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

by Rory Black

  ‘There they are.’

  The rain continued to pour down over the three men who stood outside the bank. Toke Darrow unlocked the large door of the bank and entered with Fern and Jade a few steps behind. A few seconds later light escaped from around the window-blinds as oil-lamps were lit inside the building.

  Jardine turned and looked at his bald friend.

  ‘They’re gonna take it all! I bet you that they’ll steal every damn cent we’ve accumulated over the last few months.’

  Cole pushed a hand across the mouth of his friend.

  ‘Hush up! They’ll hear you.’

  Henry Jardine checked both his sixguns and stepped out on to the porch of the telegraph office. His eyes screwed up as he stared at the bank.

  ‘Damned if I care anymore. I ain’t letting them young bastards steal our loot.’

  Luther Cole watched his partner step down into the rain and start walking towards the bank. The bald outlaw shook his head and exhaled heavily.

  Against his better judgment, he reluctantly followed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Only a few hours earlier little Johnny Cooper opened his eyes and stared up at the brooding sky as yet another lightning-flash traced through the black clouds. Whether it had been the sound of thunder exploding or the incessant rain that had filled the ditch into which he and his dead mount had fallen at the height of the battle, his confused mind could not work out. All he knew for sure was that he was somehow still alive. There was a merciless pain inside his head that felt like a red-hot branding-iron being skewered into his brain. Johnny slowly sat upright and rubbed the rain from his eyes as the pain eased.

  The youngster tried to recall the events that had led to him ending up in the dark ditch. The harder he tried to recover the elusive memories, the more his head seemed to pound. He could remember being in the thick of the fighting when his gun had run out of bullets. How the smell of the gunsmoke had filled his nostrils as he had desperately fought just to remain alive whilst all around him were dying.

  Then Johnny’s memory faded into a confused mixture of grey.

  With rain pounding into his face, he clawed at the wet sand and crawled up the side of the ditch until he was able to look across the desert.

  As sheets of lighting illuminated the scene of brutal futility, he focused on the bodies that were scattered for as far as he could see.

  It was a sight that was too much to stomach.

  The youngster buckled and was sick.

  Then he saw the Apache riders. They moved their ponies through the maze of dead men, checking their handiwork. The Apache braves used their war lances to poke at what remained of Johnny’s comrades. Further away, other Indians were collecting their dead and throwing the bodies over the backs of bedraggled horses.

  Johnny slid back down the wet sand and dragged his rifle from the scabbard beneath his lifeless horse’s saddle. He checked its magazine. It was still fully loaded. He then made his way through the water along the ditch until he was level with the flat desert.

  He had never felt so alone before.

  Darkness was his only friend and companion now.

  Anger filled his pounding heart. He moved as fast as his youthful legs could carry him towards the Apache braves. Every time the sky lit up, the young Texas Ranger stopped and pretended to be another of the dead.

  Closer and closer he managed to get to one of the native horsemen.

  He had no idea what he was doing. Vengeance was driving him forward and all he wanted to do was kill. Had the sight of so much carnage twisted his once-innocent soul?

  His head pounded as he rested on his belly with the primed rifle in his hands. Another blinding pain tore mercilessly through his head. He raised his hand and allowed his fingers to touch the side of his temple where most of the pain seemed to be.

  Then Johnny realized why he could not shake off the war drums inside his skull.

  Johnny’s fingers ran along his eyebrow until their tips felt the hole where once skin and bone had been. A sharp pain made him withdraw the fingers. He blinked hard trying to gather his thoughts as the true horror of the situation dawned on him.

  Cautiously, he returned his fingers to the side of what remained of his head.

  Somehow, the brave Ranger had lost most of the right side of his temple. A gaping hole of two inches stretched from just above the eye to his ear.

  A cold chill overwhelmed him.

  He had been shot in the head!

  The youngster knew that if he were to have even the slightest hope of living, he would have to get away from this place. He had to find a doctor who might be able to repair the damage to his pounding skull.

  But he could not escape from the desert on foot.

  He needed to get himself a horse. All the stray mounts that had survived the earlier confrontation had been taken as prizes by the victorious Apaches.

  Johnny knew that he would have somehow to relieve one of the Indians of his mounts. That was far easier said than done. For to part an Apache from his pony was virtually impossible without killing the brave first.

  Johnny managed to remain still even though he could see the legs of the approaching pony through the driving rain. He watched as the war lance was thrust down into one of his dead comrades after another.

  A dozen sticks of dynamite could not have made more noise as thunder spewed out its venom far above. The sand beneath his belly shook.

  Slowly, Johnny turned his head and stared out across the makeshift battlefield as more flashes of lightning lit up the savage scene.

  The rider was getting closer, but the rest of the drenched warriors were more than fifty yards from where he lay. Johnny knew that if he were to fire his rifle it would alert the other Apaches.

  He was far too weak to outride them.

  What he had to do was get that pony from the Indian without alerting the rest of them.

  Johnny withdrew his finger from the trigger guard of his carbine and ran his hand along the wet barrel until he was gripping it firmly. He turned the weapon in his hands around and held it like a club.

  He knew that normally darkness was little protection from the eyes of a deadly Apache warrior, but the rain was falling hard and that might just mask his movement.

  The Indian had his head down against the rain that cut into his stony features. He was looking only at the dead Texas Rangers closest to the unshod hoofs of his pony and the bloodstained point of his lethal lance.

  Johnny defied his own fear and the blinding pain inside his head. Somehow he managed to get up on to his knees. Then he rose with the rifle gripped firmly in his hands like a battle-axe. He swallowed hard and steadied himself.

  He prayed that there would be no more lightning until he had achieved his task.

  Johnny would have only one chance to achieve his goal. One mistake would bring the rest of the Apaches down on him faster than vultures swoop on a fresh carcass. But the rain was on his back and in the Apache’s face.

  Would it be enough of an advantage?

  The young Ranger inhaled deeply and walked across the soft sand until he was directly below the mounted warrior. He swung the rifle back and paused. Just as the Apache’s eyes looked upon him, Johnny moved his entire body like a coiled spring. Every ounce of his strength was focused in the rifle as its wooden stock was propelled at the mounted brave. The wooden rifle-stock caught the Indian cleanly in the side of the head.

  The Apache reeled and dropped his lance. He tried to find his deadly knife as Johnny moved in closer and repeated his actions with even more venomous accuracy.

  There was a shattering noise as the rifle smashed into the dazed head of the Indian. The rider was lifted into the air and flew off his pony.

  Before the warrior’s limp, unconscious body had hit the ground, Johnny had grabbed the pony’s mane and thrown himself up on to the back of the animal.

  Little Johnny Cooper crouched over the animal’s neck, used his rifle as a whip and urged the pony into ac
tion. It galloped off into the dark desert.

  When the lightning once more lit up the battlefield, the young rider had disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a sodden Luther Cole who grabbed Henry Jardine’s arm and used his hefty bulk to stop the man in his tracks. He turned the outlaw around and then pushed his face up against his partner’s.

  Their eyes locked like the antlers of two stags.

  ‘Wait, you old fool. We gotta get the rest of the boys if n we intend stopping Toke and his kin.’

  Jardine bit his lip. He knew that Cole was right. There was no way that he and his long-time saddle-partner could hope to take on the Darrow brothers alone.

  ‘OK. OK. C’mon.’ He snorted.

  Both outlaws ran through the rain towards the brightly lit saloon. The rain was falling harder now. It stung any exposed flesh like crazed hornets. Cole tried to shield his head with one of his large hands.

  Hands that were as big as side plates.

  They entered the saloon. The swing-doors flapped behind them long after they had reached the top of the wide staircase. They moved along the corridor. There were three doors to either side of them. Jardine knew that the eight outlaws were behind the doors to their left.

  ‘Get the hell up, boys!’ Jardine yelled as he used his fist to bang on the three doors.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Doc Weatherspoon’s distinctive voice called out from the room at the end of the dimly lit corridor. ‘Is that you, Henry?’

  Jardine heard the bolt being slid across and waited. Doc opened the door a few inches and pushed his Colt .45 straight into the troubled face.

  ‘Have you gone plumb loco?’ Weatherspoon asked, lowering the gun and staring angrily at the soaked Jardine.

  ‘Get Skeet out of his cot, Doc,’ Jardine instructed. ‘Ain’t got time to explain. Just do it.’

  ‘What for, Henry?’ Weatherspoon grabbed the man’s sleeve before he could walk to the next room. ‘I ain’t doin’ nothing until you tell me.’

  ‘The Darrows stole the keys to the bank from me. The bastards are in there right now,’ Jardine snarled. ‘What you reckon they’re doing?’

  ‘The cheeky young pups! They’re robbin’ us.’ Weatherspoon turned, walked across the room and started screaming at his fellow-bandit, Skeet Bodine.

  Luther Cole banged on the first door as Jardine reached the middle one.

  ‘Ain’t no reply from the Claytons’ room,’ he said. ‘They must be dead drunk.’

  Pop Lomax opened the door of the room he shared with Bass and Moore and stared at Jardine before looking along the corridor at Cole.

  ‘I ain’t even sure if n they’re in there, Luther.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Cole looked puzzled.

  ‘I could be wrong, but I thought I heard them leaving an hour or so back. I’m sure I heard someone on the back stairs.’ Lomax added.

  Jardine glanced at Lomax.

  ‘Get the boys up, Pop. We got trouble.’

  Cole stared at Jardine as the man grabbed hold of the door-handle and turned it hard.

  ‘Locked! Kick it down!’

  Cole lifted up his right boot and kicked at the door. The wood shattered into a million splinters to reveal the trio of empty cots inside its interior.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ Cole asked out loud.

  Henry Jardine rubbed his jawline with his thumb, then started for the staircase. He said nothing until he reached the long bar counter and a half-full bottle of rye.

  Cole watched his friend take a long swallow of the whiskey.

  ‘You OK, Henry?’

  Jardine rested the bottle back on the wet surface and then checked both his guns in turn.

  ‘Looks like Red, Jonah and Snake have decided to team up with Toke,’ Jardine muttered. ‘Damn it all. Now we have six critters to worry about, Luther.’

  Before Cole could respond, Pop Weatherspoon led Bodine, Lomax, Bass and Moore down the long flight of stairs.

  ‘What’s so all-fired urgent, Henry?’ Skeet Bodine growled angrily. ‘I was dreamin’ of a real fancy girl I knew up in Cheyenne. I was doing OK until you woked me up.’

  Jardine pushed himself away from the bar and gritted his teeth.

  ‘Make sure your guns are loaded, boys. I reckon we’ve got ourselves a fight on our hands.’

  ‘A fight? Who is we gonna fight?’ Clay Moore yawned.

  ‘The Darrows and the Claytons!’ came the reply. ‘C’mon.’

  The seven outlaws made their way out on to the saloon porch and stood staring through the rain at the bank. Then they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs making their way along the wet street towards them from the direction of the livery stable on the outskirts of Diamond City.

  ‘Find cover away from the light!’ Jardine urged his men.

  They ran to the end of the porch and jumped down into the shadows. They crouched with guns drawn and waited for the riders to come into view.

  They did not have to wait long.

  Red Clayton rode between his cousins as they led three saddled horses and two pack-mules through the downpour.

  The still sleepy Clay Moore rose up.

  ‘It’s only Red and the boys, Henry.’ He yawned, stepping out into the light that spilled from the saloon. He started to walk toward the riders.

  ‘You don’t understand, Clay!’ Jardine called out.

  In one swift action, Rufus ‘Red’ Clayton drew one of his guns, cocked its hammer and fired. Moore spun on his heels and fell lifelessly into the wet sand.

  Jardine gasped in horror. He could not believe that men he had ridden with for so long could suddenly turn on him and the rest of the gang. More shots spewed from the guns of the horsemen and kept the six men pinned down. The side of the saloon was torn to shreds.

  ‘Stay down and return fire!’ Jardine instructed. He grabbed Cole’s shoulder. ‘We have to get behind them.’

  Cole nodded and followed him under the boardwalk. They crawled over the wet sand beneath the saloon until they reached the rear of the building.

  The two outlaws emerged into the driving rain with their guns primed for action. They ran along the dark alleyways until they reached the rear of the bank.

  The sound of gunfire was deafening from the main street and drew Jardine and Cole like magnets. No sooner had they reached the street than they too became targets for the Claytons’ and Billow’s bullets.

  Red-hot tapers of lethal lead cut through the driving rain and destroyed the side of the bank wall. Jardine knelt and fanned the hammer of his gun.

  He took great pleasure when he saw not only Snake Billow, but Jonah Clayton punched off their saddles by the sheer force of his deadly accurate bullets.

  Jardine threw himself back when he realized his gun was empty. He spotted Red Clayton whipping his mount furiously.

  ‘We better get out of here, Luther!’ Jardine said as he holstered his smoking weapon and drew its twin from his left holster.

  As he rose to his feet, his eyes saw his partner lying with his back against the bank wall. It was impossible to tell how many of the bullets had hit Cole in the chest. But even the rain could not wash away the volume of blood that still poured out of the bald man.

  Jardine felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. He hit the wall hard enough to shatter his nose and bust one of his eyebrows. A fraction of a second later he heard the gunshot.

  The outlaw fell on to his lifeless friend as pain ripped through his shoulder. He tried to move his right arm but it was broken.

  He turned and used his thumb to pull back the hammer of the gun in his left hand. Then another bullet from Red Clayton’s gun entered his right thigh.

  Jardine fired and watched his bullet hit Clayton in the chest. The outlaw dragged his reins back and fell forward over the head of his mount.

  Clayton landed less than ten feet from Jardine.

  Both outlaws raised their guns and fired.

  Both were dead shots. Both lifeless men slid si
deways into the wet sand.

  Saul Bass and the wounded Pop Lomax used the nervous horses in the middle of the street as cover. They grabbed the reins of two of the saddle-horses and made their way towards the bank. Doc Weatherspoon and Skeet Bodine had the same goal but made their way along the boardwalks. They were using the shadows for protection.

  The eyes of the four outlaws were glued to the large open front door of the bank. Yellow oil-lamplight twisted out on to the street as rain continued to pour down from the heavens.

  Weatherspoon paused outside the barber shop and cranked the Winchester trigger guard. Bodine moved to the older man’s shoulder with his smoking Remingtons still aimed at hip-level at the bank.

  ‘Ya reckon that they’re still in there, Doc?’

  ‘They ought to be, Skeet,’ Weatherspoon answered. He watched Bass and Lomax ducking into the telegraph office opposite him. ‘Where’s Henry and Luther gone?’

  ‘Just keep your mind on Toke and his brothers, Doc,’ Bodine said. He stepped closer to the alleyway that separated the barber shop from the bank. He looked around the corner and saw the three bodies. ‘Damn!’

  ‘What you seen, Skeet?’

  ‘Luther and Henry are dead, old-timer,’ Bodine replied.

  Before Weatherspoon could utter another word, the door of the bank was abruptly kicked open and the three Darrow brothers came out shooting.

  As always, the trio of outlaws used their deadly skills to fire their weaponry in all directions at once. It was if they were joined together. Thunder exploded above Diamond City as bolts of lightning sought out and found the bell in the church-tower a few hundred yards away. The sound of the bell echoed above the gunfire.

  Bullets shattered the window of the telegraph office and Pop Lomax fell backwards. Saul Bass fared little better when he moved to the window and blasted both his guns at the Darrows.

  He saw Fern Darrow stagger as one of his bullets caught the youngest of the brothers in the left foot. Then Jade Darrow fired his last bullet and caught Bass in the throat. Blood exploded from above the bandanna.

  Doc Weatherspoon used his rifle but was no match for the men he aimed at. They had already filled him with lead before he had managed to crank the rifle’s mechanism for the third time. The old outlaw buckled and fell.