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

by Rory Black

  These, however, were new hills and mountains. Iron Eyes had never been here before and wondered what lay within the dark forests that faced him across the heat-haze of the dusty, dry range. Whatever lay within the depths of the cool forest would be something he had not experienced since embarking on his present occupation.

  Iron Eyes felt the heat burning the side of his scarred face as he dragged his reins up and brought the exhausted horse to a sudden halt. Pulling the fresh whiskey bottle out of his saddlebags behind him, he sat staring at the mighty unknown land before him.

  Where was this place?

  Was it Texas or somewhere else?

  Did it even have a name?

  So many thoughts filled his mind as the agonizing pain tore through his head like a lightning bolt once more.

  Iron Eyes felt strange as he gulped at the neck of the whiskey bottle and then replaced its cork. His head was filled with a throbbing pain which simply would not quit. Iron Eyes had tried to outride the agony, but it was impossible. It was like trying to run away from your own soul.

  The painful confusion which had overwhelmed him after he had been wounded had returned with a vengeance.

  Sliding the bottle back into his saddlebags and then lowering the leather flap back into place, Iron Eyes dug his spurs back into the horse and rode on.

  The forest was drawing him to its bosom like the mother he had never known. He felt that in the cool shade of the tall pines he just might discover who or what he really was. He knew that he could not be a ghost as many claimed, because even he knew that ghosts felt no pain. The blinding explosions which filled his skull proved one thing: he was not yet dead.

  Iron Eyes had to reach the alluring forest and try and find a way to clear his mind of the confusion and pain which tortured him. There had been so many battles and so many injuries during his life, and yet none as bad as this one. As the horse gathered speed and began tearing across the dry dusty ground again, Iron Eyes gritted his teeth. He had to try and reach this new place, and perhaps find a peace he had long forgotten actually existed.

  As he drove the pitiful horse on, Iron Eyes began to feel giddy again.

  Gripping the reins tightly with both his skeletal hands, he knew there was no reason to be heading on his present course, yet he continued. Iron Eyes rode on.

  Chapter Eight

  It was a grim-faced Bob Creedy that walked towards his brothers from the telegraph office flanked by the pair of more-than-helpful deputies. They had escorted the oldest Creedy to the newspaper office and then on to the telegraph office, searching for news of Dan. It was obvious by Bob’s pained expression, which was carved into his rugged features, that his worst fears had been confirmed.

  Dan was dead.

  Treat Creedy was leaning on a wooden upright next to his younger brother who had perched his butt on a rickety hitching pole.

  ‘Something’s wrong by the look on old Bob’s face,’ Treat said as he tapped his brother’s shoulder and pointed at the three approaching men.

  Frankie Creedy stood up from off the corner of the hitching pole and moved towards his eldest brother, as Treat looked at the ground and shook his head knowingly.

  ‘Dan is dead,’ Bob mumbled.

  ‘Dead? How?’ Frankie licked his cracked lips as he watched the faces of the smiling deputies to either side of his mourning brother. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Iron Eyes!’ Bob Creedy spat out the name as if it were poison. ‘He gunned down Dan in a small town called Bonny and claimed the reward. It’s all over the wires.’

  ‘What the hell was Dan doing there?’ Frankie asked as he tried to take in the fact that their most able sibling was now dead. It seemed impossible to fathom how anyone could get the better of Dan.

  ‘I figure Iron Eyes chased him there and then gunned him down,’ Bob said, trying to accept that Dan could have been killed by the infamous bounty hunter. To him and the rest of the Creedy brothers, Dan had been invincible. Yet he was dead. ‘Maybe he was back shot.’

  Frankie nodded violently.

  ‘That must be it. Even Iron Eyes could not have gotten the better of Dan in a fair fight.’

  ‘Who is this Iron Eyes varmint, boys?’ one of the deputies asked.

  ‘He’s a bounty hunter,’ Treat responded as he kicked at the dusty ground angrily.

  ‘Like you boys,’ the other deputy said.

  Bob Creedy glanced up.

  ‘Nope. Not like us, son. Iron Eyes ain’t nothing like us.’

  The faces of the law officers went blank as the eldest Creedy walked away from the small group and headed towards a saloon clenching his fists.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ one of them asked out loud.

  Treat Creedy patted the two men on the shoulders as he steered Frankie away from them.

  ‘Bob don’t like us losing bounty money to someone like Iron Eyes, deputies.’

  ‘Who is this Iron Eyes critter?’ one of the lawmen asked again as the dust-caked men began to trail their brother in the direction of the saloon.

  ‘They say that he’s a dead man,’ Treat Cassidy answered over his shoulder. ‘They also say he can’t be killed because he ain’t alive like normal folks.’

  ‘That don’t make no sense,’ the deputy called out.

  ‘How can a living man be dead?’ the other chipped in.

  ‘Iron Eyes ain’t like other men,’ Treat Creedy sighed heavily as he mounted the boardwalk with his brother in tow.

  ‘He’ll be dead when I catch up with the bastard,’ Frankie snarled as he was herded into the saloon by the taller Treat.

  ‘Them boys sure take their job seriously,’ one of the deputies said to the other as they both turned away.

  The afternoon sun was blistering in its intensity as it hovered overhead. The hundred cavalry troopers had made camp and the miners’ wagons had been circled under the instructions of the wary army officer.

  It was quiet in the centre of the lush valley, yet none of the men who went about their duties seemed capable of relaxing. The miners were consoling themselves with the barrels of liquor they had brought along on their journey, but the soldiers knew this was no place to soak one’s brains in whiskey. This place required each and every man to remain alert, for somewhere out there beyond the edge of the valley, thousands of Cheyenne were going about their daily business, unaware their land had been invaded. Major Roberts knew that situation could change with his next heartbeat.

  At any moment a hunting party might spot the ten white canvas-topped wagons and more than a hundred souls camped deep inside the Southern Cheyenne reservation boundaries. It would not take long for a young warrior to ride his pony back to the main Indian settlement and inform their elders and chiefs.

  Only the Lord above them had any idea of what would then happen.

  Major Thomas Roberts knew they were all living on borrowed time, and yet still found himself unable to think of a way out of this sordid situation without disobeying orders and finding himself court-martialed.

  What ought he do? The question burned into his soul like a cowboy’s red-hot branding iron. He had not eaten or taken anything to drink in the four or five hours since he had halted the caravan of gold miners. His innards were twisted with worry as he continually walked around the makeshift parameter of the camp. He had fought the Southern Cheyenne once before and knew they were a noble adversary, but he did not wish to repeat the action.

  His attention was continually drawn to the faces of his young troopers who had no idea of the danger that loomed over this perilous mission. On the whole, they were innocent and untested in battle, and did not deserve to be baptized by facing the wrath of the Cheyenne.

  Even if every one of his troop had been a seasoned veteran, Roberts doubted if they would last more than an hour against the thousands of Cheyenne braves upon the reservation.

  Unfortunately, his men were not seasoned veterans.

  Major Roberts entered the encircled wagons and sought out the one man he knew wa
s the unofficial leader of the gold miners. As the cavalry officer approached the large campfire where men were still eating and drinking, Roberts spotted the unmistakable figure of Bull Fergis.

  Fergis was no more than five feet in height but was almost as wide. He seemed to have never shaved or had his hair cut, and had an accent that defied anyone from knowing where it had originated. As the major strode towards him, he marched up to the elegant figure and began ranting.

  ‘If n I didn’t know better, I’d reckon you was scared of taking me and my men to the spot you was told to, Major,’ Fergis shouted up at the officer. ‘I figure we ought to be another five miles down this valley where the big mountain lies.’

  Roberts inhaled deeply before speaking.

  ‘I’m scared all right, Mr. Fergis. Scared of us all being surrounded by thousands of irate Cheyenne. You are totally correct about us being on the wrong site, but this is as close as I want to go.’

  Bull Fergis rubbed his beard. He was taken aback by the man’s frank admission.

  ‘What? You admit it?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m scared. Scared of taking all our men to their deaths.’ Major Roberts began to walk slowly towards the gap between two of the wagons with the muscular miner at his side. Reaching the wagon traces, Roberts placed the heel of one of his boots on the wooden pole that pointed down the valley. ‘There has to be at least five thousand Cheyenne down there somewhere, Mr. Fergis. Men, women and children. The trouble is, at least a third of them are men. Young men.’ Bull Fergis seemed shocked. ‘Thousands of them, you say?’ ‘Yes. Thousands of men of an age when fighting comes as second nature.’ Roberts gave the shorter man a glance before raising his hand and pointing at the high tree-covered hills that flanked their small camp. ‘For all we know, there could be a Cheyenne brave behind every tree.’ ‘Are they armed?’ Roberts nodded. ‘Undoubtedly.’ ‘Hell. Me and the boys weren’t told nothing about no damn Injuns.’ Bull Fergis swallowed hard as a single bead of sweat trickled down from beneath his hairline and ran over his wrinkled features.

  ‘What?’ Thomas Roberts stared hard at the miner. ‘The mining company did not tell you that you were being escorted into an Indian Reservation?’

  ‘Nope,’ Fergis snapped. ‘They kinda forgot that little gem when they told us about the job. All we were told was that we had to find high-grade ore and then ready the site for when the company send in the bigger team. I think I’d remember ifn they’d mentioned Cheyenne. Are they dangerous?’

  Roberts rubbed his eyes. ‘Only to folks who break the treaty.’

  ‘Like us,’ Bull Fergis added.

  Major Roberts felt the hair of his neck rising as a cold shudder raced through him. These miners had been duped into getting themselves slaughtered, in order that some greater power might then send in a larger force to seek revenge and proclaim the treaty null and void. These miners were meant to die, as was he and his troopers. Then the Cheyenne would be destroyed and this land would become nothing more than a very prosperous gold mine from one end to the other.

  ‘What’ll we do, Major?’ Bull Fergis asked.

  Major Thomas Roberts said nothing. He was desperately trying to think of a solution to their problem. The trouble was, he was no politician. He had always been an honest man.

  Chapter Nine

  Iron Eyes felt the cool forest soothing his skin as he guided the lathered-up horse between the tall, straight pine trees. It had taken him a long time to reach this forest and he still had no idea why he was in this place.

  But wherever this pine-scented haven was, it was better than anywhere else Iron Eyes had been in a long while. The air tasted good here. Sweeter than the air out in the blinding sun-scorched prairie. Iron Eyes touched his scalp and tried to force his fingernails into the stitches. He could still not feel anything along the top of his head, yet the drumming inside his skull persisted.

  Would the pain ever stop? The throbbing noise inside his head was like a hundred war drums continually pounding. He inhaled the cool, fragrant air into his narrow nostrils and felt better than he had since the deadly encounter with Dan Creedy. Iron Eyes had been like a wounded animal seeking a place to heal itself since the fight back in the saloon at Bonny. As he inhaled the cool air into his lungs, he knew this forest held the answers he sought.

  As the snorting mount stepped into an ice-cold stream, Iron Eyes allowed the exhausted animal to stop, lower its head and drink. The bounty hunter stared around the gloomy forest interior, trying to decide on a route which would allow him to relax in his saddle. There were many choices, but one caught his keen eyes. The shafts of sunlight seemed to point at a trail which gradually rose through the countless straight trees to a higher place. Iron Eyes knew that was where he would head.

  It had been so many years since he had entered such a place as this cool, fresh forest. The last time was so far back in his grim past that he could not recall it in any detail. All he knew for sure was when he had last lived in such a place, there had been no human blood on his hands.

  Back then Iron Eyes had hunted creatures. Only creatures. Long before he had changed into the ruthless manhunter who was feared throughout the west.

  His keen ears heard the rustling of animals as they moved unseen through the tall vegetation. Birds sang out cheerfully from almost every tree branch around him, as if greeting the ominous visitor to their home. There was plenty of game in this forest, he thought, as he spied a deer running through a clearing not more than twenty feet from his horse.

  Iron Eyes ran his long, thin fingers across his brow as if trying to purge his head of the pain that continually reminded him of his wound. The war drums started again as the veins on his temple began throbbing.

  For a moment he had thought the sounds were coming from some unseen Indians readying themselves for war, but then realized it was all in his head. Iron Eyes rose in his saddle and slowly dismounted. His mule-ear boots became cool as the icy water passed continuously over them on its way to another place. Holding on to his saddle fender as if unsure of his ability to balance, Iron Eyes leaned over and scooped some of the clear liquid up in the palm of his hand and tasted it.

  It was good. It tasted the way water was meant to taste. Pure. This was not the muddy well water served up in the towns he had ridden through for half his life, but was cold and refreshing.

  Removing his canteen from the saddle horn, Iron Eyes unscrewed its stopper and poured out the contents before lowering it into the water and allowing the flowing water to fill it. When it was filled, he raised it to his lips and began drinking. He did not stop until he had consumed the entire contents. He was still giddy, but now felt the pain inside his skull easing as if cleansed by a magical potion.

  Iron Eyes lowered the canteen into the stream again and refilled it. Then he firmly secured its stopper. He felt the cold liquid moving down through his body. It felt good. For the first time since the elderly doctor had sewn his head back together the pain was noticeably easing.

  Iron Eyes hung the canteen back on the saddle horn and stepped into his stirrup before hauling his long, lean frame back into the saddle. He allowed the horse to continue drinking its fill until it raised its head. Then he tapped his spurs into the flesh of the animal once again. The mount began to walk.

  Aiming at the long shafts of sun, Iron Eyes rode on up the trail. This time he would allow the tired horse to find its own pace. He was no longer in a hurry.

  For the first time since he had started hunting men instead of animals, Iron Eyes actually felt at peace. There was no longer any reason to rush. This was a place where reward money was of no value and a man lived or died by his skill at hunting. Once he had regained all his senses, Iron Eyes told himself that he would rekindle all his old skills.

  He could taste the succulent flavors of fresh game as his memory reminded him of the last time he had eaten something he had caught.

  As the long legs of his mount slowly navigated along the cool mountain trail, the bounty hunter wrappe
d his leather reins around his wrists and closed his eyes. The horse continued walking on up the trail with its master slumped in his saddle.

  For the first time in countless days, Iron Eyes allowed himself to sleep.

  The sun was low in the sky when the three Creedy brothers thundered into the small town of Bonny. They had purchased fresh mounts before leaving Tequila Flats, and ridden them into the ground to reach Bonny as quickly as possible. The dust seemed to linger in the air long after the three riders had dragged their reins up to their chests and stopped their exhausted mounts outside the solitary saloon.

  The elderly sheriff had watched the three horsemen dismounting outside the saloon and knew this might be the day he had dreaded since first taking office. This might be the day when he had to earn his meager paycheck.

  The three remaining Creedy brothers did not stay in the saloon very long, and were soon out on the street again glancing around at the weathered structures, searching for something or someone to confront. It did not take long for them to notice the feeble law officer standing outside his office.

  The sheriff felt his heart beginning to pound beneath his undershirt as the men started walking directly at him. He knew these faces. They had been here many times before with their brother Dan Creedy. He had always known who they were and had never done anything to force their hand.

  Unlike the sheriff, these men were neither old nor afraid. They were deadly killers like their dead brother and the shaking lawman wanted no part of them. They reached the porch of his office and stopped in a line before him. Even saddle-weary, they were a formidable sight.

  ‘Sheriff,’ Bob Creedy said touching the wide brim of Stetson in greeting.

  ‘I wondered when you boys would get here,’ the sheriff said in a feeble voice that told the trio he would do nothing to prevent them going about their business — whatever it was.

  ‘They ain’t had time to wash Dan’s blood off the floor in the saloon, Sheriff,’ Bob Creedy said in a tone that hovered on the very edge of fury.