The Ghost of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western Book 8)

by Rory Black

  Chapter Four

  Apache Wells had been the northernmost Texas Ranger outpost for more than a decade. The military fortress held more than two hundred of the famed battalion of men who had enlisted to protect the Lone Star state from a multitude of enemies.

  Colonel Caufield Cotter had been there from the beginning and yet he still appeared no different. His was a mission that had taken on almost biblical proportions during the previous few years. Most Apache tribes had never fully succumbed to the ever-growing influx of settlers who continued to flow into their ancestral lands. The Texas Rangers were fully stretched just trying to protect its people from bands of Apache, and yet now there was a new problem.

  The outlaw gangs had begun to group together in large numbers and were destroying everything in their path.

  Colonel Cotter had always managed to keep things under control, until now. Now he was being torn apart. His oath to Texas had always come first. He was there to protect those who could not defend themselves. But even with his expertise in deploying his men he knew that the news that over ninety Rangers had been killed three hundred miles to the east of his outpost whilst untold numbers of people had fallen victim to the rampaging outlaws to the west, meant that his men would be stretched beyond their limits.

  Men looked at the silver-haired man and were in awe of him and his reputation. He had become more than a mere man in the eyes of his fellow Rangers. He had taken on a mantle of one who knew that he was cut from a different cloth from most of his fellow mortals.

  Eighteen perilous campaigns had only added to his seemingly mythical status. Caufield Cotter was someone who had transcended mere mortality until he had created what all his fellows regarded as a persona which had become more than human.

  His men thought that he was somehow blessed.

  But they did not see the man who remained behind closed doors in his private quarters trying to work out how to cope with more and more demands with fewer and fewer Rangers.

  He had already had to send a hundred and fifty of his men east to replace those lost at the hands of the Apache. Men he could ill afford to lose. With only fifty Rangers left, including himself and his officers, he knew that he had reached breaking point.

  Caufield Cotter simply did not have enough Rangers left at Apache Wells to fulfill his obligations to the homesteads and ranches in his district. When telegraph messages had started to flood on to his desk begging for military help from Waco, he knew that he was in serious trouble.

  After years of earning a chest full of medals and reaching an age when most men were either retired or dead, he would have to saddle up and lead his small troop into action himself.

  His eyes stared down at the scrap of paper in his hand. He felt a shiver trace its way up his straight spine. Cotter knew that he would have once again to prove himself.

  But Cotter was not the man that he had once been.

  He was nearly seventy years of age and his health far from good.

  The hooded eyes looked up at his second in command, Theo Newton. They could not disguise his anguish.

  ‘When did this arrive, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Noon, sir,’ Newton replied.

  ‘Damn!’ Cotter sighed as he rose to his feet and strode to the open window of his office. ‘We have to ride and ride damn soon, Theo.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Newton admitted. ‘Ride where?’

  Cotter waved his right hand at his fellow Ranger.

  ‘Read that message, son.’

  Lieutenant Newton did as he was ordered. The words seemed to drain every ounce of color from his tanned features.

  ‘You know this Lane Clark critter?’

  ‘Yep. I know him,’ Cotter replied. ‘The finest man never to have been in the Rangers. If he’s asking for help, then we have ourselves a serious problem.’

  Newton gulped hard. ‘But there are only fifty men on the post at the moment, sir. Far too few to engage in any sort of conflict.’

  ‘I’ve fought greater odds with fewer men, Theo,’ Colonel Cotter said honestly.

  The officer placed the wire on the desk and rubbed the corners of his dry mouth with his fingers. He looked at the elderly officer and wondered if he were still as brilliant as he had once been. Could Caufield Cotter still cut the mustard?

  ‘Speak your mind, son,’ Cotter said, his wrinkled eyes studying the face of the young man before him. A man whom he knew had some of the fire in his belly that had fuelled his own youth.

  ‘This is a long ride through Indian territory and we don’t know what’s waiting for us at the end of it, sir. If it is anything like Marshal Clark describes, it’ll be bloody. Damn bloody.’ Lieutenant Newton paused for a moment, then looked straight at his mentor. ‘Are you up to that kinda ordeal, sir?’

  Cotter smiled.

  ‘Damn. You’re a mighty brave young man and no mistake, Theo. I’d have eaten broken glass rather than say that to my superior officer when I was your age.’

  ‘Are you?’ Newton pressed for an answer to the brutal question. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’ll give it my best shot. What can I lose, after all?’ Cotter looked at the telegraph message again and then at the man before him. ‘I have to lead this troop and try to help my old pal. With you at my side and forty-eight Rangers on our tails, we ought to be able to make a difference. Right?’

  Reluctantly, Newton nodded.

  ‘Damn right!’

  ‘Better go out there and break the news to the men, Theo,’ Cotter said firmly. ‘I’ll expect the troop ready to leave Apache Wells for Waco in one hour’s time.’

  The Texas Ranger saluted and left the office. As the door closed, Caufield Cotter felt another chill ripple up his backbone.

  This time he knew it was fear.

  ~*~

  The five horsemen had made good progress. Two days and nights had seen them leave the relative prosperity of Waco far behind. Then they had led their four heavily laden packhorses across one of the most fertile cattle grazing ranges in Texas until a wall of sand-rock ridges loomed up before them.

  A line of towns fringed the range at the foot of the jagged ridge. They survived by living off the wealth of the cattle ranchers who spent their vast fortunes on everything they required, from places to bank their money to places where they could buy provisions and supplies. The small towns could provide everything the cattlemen needed. At a price.

  Usually after sundown the towns’ lights appeared like a jeweled necklace strung at the base of the ridge as riders approached from the range. Yet only the moonlight gave any clue to the nature of the buildings.

  The experienced Lane Carter had ridden this trail so many times that he believed he could do it blindfolded. His knowledge of the terrain had proved invaluable as he reined in and stared towards the small town of Porter’s Bluff.

  Yet there was no light ahead of the five riders. Not one of the towns had any illumination.

  ‘What’s wrong, Lane?’ Col Drake asked, easing his own mount alongside the marshal’s tall stallion.

  ‘Can you see any lights, Col?’ Marshal Carter asked as his gloved hands kept the head of his powerful horse raised. ‘Any at all?’

  Drake screwed up his eyes.

  ‘Hope. There ain’t no light anywhere.’

  ‘That’s bad!’ Clark rubbed his chin with his right hand, then instinctively returned it to the pearl-handled grip of his holstered gun. His fingers curled around the weapon. ‘I ain’t never ridden this way before without there being any sign of life. The saloons alone can be heard from one town to the next ifn the wind is blowing off the cliffs.’

  Pete Hail moved his own gelding next to his two companions.

  ‘So what? Maybe they all got themselves some shut-eye.’

  Carter turned and looked at the younger man.

  ‘It’s only an hour since sundown. There are at least a half-dozen towns between here and Diamond City. When it gets dark, folks light candles and oil-lamps. If there ain�
��t no light it means … ’

  ‘There ain’t no folks.’ Drake finished the sentence.

  ‘No living ones, anyways.’ Lane Clark sighed.

  Drake stood in his stirrups and studied the line of poles which stretched off in three directions. The wires seemed intact to the deputy.

  ‘Did you get a message from here, Lane?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep. This and all the rest of them,’ Clark confirmed. ‘But then the wires stopped coming.’

  ‘Them outlaws couldn’t have killed everyone,’ Drake said, easing his rump back on to his saddle. ‘Maybe they high-tailed it out after Jardine and his vermin showed up.’

  ‘You seen any folks on the way here from Waco, Col?’

  ‘Nope.’ Drake shrugged.

  ‘Exactly.’ The marshal gathered his reins together.

  Tom Rigby spat a lump of goo before using his index finger to hook the well-chewed tobacco from around his gums. He flicked the spittle-filled lump at the ground.

  ‘I reckon there could be folks there, Lane. Mighty scared folks not wanting them outlaws to return. What you think?’

  ‘Tom’s right, Lane.’ Bobby Smith smiled. ‘They might be hiding in case the outlaws come back again.’

  The marshal nodded.

  ‘You could be right. C’mon. We’re goin’ in!’

  Chapter Five

  Even the darkness of night offered Iron Eyes no sanctuary as his ravaged body desperately fought to regain its strength. For without the blistering heat of the sun, the night saw even more deadly creatures emerge from their lairs to seek out their chosen prey. And the severely weakened bounty hunter was that prey. The twisting canyons became alive with nocturnal hunters of every shape and size. A thousand types of deadly insect, spider and lizard came out from their hiding-places, as did the wolves and mountain cats.

  All with just one basic instinct controlling their every action. To kill and eat and not be killed or eaten.

  It was a nightly ritual that the bounty hunter had so far survived. Yet for each of the previous ten nights his ice-cold eyes had watched the pair of mountain cats get bolder and bolder as they homed in on his weak body.

  So it was as the sun gave way once again to the bright moon.

  Iron Eyes had managed to move a dozen yards along the canyon wall but still had no idea how far he was from anything remotely resembling civilization. For the man who was feared throughout the West, civilization meant only three things.

  A soft hotel bed, a plentiful supply of cigars and a bottle of anything remotely similar to whiskey. Humanity could keep all the rest of its trimmings. As long as he could drink the fiery distillation, he would willingly sacrifice the bed and the smokes.

  But each of those items were just vague memories now. Things his tired mind conjured up to remind him that this place was somewhere to escape from.

  Not somewhere he would willingly die in.

  His long fingers had become even more bony during his enforced stay in this God-forsaken place. Yet they were starting once again to move with the flexibility that had allowed him to become a deadly shot with either hand.

  He continued to check the pair of Navy Colts and ensure that they were free of the dust and sand that filled his eyes and mouth. He needed these weapons to be in full working order if he were to continue to survive the perils of Devil’s Canyon.

  Then he heard the noise that had haunted him for the previous week and a half.

  An ear-piercing series of catcalls rang out over the jagged peaks as one puma communicated with its mate. They came from two different directions and taunted the trapped man. The hunter in Iron Eyes knew that it meant the pumas had returned and had his scent in their nostrils.

  The bounty hunter’s steely gaze darted from one black shadow to another as he attempted to see his hunters. But they were experts at moving through the ragged peaks unseen. Only their haunting noise gave him any clue to where the slim athletic animals might be.

  The mountain lions had a strange, almost human cry which echoed all about him.

  It chilled the bones of all men who heard it, all men except Iron Eyes. He had spent too many years hunting every known creature to be alarmed by the sound of large cats as they vainly attempted to spook their chosen prey. Their claws and fangs were no match for the bullets that had torn his body apart over the years he had roamed the West.

  If they did get the better of him, Iron Eyes knew that they would kill him swiftly. For they were driven by hunger and not malice like so many of his enemies.

  Then he saw them.

  Two magnificent animals.

  Iron Eyes peered intently into the moonlit ridge and watched the silhouettes of the animals as they closed the distance between themselves and the injured bounty hunter.

  Every night they had grown bolder.

  At first Iron Eyes had managed to make them turn tail by shouting at them. A few nights later, even his most hearty of calls had not discouraged their advance.

  He had wasted ten bullets in as many nights frightening them away, but even that had started to hold no fear for the pair of mountain lions.

  Their feline brains had confused his random gunfire with an inability to hit his targets. They were now close enough to smell the injured man’s scent on the evening air. The dried blood drew them like flies to an outhouse.

  Iron Eyes checked his saddlebags and found the twenty remaining .36 caliber bullets in the crumbling cardboard box. Not enough to wage war even on pumas. He had never been so low on ammunition in all his grown days.

  From now on, he knew that he had to make every bullet count.

  He had to kill!

  The matched pair of lightweight weapons held six bullets apiece. Thirty-two rounds was all he had between life and death.

  Iron Eyes knew that he could not afford to waste a single shell.

  He narrowed his eyes, gritted his teeth and focused on the large cats as they leapt from one boulder to another on their descent to the canyon floor. This time they were coming to get him. They had lost all fear of the deadly bounty hunter.

  At last they were both on the sand and less than thirty feet from where he sat propped up against the ragged rocks. Their eyes seemed to glow as they moved in and out of the black shadows, staring at him.

  It had taken the better part of a year for Iron Eyes to regain his lethal instincts. His hands clutched the Colts as his thumbs pulled back the hammers until they fully locked into position.

  He rested his head back until he could feel his matted hair being pushed into the nape of his neck against the rocks. Never blinking, his narrowed eyes continued to focus on the pair of pumas.

  They had committed themselves and he would attempt to give them a fight. He would not allow them to do what so many others had tried to do in the past. He would not let them win this battle.

  For what felt like an eternity, they had wanted to kill him.

  Iron Eyes had tried to dissuade them with his guns but now knew he would have to try and destroy them before they destroyed him. It gave him no satisfaction killing anything that he could neither eat nor get bounty upon.

  There would be no profit in this night’s work.

  None!

  The only thing he would gain would be more unwanted visitors when the scent of their freshly spilled blood drifted on the warm night air which continued to pass through the maze of canyons.

  There were plenty of other predators in Devil’s Canyon waiting for the chance to get a free meal. He had heard wolves and coyotes howling at night since the moon had returned to the star-filled sky above him a week earlier.

  Iron Eyes knew that there was no way he could fend off an attack by a pack of hungry wild dogs. He simply did not yet have the strength to fight.

  His only power rested in the guns he held in his hands.

  His unblinking eyes burned into the eerie blue light and tried to penetrate the black shadows. The pumas continued to make their blood chilling screams.

  The barrels of
the Navy Colts tracked both cats’ every movement without the bounty hunter even realizing it. His hands had learned long ago how to aim the long seven-inch barreled weaponry without any conscious thought. Even during his worst moments, when he had first found himself in Devil’s Canyon, he had still been able to rely on his ability to kill.

  Then when both the pumas had moved into the blackest of shadows on the rockface opposite the bounty hunter, the pair of mountain lions stopped their pacing.

  Iron Eyes inhaled deeply.

  He tried to lock every muscle into place as his trigger-fingers teased the cold steel. He waited with the cocked guns held firmly in his outstretched hands.

  For what seemed a lifetime, Iron Eyes patiently waited and watched the shadows. He knew what the pumas were doing for he had done the same thing on countless occasions.

  They were getting ready to strike!

  Iron Eyes felt the weight of the Navy Colts straining every muscle in his emaciated body. The lightweight guns felt like blacksmith’s anvils to the disheveled figure as he rested his wrists upon his thin thighs.

  ‘C’mon!’ he urged under his breath. ‘I’m ready!’

  Then with a crescendo of terrifying roars they came!

  The huge paws of the large cats ate up the distance as they thundered across the surface of the soft sand towards their immobile prey. As one and then the other puma sprang like coiled springs into the air, Iron Eyes squeezed the triggers of his guns.

  The deafening sound of the Colts rang out through the arid landscape.

  Both animals crashed violently into him. He felt the claws tearing at his skin. The sheer force of their full weight slammed into him. The back of his head hit the rocks behind him. His smoking Colts were knocked from his hands. Then he felt warm blood soaking him like a bursting dam.

  Iron Eyes somehow pushed the lifeless animals’ heavy bodies off him and then he stared at his handiwork. Both his bullets had found their mark.

  The cats had been hit dead center as they had leapt off the ground. Blood still poured from the wounds.