The Iron Eyes Collection

by Rory Black

  Then he decided to outwit the man. If he could not force the blade down into his opponent, he would do the opposite. Iron Eyes pulled his knife hand up and out of the grip of the guard. Then a punch caught his chin as the frantic man fought for his life.

  The bounty hunter could taste the blood in his mouth. He spat it into the eyes of his prey. As the man’s left hand went towards his eyes to wipe away the bloody spittle Iron Eyes stabbed the long blade into the chest of the temporarily blinded guard. He felt it go right through the chest.

  He dragged it out and then repeated the action a dozen times more. He only stopped when he was certain that the guard was as dead as his companion a few yards away. He pulled the Bowie knife out of the bloody chest and wiped its blade on the dead man’s sleeve.

  The fight had exhausted him. Sweat poured from his scalp and traced down along the ancient scars. His cold narrowed eyes watched as it dripped from the ends of the strands of limp hair on to the body between his kneeling legs. He pushed his long fingers through the wet wisps and looked back at the men who seemed to be rejoicing wildly. Iron Eyes wondered whether they might not be celebrating a little prematurely.

  Iron Eyes forced himself up on to his feet. He pushed the knife down into the neck of his boot and leaned against the nearest tree.

  His chest heaved as his pitifully thin body tried to suck in enough air to fill his lungs. His eyes narrowed as he studied the branches of the trees, which formed a canopy and reached far over the wall of fencing.

  Iron Eyes reached up and grabbed at the nearest branch. He pulled his lightweight body up off the ground and into the dense broad-leafed refuge.

  He carefully steadied himself on the widest of one of the tree’s branches. One that went out over the fence.

  Iron Eyes spread his arms wide and walked out along the branch, using those that were higher to maintain his balance. When he could see the ground of the narrow lane below him he sat down and dangled his long legs in mid-air. Iron Eyes lowered himself until he was hanging only a few feet above the dusty ground of the dark lane.

  For what seemed like an eternity he just hung by his bony hands and looked down at the ground below his feet. Thoughts of the savage leg-wound filled his thoughts. Iron Eyes knew that if he were to land badly and it were to start bleeding again, it would be doubtful whether he would have time to stanch its bleeding a second time.

  Mustering every ounce of his dogged determination, he released his grip and dropped to the ground. The bounty hunter steadied himself, then glanced down at his torn pants’ leg and the gruesome wound it revealed. The cauterized flesh was inflamed from the brutal fight he had just survived, yet the skin was still somehow intact.

  With the raised voices of Fontaine and his cohorts still ringing in his ears, he headed straight towards his grey horse.

  Ignoring the pain which racked his entire body, Iron Eyes grabbed the saddle horn and threw himself on to his saddle. He poked both boots into his stirrups and tugged the reins until they came free of the overhead branch.

  He dragged the neck of the horse to his right.

  Iron Eyes spurred.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The land beyond the fertile range was little more than countless miles of dry sand and desert vegetation. Even a black moonless sky could not slow the progress of the solitary rider who rode beneath its magnificent canopy. The dim eerie light cast an awe-inspiring atmosphere across the flat plain. But the lone horseman did not notice that. All he could think about was reaching his destination before Fontaine and his band of deadly killers.

  As was his way, Iron Eyes did not show the horse beneath him any mercy. He spurred, cursed and whipped the animal and forced it to continue galloping far beyond its own endurance. He had only one thought in his mind. He had to reach the way station at Apache Wells and warn Carmichael and his military escort of the impending attack by Fontaine and his hired guns.

  There was no sense of duty in the bounty hunter as his mount continued to obey his new master’s brutal will.

  Iron Eyes was driven by only one motive.

  He wanted the reward money he was owed and knew that if anyone could get it for him, it was the man he sought.

  The hoofs of the grey raced across the sandy terrain beneath the black star-filled sky.

  As with all the horses that had the misfortune to find themselves being ridden by the bounty hunter, its flesh was covered in blood as the spurs continued to be thrust into it.

  Iron Eyes stood in his stirrups as the horse thundered across the desert. He could see the distant light of flickering torches against the black sky.

  He had spotted the way station.

  There was no more pain now. Iron Eyes felt nothing as he drove the exhausted animal beneath him directly towards the distant torchlights which lured him towards them.

  Apache Wells was more than just another way station. It had once been a trading post when the land was filled with hunters, trappers and Indians. Built of adobe bricks which, at the base, were over six feet wide and covered in three additional inches of mud, mud which had been baked harder than cement in the blazing Western sun. The high walls which surrounded the buildings, stables and corrals had parapets designed to enable those inside to repel any attack from outside. Two large gates set at either end of the long courtyard enabled entry and exit of stagecoaches without their being required to turn around in the restricted space between the buildings.

  Yet for all its defensive features, it appeared to the rider who approached to be deserted.

  Iron Eyes’ keen vision soon noted that there were no men guarding the way station’s high walls. He galloped closer. The gates were wide open.

  The bounty hunter drove on furiously towards his goal. He only slowed when he reached the sturdy adobe walls. Iron Eyes reined back and held the lathered-up mount in check.

  He stared through the open gates.

  It was quiet. Too damn quiet.

  There should be at least twenty men inside the way station, Iron Eyes thought to himself. Could they all be asleep? The question lingered in the mind of the grim-faced rider. That seemed impossible. Had the men who ran this remote fortress become so complacent that they no longer took even the most basic of precautions?

  He found it difficult to comprehend. In a land full of badmen and the scum that had been driven from more civilized states, it just seemed inexplicable to the bounty hunter.

  Iron Eyes gripped his reins tightly and stared around the courtyard as his horse moved nervously beneath his saddle. Could his suspicions be correct? Was the way station deserted? He knew that there was only one way to discover the truth. He had to venture inside the walled stagecoach depot.

  His eyes glanced up at the wooden board that spanned the distance between the walls to each side of the gates. Even in the starlight he could still read the name.

  Apache Wells.

  At least he knew that he had managed to find the place that he had sought for so many gruelling hours of riding across the dry sandy terrain.

  But why were there no people to be seen?

  There were lanterns lit along the two buildings that stood a hundred yards away beside a corral and stables. People must have lit the lanterns at sundown, he thought.

  Iron Eyes tapped his spurs and urged the grey into the long yard. The mount had just cleared the doors when Iron Eyes heard something.

  It was the sound of humming.

  He rose in his stirrups and dragged a gun from one of his deep pockets. Then he felt the rope encircle his chest. Before he could claw back on the gun’s hammer the rope tightened.

  Iron Eyes felt himself being dragged over the cantle of his saddle. He slid over the hind quarters of the grey before falling.

  He hit the ground hard.

  As his eyes opened he saw the starlight trace along the barrels of rifles as men came down the ladders from the parapets.

  Every barrel was aimed straight at him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The
half-dozen troopers had done a good job on their unsuspecting prisoner. They had used the stocks of their Springfield rifles to knock any resistance from the bounty hunter, even though he had been winded and helpless after hitting the hard ground when hauled off his saddle. The troopers had tightened the rope around Iron Eyes until he could hardly breathe. It ensured that he remained helpless as they beat him mercilessly. Blood flowed from a deep gash above his left eye where the imprint of a boot could still be plainly seen in the lantern-light. Only after satisfying their basic instincts did the troopers decide to drag their dazed trophy into the way station’s main building.

  They threw Iron Eyes to the floor.

  Roped like a maverick at branding time, the bounty hunter lay on his side and stared at the men who paraded triumphantly around him. There were war drums ringing inside his head, which almost blotted out the laughter that came from the mouths of his captors. Almost but not quite.

  He wanted to kill them all!

  Given half a chance, he would have!

  Few creatures managed to arouse the venom of the bounty hunter quite as much as cavalrymen. Iron Eyes had encountered thousands of them over the years, and they all seemed to be cast from the same mould. None could equal the basic integrity of the average Apache. Iron Eyes hated most Indians, especially Apaches, but they were still better than troopers in his judgement. Most enlisted men were little more than mindless trash. They were soldiers because they could do nothing else. Without orders, most of them reverted to being little better than animals in his estimation.

  Even as blood dripped into his eyes from the gash on his temple, Iron Eyes saw a door open to his left. His eyes darted to it and viewed the overweight Herbert Carmichael as he entered in his long nightshirt. Even dazed, Iron Eyes could not take his eyes off the beautiful Florence, who was almost hidden by her father’s immense bulk as he walked towards him.

  ‘What have we here?’ Carmichael asked as he looked down on the troopers’ roped prisoner.

  Captain Bob Sherwood walked from the opposite side of the room across the floorboards. He brought his highly polished boots to a halt a few inches away from the face of Iron Eyes.

  ‘Who is this creature, Captain?’ Carmichael continued.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir,’ Sherwood replied. He looked across the man on the floor to his sentries. ‘What is this, Sergeant? Where did it come from?’

  ‘Injun! We seen this critter heading here, Captain,’ the burly sergeant said. ‘He was headed from across the plain. We let him ride in and then roped him. Yep, he’s an Injun all right! Looks like an Apache to me.’

  A furious Iron Eyes forced himself up until he was in a kneeling position. He looked through the strands of bloody hair at the officer and raged.

  ‘Apache? I ain’t no damn Apache!’ he snarled. ‘I hates Apaches! I hates all Injuns!’

  Sherwood leaned over and looked straight into the gruesome features of the hogtied man. He smiled, then taunted the bounty hunter.

  ‘If ya ain’t an Apache, what are ya?’

  ‘They call me Iron Eyes!’ the kneeling man growled. ‘I’m a bounty hunter and I came here to warn ya that this place is gonna be attacked by a bunch of badmen dressed up as redskins! Damned if I know why I bothered now after the reception committee ya gave me!’

  Sherwood straightened up. ‘Badmen dressed up as redskins? Is that so? I think that my men might have bin a little rough with ya. Ya brains bin kicked loose by the sound of it, Iron Eyes!’

  A ripple of amused laughter went around the room.

  ‘And who are these badmen you mentioned, Iron Eyes?’ Carmichael asked wryly.

  Iron Eyes looked up at the territorial secretary governor. His icy stare stopped the man from laughing.

  ‘A critter named Fontaine! Brewster Fontaine! He owns this territory and he don’t want the likes of you bringing no civilization here! He got himself a whole bunch of outlaws on his payroll and they’re disguising themselves as redskins to come here and wipe most of ya out. He intends leaving a few of ya alive to tell them folks back East that this place is just too dangerous to even consider turning into a state!’

  Herbert Carmichael looked at the captain. His expression was grim. He cleared his throat loudly.

  ‘Fontaine! That’s the name of the man that I’m meant to meet up with, Sherwood! Brewster Fontaine! He is meant to help me arrange an election in these parts!’

  Sherwood pointed at his troopers.

  ‘Pick this man up!’

  They did.

  Iron Eyes stood and glanced at the men who surrounded him with a hatred he could not hide. He looked at the young female standing behind her broad-shouldered father. She seemed out of place here, he thought. This was no land for such an innocent.

  ‘Any chance of ya gettin’ this rope off me, Captain?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to suck some air into my lungs!’

  Sherwood nodded and pointed to his men.

  ‘Release him!’ he commanded. ‘Give him back whatever weaponry you relieved him of!’

  Again the troopers obeyed.

  Iron Eyes felt the rope slacken and fall to his feet. He rubbed his forearms in an attempt to get the blood flowing back into his long thin arms. He accepted the matched pair of Navy Colts from one of the troopers. The thought of killing all the men in blue flashed through his mind for a brief moment. He then dropped the guns into the deep pockets of his coat.

  ‘I still reckon he’s a filthy Injun, Captain!’ the sergeant said gruffly.

  Iron Eyes turned and looked straight into the faces of the troopers. He concentrated on the man with the stripes on his shirt-sleeves.

  ‘Injun?’ he snarled.

  The sergeant went to speak again. He did not manage it. The bounty hunter’s bony knuckles caught him on the end of his whiskered chin. There was a cracking noise as teeth shattered. The trooper staggered and then fell heavily on to his back. He nursed his jaw for a few moments before rolling over and crawling to the nearest spittoon. He knelt beside it and spat blood and broken fragments of teeth into the brass vessel.

  Sherwood inhaled.

  ‘I could have you arrested for that!’ he told Iron Eyes.

  ‘And I could kill the whole bunch of ya faster than ya can blink!’ the bounty hunter boasted. ‘But it ain’t my way! I don’t waste bullets on folks that ain’t got bounty on their heads!’

  ‘Steady, men!’ Carmichael urged. ‘Let’s not fight amongst ourselves!’

  Again Iron Eyes looked at the frightened female. He lowered his fists and nodded.

  ‘Why did you come here, Iron Eyes?’ Sherwood asked. ‘What is ya motive to warn us? Ya don’t seem the sort to give a damn about anyone except yaself!’

  ‘Money!’ Iron Eyes snarled as he touched the bleeding cut above his eye. ‘Bounty money! I’m owed and I want payin’! Figured that if I warned ya all, ya might make sure I get my bounty!’

  Carmichael nodded.

  ‘I see that you are a man who speaks his mind! You cut straight to the chase! I like that!’

  Iron Eyes wiped the blood off his fingers on to his shirt-front.

  ‘I killed over twenty of them outlaws that works for Fontaine ‘coz they tried to kill me! Trouble is he owns the bank in Hope and wouldn’t pay me!’

  Carmichael chuckled.

  ‘I can see his point! It must be upsetting having to pay someone for killing one’s own employees!’

  ‘Ya gonna make sure I gets my bounty or not?’ Iron Eyes snapped. ‘Make up ya mind, we ain’t got much time!’

  Carmichael shrugged.

  ‘I shall, if you remain here and help us fight off this attack. Should it actually happen, that is!’

  ‘Ya doubtin’ my word, Carmichael?’ the bounty hunter stepped closer to the large man. ‘Ya think I’m lyin’?’

  ‘Are you willing to stay here and fight with us?’ Sherwood repeated the question.

  Iron Eyes looked at the silent female again. She was terrified by his appearance. He had seen that
look so many times before that he had grown used to it. He sighed and then looked back to the army captain.

  ‘I’ll stick around!’ Iron Eyes said. ‘I’ll make sure that nothin’ happens to that little lady!’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ Carmichael pushed his daughter behind him.

  ‘I mean that you boys can fend for yaselves, but that girl can’t! Fontaine’s critters will have to kill me to get to her! Savvy?’

  The secretary governor nodded.

  ‘I think so!’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘When do you think these outlaws will attack?’

  Iron Eyes looked at the men who surrounded him and raised his voice so that none of them could misunderstand his words.

  ‘Listen up! We ain’t got much time! Fontaine can’t be far behind me! That means he has maybe forty or more gunmen headed straight down our throats! We have to secure this place so that they can’t just ride in! Get the way station crew out of their beds and arm them! We have to man them walls and start shootin’ as soon as they gets into range!’

  ‘I give the orders here, Iron Eyes!’ Sherwood said waving his finger at the bounty hunter.

  Iron Eyes stepped toe to toe with the cavalry officer and looked him in the eye.

  ‘Not any more, Captain!’ he argued. ‘Not any more!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Only the light of a million stars suspended from a black sky had guided the formidable collection of riders to within a mere mile of Apache Wells. The forty-one horsemen had thundered across the arid wastelands towards the distant fiery beacons. Drawn like moths to a naked flame, the lethal army of killers had made good time. Fuelled by hard liquor and the promise of rewards beyond their wildest dreams, they had followed their leader like a pack of ravenous wolves seeking out fresh prey.

  Just like Iron Eyes before them, they had spotted the torches on the way station’s high walls long before they had actually been able to make out its adobe walls bathed in starlight.

  Like a warlord of ancient times, Brewster Fontaine had led his men from the front for the entire journey. It was something which he had never done before, but he had never faced the possibility of having his entire fortune stripped from him before either.