his many bloodstained years.

  Perhaps the handsome little hunter could actually change himself into a wolf. Iron Eyes knew that only time would tell.

  Chapter One

  Night had come swiftly to the small, acrid-smelling town of Bonny, Northern Texas. Yet even as darkness overwhelmed the dry, weathered structures, it grew no cooler than it had been when the merciless sun blazed down from the cloudless sky.

  The stench of a dozen outhouses hung on the evening air as the gaunt rider aimed his lathered-up mount at the array of wooden buildings. A blind man could have found this town by following his nose, but this rider was not blind. His bullet-colored eyes had followed the tracks in the almost virginal sand by day and night to this place, because his prey was here, and he was and always had been above all things, a hunter.

  Coyotes bayed across the barren range, as if trying to see which could make the loudest noise to greet the large, orange moon that rose above the desolate landscape. But the rider did not seem to hear the wild, doglike creatures as he dug his razor-sharp spurs into the sides of his exhausted horse. For this rider, there was only one thing which mattered: that was cornering the man he sought, and then killing him.

  As the smell grew stronger in the flared nostrils of the silent man, he reined in and stood in his stirrups, watching the sleepy town a mere mile ahead.

  The light from a solitary saloon was all the illumination within the boundaries of Bonny, but it was enough. It bathed the single street between the wooden buildings in an almost amber light as it spewed from the open saloon doorway. The sound of a tinny piano drifted on the warm air into the ears of the bounty hunter as he rested his pitifully thin frame back down on to the saddle. Even in the moonlight, the face of the rider seemed to hail from another world: a world where skeletons must live to take the lives of men. His face was scarred by many years and many battles. His matted long hair hung limply to his shoulders and napped like the wings of a bat whenever a breeze dared to touch it. Slowly, his long fingers dragged a thin black cigar from one of his deep jacket pockets before placing it between his small sharp teeth.

  Striking a match, Iron Eyes lifted the flame to the end of the cigar and dragged the strong smoke into his lungs, holding it there long enough for it to take effect. He had not eaten anything in two days as he had followed the trail left by the man he hunted, yet felt no hunger pangs in his emaciated frame.

  Other men ate two, three or even four times a day, but not Iron Eyes. He had lived too long out in the wilderness of this great land and ate like all hunters: only when he had trapped and killed his prey.

  There was an excitement inside the man as he inhaled the smoke of his cigar and studied the distant town. Iron Eyes had always grown excited as he closed in on his prey and readied himself for the kill. It had started long ago when he had hunted only animals and even now, as he tracked men for the price on their heads, the thrill was still there.

  Many thought the strange, tall bounty hunter was devoid of any emotion whatsoever, but it was not true. Iron Eyes could not have lived so long without the sheer passion that drove him on and on in his pursuit of those wanted dead or alive.

  As he checked the pair of Navy Colts and satisfied himself they were in full working order, he sucked in the smoke of his cigar as if it alone were capable of nourishing him.

  Pushing the long, blue barrels of his weapons into his belt so that their grips poked out above his belt buckle, Iron Eyes jabbed his vicious spurs into the horse and allowed it to continue on towards Bonny.

  There were those who thought the deadly bounty hunter was an Indian due to his mane of limp black hair, and the fact that his scarred face never seemed capable of growing whiskers upon it like most pale-skinned men. There were others who had survived being up close to the tall, thin man who always wore a long weathered dust jacket with deep, bullet-filled pockets, who knew this creature hailed from no known tribe of Indian.

  And there were a few who thought Iron Eyes was simply a living ghost that somehow refused to die. Whatever the truth, the cold eyes of the sinister rider had frozen the blood of many a foe, before his deadly accurate pistols had dispatched them to a more peaceful place.

  Perhaps he was an Indian
from some unknown tribe which had long ceased to exist. Perhaps he was an avenging specter from some unholy place who came to claim souls for the Devil himself.

  Whatever Iron Eyes was, he was unique. Most thanked the Lord for that small mercy. One Iron Eyes was more than enough for any world.

  The night sky and the large moon suited the bounty hunter as he chewed on the end of his cigar. He liked to strike when it was dark: when civilized folks had long retired to their beds and found a dream or two to ease them away from the reality which dominated their waking hours. For the wanted men he sought tended to drink, and womanized during the hours of darkness when decent souls slept. This alone made locating them far easier to a man who was always ready to dispatch his own brand of justice.

  As Iron Eyes entered the small one-street town, he noted the couple of horses tied up near the saloon. There were no other horses anywhere else in Bonny. Glancing at the ground from his high perch, his keen eyesight recognized the hoof prints he had followed for so long. Even in the moonlight, his vision was still as honed as it had always been.

  Iron Eyes teased the reins of the tired mount and closed in on the saloon, which still harbored people unwilling to leave one day and exchange it for another. The sound of men and females within the saloon drifted out into the street, along with the bad piano playing.

  He had never been to Bonny before, but knew it was probably the same as the hundreds of other towns he had ridden into over the years, tracking down the vermin it seemed the law could not find.

  Halting the horse at the hitching rail, Iron Eyes sat looking up and down the street until he was satisfied it was empty. It did not take him long to recognize the horse he knew belonged to the outlaw he sought. Finishing his cigar, he tossed it away and readied himself for what he knew lay ahead in the minutes which would follow. Lifting his long, right leg over the neck of his mount, Iron Eyes slid to the ground.

  Tying his reins to the wooden upright outside the saloon, the bounty hunter looked across at the outlaw’s horse, which still had steam rising from it. Taking twelve paces to the tethered horse of the man he had hunted for so many weeks, Iron Eyes ran a hand along its neck.

  It was still wet — wet from the hard ride it had endured as its master had vainly tried to get away from the dogged pursuer, a man who did not know how to give up once he had the scent of his prey in his nostrils.

  Iron Eyes rubbed his hand dry on his jacket and began walking back towards the light, which cascaded out from the saloon doorway and reached to the buildings opposite.

  He had to be inside, Iron Eyes thought. Drinking and waiting for him to arrive. Maybe the outlaw had convinced himself that he had managed to lose his shadow out there on the massive range of sagebrush. Perhaps he was sitting with his back to the wall with both guns in his hands, waiting for death to walk through the door of the saloon and try to kill before being killed.

  Whichever way it panned out, Iron Eyes was ready.

  Stepping up on to the boardwalk, Iron Eyes glanced through the window at the half-dozen people who were milling around. Two females of dubious age appeared desperate to make a few dollars from the four men still drinking before they either ran out of money or interest. A bartender seemed more asleep than awake as he leaned on the counter, watching his customers with eyes that had seen it all before so many times. Without pausing, Iron Eyes walked straight into the noisy building and stopped in his tracks.

  Within the space of a mere heartbeat, the saloon was silent. Every person within its four walls stared at the gruesome sight before them.

  The bounty hunter hovered with his hands above his belt buckle and the two gun grips as his eyes darted around the large room. He knew the face of the man he had chased across the baking-hot range although they had never met. The photographic likeness was on the crumpled Wanted poster in his deep pocket amongst the bullets and cigars. A likeness which was branded into his mind.

  Then Iron Eyes saw him.

  Chapter Two

  The outlaw slowly began to stand up from behind the table as he watched the lethal Iron Eyes standing just inside the doorway of the saloon. Reaching his full height, his keen eyes watched the other five patrons vanish from the vicinity. Even the weary bartender managed to slip out from behind the long bar and disappear into the relative safety of a back room.

  In the time it took for the second hand on the wall clock to move less than halfway around the clock face, only two men remained in the saloon. Two very different men.

  ‘Dan Creedy!’ The name seemed to drip from the lips of Iron Eyes as he stepped closer. The outlaw’s face was now visibly more frightened than the image which was emblazoned on the Wanted poster buried deep in one of Iron Eyes’ bullet-filled pockets.

  The man walked slowly from behind the round card-table towards the bar. With every step he kept at least one eye fixed on the bounty hunter. Creedy knew that it paid to be cautious of this sort of man.

  ‘Do I know you, stranger? I think I’d have remembered your face if n we’d ever met before.’

  ‘They call me Iron Eyes,’ came the slow, deliberate reply from the thin, emotionless face. ‘We ain’t ever met but I know who and what you are, Creedy.’

  The man seemed to recognize the notorious name and the description of the living ghost who hunted men. He gritted his teeth as he dragged an abandoned whiskey bottle towards him before turning over a small thimble-glass.

  ‘The bounty hunter?’

  ‘The same.’ Iron Eyes took another step towards the man, who pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle with his teeth before spitting it into the sawdust at his feet.

  ‘I heard of you,’ Creedy said as he poured himself a full measure of the brown liquor.

  ‘I’ve heard of you too. You’re worth a thousand dollars,’ Iron Eyes said coldly, ‘dead or alive.’

  Creedy felt sweat trickling down his face as he rested the bottle down, and then lifted the drink to his lips before pausing to stare at the gruesome sight of the man he knew intended to be his executioner. No wonder the room had cleared at the sight of Iron Eyes, he thought. He had seen a thousand faces, but none like the one staring at him from behind the limp black hair. This was not the face of a man that it was possible to bribe or bluff from his intended course of action. Iron Eyes had only one thing on his mind, and it was the price on Dan Creedy’s head.

  ‘Mind if I take me a drink before we get down to business?’

  ‘Nope,’ Iron Eyes replied.

  Dan Creedy swallowed the whiskey in one go and then placed the glass back down on top of the wet bar. He had killed more than a dozen men with his Colt, but for the first time in his entire life, knew his luck might just be about to run out. After taking several deep breaths, Creedy turned away from the long, wooden counter and faced Iron Eyes.

  ‘I heard stories about you, Iron Eyes,’ Creedy said as he pushed his coat over the handle of his gun. ‘They say you ain’t a living man. They say you’re a ghost.’

  The bounty hunter nodded.

  ‘It’s all true.’

  Creedy flexed his fingers and swallowed whilst watching the almost skeletal figure before him. He noted the two gun grips sticking out of the broad belt strapped around Iron Eyes’ middle, and wondered how any man could possibly be a quick draw if he had to pull guns from a belt. The more Creedy thought about it, the more convinced he became that no living man could draw weapons from a belt with any speed. It was impossible.

  ‘I guess this is it,’ Creedy said as confidence returned to his troubled soul again.

  Iron Eyes nodded again.

  ‘Reckon so.’

  The ancient clock upon the wall of the saloon suddenly began to chime.

  Dan Creedy threw himself to the left and reached for his trusty Colt. His experienced fingers found its grip and drew it from the leather holster tied securely to his thigh. Before the barrel of the pistol had cleared the lip of the holster, his index finger had found the trigger as his thumb cocked its hammer until it l
ocked. Then he squeezed off his first shot.

  A cloud of smoke breached the distance between the outlaw and the bounty hunter. It was so dense that both men lost sight of one another. Iron Eyes had pulled both his Navy Colts from his belt and dragged their hammers back before firing. Dropping to the floor, Iron Eyes heard the groaning sound of Creedy as another shot came through the gunsmoke like a bolt of lightning towards him. The bounty hunter felt the heat on his scalp from the bullet as it passed through his hair. He knew if he hadn’t dropped on to his knees, the bullet would have gone straight into his middle.

  Instinctively, Iron Eyes fired both his pistols again into the cloud which faced him. This time Iron Eyes heard his opponent scream and stagger back into the wooden bar before tottering towards him. Choking gunsmoke filled the distance between the two men as their shots echoed around the wooden building. Then Creedy staggered towards the kneeling bounty hunter, staring with eyes which could no longer see. The gun fell from his fingers and bounced on the floor as the outlaw stopped and hovered.

  Iron Eyes stood up again and looked at the four neat bullet holes in the shirt of the unsteady man. Any one of his shots could have killed the outlaw on their own. Together, it was only a matter of how long it would take for Dan Creedy’s body to realize that it was dead.

  It had not been a long duel. It had ended almost as soon as it had begun.

  Slowly, Dan Creedy slumped forward and fell heavily on his face in the stale sawdust. There was a huge gasp as his life seemed to escape like swamp gas from his being. He had been wrong. It was possible to draw guns from your belt if you were Iron Eyes. Creedy had made a mistake. It was to be his last.

  Walking up to the body, Iron Eyes placed his guns back into his belt and leaned on the bar. It was over and yet he felt nothing. It had been too easy.

  As he picked up the whiskey bottle and raised it to his lips he noticed spots of blood dripping on to his hand. Looking up into the cracked, dirty mirror behind the bar, he saw the wound on his scalp. There was a parting in his long, matted mane which had never been there before.