by Rory Black
He would collect the bounty on their collective heads.
Iron Eyes placed a hand on his silver saddle horn and stepped into his stirrup. He rose up from the ground and swung his right leg over his ornate Mexican saddle cantle effortlessly. He poked the toe of his mule-eared boot into his right stirrup and then gathered up his reins. His bony hands held the long leathers as his spurs tapped into the flanks of the magnificent stallion.
The high-shouldered mount started to walk across the hoof tracks as its notorious master leaned back and plucked a whiskey bottle from one of the satchels of his saddlebags. He pulled its cork and finished the last two inches of amber liquor in one long swallow.
The whiskey warmed his innards.
Iron Eyes tossed the bottle over his shoulder and then cracked his reins across the cream coloured tail of the palomino. The horse gathered pace as its ominous master sat like a living ghost astride the stallion.
As the long legs of the mighty horse strode through the frosty mist toward Ten Strike, Iron Eyes propped his painfully lean frame against the saddle cantle.
His mane of long black hair bounced on his wide shoulders as his horrifically scarred face stared blankly ahead with unblinking eyes.
The outlaws did not know it yet but soon Iron Eyes would be upon them. Soon he would have them in his gun sights, daring them to kill him before he killed them.
CHAPTER FOUR
The three deadly outlaws rose around noon and made their way collectively down to the hotel foyer. They did not speak as they filed past the desk and headed toward the glass panelled door. The desk clerk watched the men make their way out into the midday sun with their saddlebags draped over their shoulders. As the door closed behind them, he gave a sigh of relief.
For the first time in a long while, the clerk had actually felt threatened by the unknown men who had rented rooms in the small hotel. He fearfully watched the heavily armed men as they made their way from the front of the hotel and down the street.
The desk clerk mopped his brow nervously and was thankful that they had not booked rooms for more than the one night.
Ben Brooks noticed that Ten Strike seemed no busier than it had done the night before as he led the way along the boardwalk toward the livery stable with Cohen and Laker in his wake. A mere handful of people filled the streets and most of them were of the female variety, going about their daily rituals. Had anyone within the confines of the small town taken the time to study the three strangers, they might have noticed that unlike themselves, the Brooks gang were all heavily armed.
Brooks glanced back at his trailing followers and grinned widely. The hardened bank robber saw no threat in any of the locals. Then his eyes scanned the rooftops of the small settlement.
‘What you doing looking up there, Ben?’ Laker asked.
‘What I should have done before,’ Brooks replied as he lowered his stare to what lay before them. ‘If I’d checked the roofs back then, maybe most of my gang would still be alive and not rotting in their graves.’
‘There was just too many of us, Ben.’ Laker shrugged as they continued walking. ‘They seen us coming before we seen them.’
Brooks rested a free hand on his gun grip. ‘It’ll never happen again, Jody. We’ll kill them before they get a chance to kill us. Savvy?’
‘Yep, I savvy.’ Laker grinned.
‘This plum is ripe and ready to be plucked, Ben,’ Cohen said knowingly. ‘Robbing that bank will be easier than taking candy from a baby.’
‘Seems that way, Sol,’ Brooks agreed.
Laker looked at their leader. ‘We gonna do this and high-tail it out of here, Ben? The bank’s open. There ain’t no sense in delaying.’
‘Let’s do it, Jody.’ Brooks nodded and paused by the livery stable’s open doors as Cohen and Laker entered the ramshackle structure to get their mounts. His hooded eyes studied the street carefully and then spotted a middle-aged man making his way toward the sheriff’s office. The man was unarmed and far older than Brooks had ever seen anyone else wearing a sheriff’s tin star.
The sun glanced off the star like a target waiting to be shot at. The gang leader stroked his whiskered chin and drooled in anticipation. Killing had become a habit he had become addicted to.
Brooks did not take his eyes off the lawman until the elderly man entered his office. Then he heard the sound of their horses behind his shoulders. He turned as Cohen and Laker led the three horses out into the morning sunshine.
Brooks draped his saddlebags over his saddle blanket and then secured them with the leather laces attached to the cantle.
He rested his hands on the saddle and looked straight at his cohorts. ‘I just seen the sheriff, boys.’
They both looked at Brooks and noticed the amused grin carved on his face.
‘By that look on your face, I reckon that the sheriff ain’t exactly a right able looking critter, Ben.’ Laker smiled.
‘He’ll not give us any trouble,’ Brooks announced confidently. ‘Hell, he wasn’t even wearing a gun.’
‘Mighty trusting folks in this town, Ben.’ Cohen chuckled.
‘It’ll be the death of them,’ Laker added.
‘A few of them anyways.’ Brooks grinned.
All three of the lethal bank robbers strode away from the livery with their mounts in tow. As they neared the bank, Brooks tossed his reins to Cohen and then left both his men close to the Ten Strike bank building.
Brooks walked past the structure and glanced in through one of its windows. A broader smile filled his face. The bank was exactly as he liked them to be. It had been designed and built long before any of the townsfolk had realized that even this far West there was a breed of deadly men who made their living by robbing such businesses.
Brooks continued on toward the tiny sheriff’s office. With each step he readied himself for the execution he was planning.
He knotted the leather lace hanging from his holster around his thigh and then flicked the safety loop off his holstered gun’s hammer.
Brooks pulled the brim of his Stetson down over his brow and turned the brass door knob. He swiftly entered the office and moved to where the elderly lawman was preparing his coffee on the wood stove in the corner.
‘And what can I do for you?’ the sheriff asked without turning toward the outlaw.
Brooks did not answer. The lethal outlaw pulled his gun from its holster and then hammered its metal barrel across the lawman’s skull. An eruption of blood flowed from the deep gash as the man crumpled.
Most men are unconscious after one blow from a .45. When the blow is repeated a dozen more times they are no longer unconscious.
They are dead.
Brooks ripped the yellow bandanna from the lawman’s neck and cleaned his bloody six-shooter until the cotton was stained in crimson gore. He then holstered the gun and dragged the limp old body into a back room. Brooks threw the lawman in a heap and left him there. A trail of blood led from the stove to the lifeless lawman.
‘I bet that spoiled your day, old timer,’ Brooks grunted as he closed the door. He quickly glanced around the makeshift office and then saw the office keys on the desk. He snatched them and walked back out onto the boardwalk. He locked the office door and started back to where Cohen and Laker waited just beyond the bank. He dropped the keys into a water trough before he reached his men.
‘That was quick,’ Laker said.
‘I didn’t even have time to make me a smoke, Ben,’ Cohen said as he looked into the face of their leader.
‘There’ll be plenty of time to make and smoke a cigarette after we rob this little bank,’ Brooks said gravely as his hooded eyes watched the street. It was still quiet and devoid of the sort of men that had soured their plans before. ‘You get mounted, Sol. You clear the streets if the townsfolk get brave.’
Cohen did not argue. He grabbed his saddle horn, dragged his dishevelled carcass up on to the back of his mount and held the reins of the other horses.
Brooks nodded at
Laker. ‘C’mon, Jody. Let’s see how rich the pickings are in that little ole bank.’
Cohen watched his two cohorts as they slowly made their way toward the bank. He continued to watch the street and hold the reins of their mounts as they slid their guns from their holsters in readiness.
Brooks entered the bank first. Laker followed and stood beside the door. There were just two people inside the Ten Strike Bank and neither of them was armed or alert enough to sense the danger that they faced.
Laker closed the door and rested his shoulder against it as he held his six-shooter and watched for any sign of trouble out in the street.
‘What if somebody tries to get in here, Ben?’ the outlaw asked his leader.
Brooks shrugged and grinned. ‘Let them in, take their money and kill them, Jody.’
One of the men in the bank was elderly with white side whiskers and the other was a long, painfully lean clerk. Neither had heard the words which passed between Brooks and Laker. They still smiled at the strangers.
‘I’m Cy Holden,’ the older man said as he held out a hand in greeting. ‘I own this bank.’
The smiles, which were well-practised, faded from their faces as they realized that these were not new customers but gun-toting bank robbers.
‘We’re the Brooks gang.’ Brooks cocked the hammer of his gun and aimed it at the older man. ‘We’re here to rob you.’
Holden stared in disbelief and moved backwards to his desk. His eyes flashed between the two outlaws and the terrified young teller.
‘You can’t do that,’ the banker stammered.
‘Put all of the cash you got in bags, old timer,’ Brooks snarled at the older man. ‘Quick or you’ll die.’
Holden waved at the teller.
‘Fill the bags, Elmer,’ he urged the youngster. ‘You heard him. Fill the bags with all the money from the cash drawers.’
Ben Brooks pushed the barrel of his six-shooter into the belly of the banker. They stared into one another’s eyes. The deadly outlaw looked at the small safe at the back of the bank and then grinned.
‘And we want every cent you got hid in that safe as well, old timer,’ he added and then pushed the rotund figure across the room.
Flustered, Holden knelt and pulled a key from his coat pocket. He slid its brass length into the lock and turned it. Both men heard the lock inside the metal box as it released.
Brooks grabbed a canvas bag off the banker’s desk and tossed it into the face of the kneeling man.
‘Now fill this,’ he ordered.
Holden did exactly as he was told and filled the bag with large stacks of cash until his watery eyes spotted the handgun at the back of the safe shelf. He handed the canvas sack up to the ruthless outlaw standing above him.
‘That’s all of it.’ He sighed.
Brooks buckled the bag as Holden got to his feet and strode back to the middle of the small room. Sweat rolled freely down the face of the white-whiskered banker as he held the .44 at his side.
For some reason, Holden made the same mistake that so many others had made over the years. He believed that he could stop the determined bank robber with a bullet from the gun in his hand.
Yet unlike the banker, Brooks was no stranger to handling six-shooters. He was also used to fat old men thinking they could take his life before he could react.
From the corner of his eye, Brooks spotted the gun in Holden’s shaking hand as the banker raised his arm. The outlaw swung on his heels and fired.
The bank rocked as Brooks unleashed his six-shooter’s fury and fired into Holden’s wide girth. The gun fell from his grip as the banker staggered forward, toppled over his desk and then slid to the floor clutching his belly.
Brooks kicked the gun into the corner and then glanced at the young teller.
‘Unless you want the same, keep filling them bags with all the paper money you got, sonny,’ he growled as smoke twisted from the barrel of his gun.
The terrified boy did as he was told and dragged all the bank’s paper money from the cash drawers and stuffed it in the canvas bags. Brooks tossed the bag into Laker’s hands as the outlaw looked out at the street.
‘That shot has made the curious come out onto the street, Ben,’ Laker said as he clutched his own weapon to his chest. ‘We’d best get out of here before they get brave.’
‘You’re right, Jody.’ Brooks looked down into the watery eyes of the whiskered man as he lay helpless on the floor. Blood was pumping through his fingers.
Brooks glanced at Laker.
‘Take the bags off the boy, Jody,’ he said.
Laker snatched the canvas bags and then opened the door of the bank as Cohen eased the horses to a standstill outside the red brick building. Laker ran the short distance to his mount and leapt onto its saddle. He hung the bags from his saddle horn and joined Cohen in firing shots at the onlookers.
‘C’mon, Ben,’ Cohen yelled.
Brooks looked between the two very different men as he walked backwards to the open bank doorway. He was about to turn and follow his partner when he stopped. His thumb cocked his .45.
‘Give my regards to Lucifer, Mr Holden,’ he rumbled.
With merciless venom, he fired another shot into the wounded old man on the floor and then cocked his hammer again and aimed its smoking barrel at the sobbing youngster. Even though the teller had his arms raised, Brooks still squeezed on his trigger. Red hot fury spewed from his smoking gun barrel for a third time. The bullet hit the thin youngster dead centre like a battering ram.
The teller was knocked off his feet by the impact of the lethal lead. He crashed into the wall behind him and then slid lifelessly to the floor.
A scarlet trail of gore marked the wall.
Brooks ran to his horse and grabbed his reins from Cohen’s grasp. He swung his body onto his saddle and turned his wide-eyed horse.
‘C’mon, boys,’ he yelled out as he fired at the crowd.
Still firing their guns at the astonished townsfolk, the bank robbers spurred and thundered down the street in a cloud of hoof dust. Slowly, when they were convinced that the shooting had stopped, the townsfolk gathered enough courage to move to the bank. Gradually it dawned on the stunned population what had just happened in Ten Strike.
In a mere few minutes of deafening mayhem, their peaceful existence had been brutally changed forever.
The town’s savings had gone and so had their collective innocence. The only money that remained in Ten Strike was what they had in their pockets.
Only the acrid stench of gun smoke and the sight of freshly spilled blood remained in the remote settlement to confirm that the nightmare actually happened. None of those who had witnessed the unexpected outrage seemed capable of knowing what to do next.
All they could do was stare into the confines of the small red brick bank in confused horror at the sickening sight which greeted their naïve eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dust drifted off the side of the rugged mountain into the cloudless blue sky as the stagecoach careered along the blistering sun-baked trail. The fiery female wrestled with the team of matched black horses from her precarious perch as they ascended the steep crumbling road.
Loose gravel fell away from the disintegrating edge of the trail and rained down the mountainside beneath the coach’s metal wheel rims.
The rough trail road had not followed the valley floor as Sally had expected during the hours of nightfall. Since sunrise had cast its blazing light across the wooded region, the trail had slowly risen up the side of the steep mountain and fringed its very edge. Without knowing how, Sally had found herself driving the stagecoach along a road barely wider than the vehicle itself.
Terror might have torn her nerves to shreds had she not kept the thought of Iron Eyes branded in her young mind. Sally knew that as long as she kept thinking about him, she had little time to dwell upon the situation she had found herself trapped within.
Sally kept her beautiful eyes focused on the lead h
orses as they continued to climb the perilous pathway. For the first time since she had taken ownership of the stagecoach, she wished that six sure-footed mules were ascending the dusty trail rather than a team of horses.
As she desperately fought to control the hefty leathers in her gloved hands, Sally began to wonder if she would ever escape from this never ending nightmare.
It took every ounce of her driving skills just to keep the muscular horses on the trail road and stop them from falling to their deaths. Sally refused to fuel her own fear by looking down into the deadly gorge as the wheels of her stagecoach veered ever closer to the cliff edge.
She pressed on defiantly.
There was no alternative.
As dawn broke, Sally had moved back to the driver’s seat but was now regretting it. Now there was no escaping the unobstructed view which faced her.
For more than five hours, she had battled her own weariness just to keep the horses and trailing vehicle on the terrifying road. She was hurting from head to toe at the sheer effort of keeping the long vehicle under control.
Battling her increasing exhaustion, Sally somehow managed to guide the stagecoach around an acute bend to where she was faced by a steep drop between walls of countless trees. After what seemed like an eternity, a sense of relief overwhelmed the doggedly determined female.
The sight of the relatively safe route down into an ocean of trees made Sally relax for a moment. She eased back on her reins to slow the team but the sheer weight of the following coach made it virtually impossible for Sally to achieve her goal.
To her surprise the stagecoach was actually gathering speed rather than slowing down.
Frantically, Sally raised her bare foot and pushed the brake pole forward. To her horror there was no resistance and the pole limply fell forward.
Sally held the reins tightly as her mind raced. Her foot pumped the brake pole repeatedly but for the first time since she had acquired the stagecoach, it did not work.
