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

by Rory Black

  Major Thomas Roberts grabbed hold of his reins and eased his horse towards the large figure of Sergeant Walker.

  ‘Let’s get out of this place, John.’

  ‘Reckon it must be about time, sir,’ Walker nodded in obedience.

  ‘Hopefully we have not left it too late,’ Roberts whispered to his favorite soldier.

  The burly sergeant screamed at the troopers to mount whilst Roberts rode along the line of wagons until he found the one with Bull Fergis sitting on its driving board. Reining in, the officer leaned close to the wheel brake and spoke to the bearded man.

  ‘I hope you’re ready, Mr. Fergis, because I’m heading out right now. Those shots might not have been aimed directly at us, but I for one am not going to wait for the second volley.’

  Fergis wrestled with the heavy reins attached to his team of oxen and nodded. ‘We’re ready, Major. You lead and we’ll follow.’

  ‘I pray we shall live to share a bottle of whiskey together, Mr. Fergis.’

  Roberts waved his white gauntlet in the air and then rode ahead of the caravan entrusted to his care. One by one the wagons began to move slowly through the tall, damp grass after the straight-backed officer, whilst the troopers flanked them on both sides.

  It was a slow-moving company of vehicles and riders at first, which gradually increased its pace as the heavy oxen managed to find their footing in the fertile soil.

  Sergeant Walker drove his mount through the long grass until he was next to the horse of Major Roberts. It was the place that he always chose to be.

  ‘What do you reckon those shots were all about, sir?’ Walker asked his leader.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’m in no hurry to find out either. All I want to do is get out of this valley and back on the prairie before there’s trouble,’ the officer announced, as he allowed his horse to canter at a pace designed to allow the wagons to catch up with him.

  ‘Sounded like a gunfight to me,’ Walker said as he kept his horse level with Roberts’s.

  ‘You might be correct, but we have other things to do tonight rather than theorize about that.’ Roberts looked back at the wagons as their drivers were managing to get their huge teams of oxen to gain speed. The sound of bullwhips cracking above the horns of the teams of massive oxen echoed around the valley. It was a sound which chilled the riding troopers as their tired eyes scanned the forested hills for signs of trouble.

  ‘Guess you’re right, sir. We gotta try and get this band of misfits to safety,’ Walker shouted as he held on to his reins and rode alongside the troubled commander of their aborted mission.

  The grim-faced officer knew the words of his faithful sergeant were harsh but true. These men, who rode on horses and wagons, knew nothing of Indian fighting. They had not fought for their very lives as he and Walker had done so long ago. They were placing their lives in his hands. They could do nothing but have faith that he would make the correct decisions and not lead them to their deaths.

  As Thomas Roberts guided his trotting horse ever onward, he hoped that he still had all the skills this duty warranted for success. He prayed with every stride of his mount, that he still remembered enough of the ways of the Cheyenne to return these terrified followers to the safety of Fort Bruce.

  They continued along the valley, bathed in the haunting blue light of the large, taunting moon above them until they had covered nearly three miles. It had been an uneventful retreat, which every soul under the command of Major Roberts was grateful for, but it was not to remain that way.

  Suddenly, ahead of the hundred riders and the ten wagons, Major Roberts caught sight of something which at first he imagined was merely an apparition.

  As he led them closer to what he had thought to be a trick of the light, Roberts realized it was real.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Never in all his days had Major Thomas Roberts ever witnessed a sight more terrifying than the one which confronted him as he rode along the valley ahead of the gold miners’ wagons and his troopers. This was something he had not expected in his wildest nightmares.

  Visible in the haunting light of the large moon Roberts could clearly see a barricade directly ahead of them. It was a wall of tinder-dry brush that had been dragged from the forest and spread across the narrow mouth of the lush valley.

  Aiming his spirited mount straight ahead, Roberts’s keen eyes spotted the figures moving behind the thick, hastily-constructed barricade. Experience told him that these were Cheyenne braves he was observing. As his weary brain fought desperately to try and work out exactly what they were hoping to achieve by building something his horses and wagons could quite easily crush underfoot, he noticed something to the right of his galloping mount.

  A small campfire glowed at the foot of the tree line, tended by countless Cheyenne. As Roberts spotted the men beyond the wall of brush rushing towards the fire, he began to realize what they were doing. The Indians knew that no mere wall of brush could prevent his men escaping the valley, but something else could.

  Suddenly, Major Roberts knew he was right. Dozens of arrows were dipped into the flames of the fire and then sent arching through the cool, night air at the makeshift obstacle.

  Each and every one of the deadly fiery missiles seemed to land in the barricade before others joined them. Soon the entire length of the obstruction was alight. The wall of fire stretched from one side of the valley to the next, sending flames raging high into the sky.

  The barricade had become a vicious wall of fire.

  Major Thomas Roberts dragged his reins up and slowed his pace until he and Sergeant Walker were level with the following wagons and cavalrymen.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bull Fergis screamed from the driver’s seat of his wagon. ‘Where the hell did that fire come from?’

  Major Roberts raised his left hand until each and every one of his caravan had seen his white gauntlet. Within twenty yards, they had all stopped.

  Every eye watched the flames as they twisted into the night sky above them. Choking smoke swirled around the valley as the officer turned his horse and rode up beside the wagon of the frantic Fergis.

  ‘It seems that the Cheyenne intend to try and stop our leaving their valley, Mr. Fergis,’ Roberts said, as he rested a hand on the long brake pole of the wagon and looked up at the startled expression of the gold miner.

  ‘We gonna stay here?’ Fergis asked as he clung to the heavy leather reins and held his team of oxen in check. ‘’Cos if n we do, I don’t reckon much on our chances, Major.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Roberts said, as even from the distance of a quarter mile, he could feel the heat of the fire touching his controlled features.

  Sergeant Walker drew his mount level. ‘They got us penned in, sir.’

  ‘How high do you think that barricade is, John?’ Thomas Roberts asked as he rubbed at his dry mouth with his gloved fingers.

  ‘Ten or twenty feet high, sir,’ Walker spat as the taste of the smoke filled his mouth.

  ‘No. Not the flames. The actual body of the barricade. How tall would you say it is?’ Roberts asked.

  Sergeant Walker spun his horse around and looked hard at the flames before them. It was difficult to see into the heart of the fire, but not impossible.

  ‘Three feet? Maybe six.’

  Roberts nodded. It’s hard to tell at this distance, isn’t it?’ he said quietly as he allowed his mount to walk along the team of snorting oxen. ‘But I have a feeling you are probably right.’

  Walker allowed his horse to follow his superior officer. ‘Yeah. It is kinda hard to work out how high that kindling is from here, sir. It can’t be very high though. Them Cheyenne wouldn’t have had time to build nothing too tall.’

  ‘Perhaps we ought to get a tad closer?’ Roberts suggested as he studied the wall of fire with an intensity few men could match. ‘I think it might prove interesting, John.’

  Walker swallowed hard. He knew exactly what Major Roberts meant. He had ridden with this brave soldier for to
o many years not to be able to read his every thought.

  ‘Reckon you’re right, sir.’

  ‘What you two talking about?’ Bull Fergis shouted at the pair of cavalrymen.

  Roberts turned his head and looked back at the bearded miner whose face, like everyone else’s, was illuminated in the eerie flames before them.

  ‘Have you ever managed to get this team up to a gallop, Mr. Fergis?’

  ‘Nope. But then, I ain’t ever had call to try. What you getting at, Major?’ Bull Fergis asked.

  ‘When I give the word, I want you miners to whip your teams of oxen up into a frenzy,’ Roberts responded. ‘I want them scared and ready to run. I want you to drive these beasts like you have never done before.’

  ‘Why?’ Fergis’s voice had lost much of its power.

  ‘Because we’re going to attempt to ride straight through that wall of fire, Mr. Fergis.’ Thomas Roberts touched the brim of his hat before returning his attention to the flames.

  ‘But that’s suicidal,’ Fergis gasped.

  ‘Staying here is suicidal, Mr. Fergis. How long do you imagine those Cheyenne braves are going to wait before they attack?’

  Fergis gave a huge sigh. ‘Okay. You’re in command. I think it’s plumb loco but I guess we ain’t got us a heap of choices.’

  ‘Correct,’ Thomas Roberts agreed.

  ‘You figure we can get through that fire, sir?’ Walker asked nervously.

  ‘Hopefully.’ Roberts lifted his canteen to his mouth and drank heartily as if for the last time. In his heart, he knew it might just be his final drink.

  It took only a few minutes for the burly sergeant to ride around the hundred mounted troopers and tell them what they were going to have to do. Each man had enough time to wet their whistles and dowse their horses’ heads from their canteens.

  Then they saw Major Thomas Roberts lifting his white gauntlet in the air as he readied his mount for action.

  It might have been the drumming of the Cheyenne that echoed around the ten wagons and the hundred waiting riders. It could have also been the combined beating of one hundred and sixty hearts that filled their ears. Whatever it was, it seemed as if every man under the command of the straight-backed officer could hear something as they waited.

  As the defiant flames licked at the dark sky, each man watched the white gauntlet as it hovered above the officer’s head. Then Major Roberts brought it down and spurred his horse.

  It was like the start of a chariot race from ancient times as the entire troop of cavalry drove their mounts after their leader. The miners cracked their bull-whips frantically above the horns of their teams of oxen and got their vehicles moving once again.

  They had not gone more than a hundred yards when the sound of arrows leaving bows filled the night air.

  As the riders and wagons tore across the lush valley ground through the tall, swaying grass towards the wall of fire, they saw the flaming arrows falling into their midst.

  Now they were the target for the flame-tipped Cheyenne arrows — a target which the expert marksmen had little trouble locating.

  Major Roberts heard the pitiful screams behind his mount as he galloped toward the flames ahead. There was no time to pause and look back. No time to fret about those who followed his charging horse. All he could do was continue leading the way towards the fire that blocked their escape. He knew that to hesitate for even a second could mean disaster.

  Another wave of arrows took to the air. Then another.

  Roberts slapped his reins from one side of his horse’s neck to the other, lowering his head until the brim of his hat obscured the terrifying inferno ahead.

  He was asking his faithful mount to do something no horse would ever willingly do, unless forced. He was asking it to ride straight into a wall of fire — the one thing that brought terror to all of God’s creatures. Yet there was no alternative. The safety of the prairie lay beyond the flames and he had to try and lead the way to that objective.

  Yet Roberts knew in his heart that even the bravest of mounts would more than likely refuse to cross that barricade of blazing kindling, and throw its master into or over the terrifying obstacle.

  But he had to try. He had to attempt the impossible and lead his followers through it and hopefully on to safety.

  Then a hundred fire arrows landed directly in the path of his racing horse. To the officer’s amazement and gratitude the gallant horse obeyed its master and rode straight over them and crashed into the blazing wall.

  Roberts felt his uniform burning as he thundered on. Looking over his shoulder, the major saw Sergeant Walker racing through the gap he had left in the burning obstruction. Within seconds he heard the sound of heavy wagons driving through the small gap he had created in the barricade. Twisting around in his saddle, the officer watched as his troopers followed.

  None of his caravan of followers slowed up their pace until they had finally reached the dusty prairie, and could no longer hear the sound of Cheyenne braves’ screams ringing in their ears.

  Roberts stared at what was left of his command and knew he had lost many of them to the accurate bowmanship of the Indians. The wagons that had managed to escape showed all the signs of being in a battle. Half the oxen teams were skewered with arrows and the canvas tops had burned off the metal loops.

  Sergeant Walker dismounted and started counting the troopers.

  ‘Seventy three, John,’ Major Roberts said as he slid from his saddle and sat on the hard ground holding his reins in shaking hands.

  ‘Only seventy-three of our boys made it, sir?’ Walker gasped as he stopped beside his exhausted superior.

  Roberts nodded solemnly.

  There were no more words from either man. There was nothing either could say.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The pair of very different hunters who ascended stealthily through the thousands of straight trees could not be heard by neither man nor beast. Theirs was a skill honed through necessity to a razor-sharp edge. Iron Eyes knew he was about to do what he did best, and take the life of the vermin that had attempted to kill him and Silent Wolf.

  The young Cheyenne had never hunted anything except game before, yet he too felt something stirring deep within him as he trailed the taller figure.

  Someone had tried to kill them and without the intervention of Iron Eyes, might have succeeded. Silent Wolf owed the bounty hunter his life, and to a Cheyenne, it was a debt he knew that he was duty-bound to honor.

  A hundred questions filtered through the youth’s mind as they continued climbing upward. To Iron Eyes, however, there were no questions. For this was what he had become: either the dispenser of justice or the victim of its lethal vengeance.

  Somewhere up there in the forest of countless trees, there were men who had tried to kill either his companion or himself. Iron Eyes knew that it must be he who was the target. He had killed so many Wanted men during his life as a bounty hunter. Each victim had either a father, brother or son who could and would seek retribution given half a chance.

  The bullets were meant for him. Only him. Iron Eyes was certain of that one simple fact. The Indian who moved alongside him had no enemies. He was still pure like the forest which surrounded them. His soul had not yet been tainted by the evil of the outside world.

  As the bounty hunter screwed up his eyes and clutched one of his prized Navy Colts in his bony hand, he knew this was a mission he should be venturing into alone.

  Glancing back into the face of the handsome brave who moved like himself, unheard by anyone or anything, Iron Eyes wondered whether it was true that Silent Wolf could actually turn into a wolf. The weary bounty hunter knew it was impossible for a man to change form, but there was something about the Indian that was special.

  Then Iron Eyes’ thoughts sharpened once again on to the job in hand. Whoever had opened up on the pair high up in the clearing, wanted only his blood. Iron Eyes gritted his razor-sharp teeth and knew that whatever lay ahead of them, they would meet it
together.

  However much Iron Eyes wanted to meet his fate alone, Silent Wolf was too naive to realize that the gaunt figure in the long coat beside him needed no help.

  Death had ridden on the skeletal figure’s shoulder for his entire life. It was the only companion Iron Eyes knew would never desert him; it would always be there, waiting for the moment when it was his time to meet the Grim Reaper. Death was the only thing Iron Eyes had ever been able to rely upon.

  The three Creedy brothers had reached the clearing from which they had seen the two riders flee. Bob Creedy vainly searched for signs that their bullets had found their marks on the hard ground, as his brothers sat atop their mounts clutching their pistols.

  ‘Any blood, Bob?’ Frankie asked his older brother.

  ‘Nope,’ Bob Creedy replied, as his keen hearing told him that there were others moving around in the darkness of the heavily-wooded area that surrounded them. ‘You hear that?’

  Treat chewed on the butt of an unlit cigar and looked around the clearing nervously. ‘Yeah, I heard something,’ he replied.

  Bob indicated that they should dismount. His brothers did so hurriedly and led their mounts towards some shadows.

  ‘How many?’ Frankie asked, as he tied the reins of their three horses to a stout tree trunk and knelt beside his crouching brothers.

  ‘Hush up,’ Treat demanded.

  Bob raised a finger to his lips and strained to listen to the faint movements he knew were heading in their direction. He was no hunter like others who roamed this forest. He, like all the Creedys, was a killer and a thief.

  ‘Over there!’Treat pointed.

  Bob nodded. ‘Aim true, boys. I figure we just found old Iron Eyes.’

  They raised their weaponry and aimed in the direction of the sound, which was coming closer. They did not have to wait very long.