by Rory Black
‘I’m gonna kill them, Sam,’ he said. ‘Simple as that.’
Sam Parker had no time to ask any more questions of the gaunt horseman. Iron Eyes tapped his spurs into the flanks of the stallion and steered it out into the lantern lit street. As the older man rushed to the barn doors, all he could see was the awesome figure riding south with his long hair beating on his shoulders.
Parker stopped at the sight. He slowly turned and made his way back into the vast livery.
‘What you staring at, Sam?’ the blacksmith asked as he lifted his tin plate and looked at his supper. ‘You look like you just seen a ghost.’
‘Maybe I have, Jeb,’ Parker stammered. ‘Maybe I just have.’
‘What you mean?’ the blacksmith asked as he scooped a spoonful of food up and filled his mouth.
Nervously, Parker removed his hat, mopped his brow, turned and looked at the blacksmith beside the forge. He was visibly shaking as he approached his friend.
‘I just noticed something kinda scary about Iron Eyes, Jeb,’ he said fearfully. ‘That critter’s long dark hair looks like the wings of a bat when he’s riding.’
The blacksmith nodded.
‘That ugly critter ain’t human, Sam,’ he said. ‘No living man could look that dead.’
Parker could not disagree.
CHAPTER TEN
With the sound of ominous war drums ringing in their ears, the three depraved horsemen steered their mounts through the trees and across the rough ground back toward the trail which their leader insisted led to the Durango railhead. The Brooks gang had cut a path through the dense forest to avoid the Kiowa braves they feared might attack them, yet the sound of drumming had followed them every step of the way. The outlaws drove their mounts down toward the moonlit road and drew rein as soon as the horses reached the rugged pathway.
They were all bleeding from cuts inflicted by untamed brambles entangled between the countless trees. None of them had escaped the sharp thorns.
Brooks gritted his teeth and dragged a gun from its holster angrily. He swung his horse around as his eyes vainly sought out the Kiowa warriors that continued to beat their drums in warning of what was yet to come.
‘How the hell can we still hear them blasted drums?’ he snarled as he desperately sought something to shoot at. ‘We must have ridden these nags miles through them trees and yet them drums are still dogging us.’
Cohen held his own horse in check as he too looked at every dark shadow. ‘It must be that the sound is echoing off these trees, Ben. I bet that none of them Injuns are within two miles of us.’
‘I don’t buy that, Sol,’ Brooks grunted. ‘They’re close, I tell you. So close I can smell them.’
Laker patted the two money bags which hung from his saddle horn. Although younger than both of his cohorts, Laker was in many ways less volatile.
Brooks eased his horse up to Laker’s mount.
‘What do you reckon, Jody?’ he asked. ‘How’d you figure it, boy?’
‘You could both be right,’ Laker said as he surveyed their surroundings. ‘Them Injuns might be miles away like Sol reckons but I’d not hanker to bet my scalp on it.’
‘They sure must be mad about me killing that young buck,’ Brooks snorted. ‘Who’d have figured that killing one stinking Injun could rile a whole tribe?’
‘I had me a notion it might.’ Laker sighed as he licked his dry lips.
‘I’m for getting out of here.’ Cohen swung his mount full circle and then stared at his fellow bank robbers. ‘We’d best ride for Durango. I got me a gut feeling that it ain’t no echo we’re listening to, boys. Ben’s right. They’re close. Darn close.’
‘Listen to them drums,’ Brooks said as he waved his gun at every shadow. ‘Them damn Injuns are plumb everywhere. All around us, just waiting to pick us off.’
Cohen steadied his horse. ‘Let’s go. Hanging around here is darn suicidal. I ain’t got me much hair but I’d like to keep what I got on my head.’
‘We’ll go when I say, Sol.’ Brooks pulled back on his reins as his hooded eyes searched the area. ‘I don’t run scared from no snivelling Injuns. If they wanna fight, I’ll oblige the bastards.’
‘I don’t reckon our chances too high if we stay here,’ Laker told the outlaw leader.
‘Jody’s right, Ben,’ Cohen agreed with the young outlaw. ‘They might be closing in on us.’
Brooks nodded. ‘OK. We ride but we don’t run. I’ve never run from no critter with feathers in his hair and I ain’t starting now.’
The heavily notched six-shooter hung from Brooks’s hand as he readied himself for action. He turned the head of his horse and tapped his spurs. Cohen and Laker trailed their leader along the trail road toward the distant railhead.
‘How many of them Kiowa do you reckon are in this damn forest, Ben?’ Cohen asked as he pulled out his tobacco pouch and started making a cigarette.
‘Too many by the sound of it,’ Laker put in first.
Brooks gritted his teeth.
‘Just hush up and keep riding, boys,’ he growled.
‘Do you figure they got guns, Ben?’ Cohen asked.
Brooks glanced at Cohen as their horses trotted down the moonlit trail. ‘You’d be safer with a gun in your hand than them makings, Sol.’
Cohen looked around them as his tongue traced along the gummed edge of the cigarette paper.
‘I reckon all they got is bows and arrows,’ he said before placing the crude cigarette between his lips. ‘They’d have to be pretty loco if they attacked us when we’re so well armed.’
‘You’re right, Sol,’ Brooks agreed and then laughed. ‘I bet none of them critters got firepower like us. I reckon all they got is drums and piddling bows and arrows.’
Both Cohen and Laker roared with laughter.
The three horsemen tapped their spurs and increased their speed. Then suddenly the ominous sound of the pounding drums stopped.
The forest fell silent all around them as they made their way along the trail. The outlaws looked at one another in stunned surprise.
‘How come the drums stopped, Ben?’ Laker asked Brooks nervously. ‘Why’d they stop drumming?’
Cohen pulled the crude cigarette from his mouth, crushed it in the palm of his hand and then tossed it aside. He grabbed his .45 and drew it.
‘This ain’t good, is it?’ he mumbled.
Laker nodded as his eyes darted at the black trees which verged around the trail road. ‘You’re right, Sol. This ain’t good at all.’
Curiously, Ben Brooks stood in his stirrups and went to speak when suddenly a more disturbing noise cut through the cold night air. It sounded like a thousand crazed hornets being released from their hive.
The eerie noise grew louder.
The merciless outlaw sat back down on his saddle as his fevered mind realized what they were hearing in the moonlit forest.
It was the chilling sound of arrows leaving bows and flying at speed through the air.
Brooks and Cohen fired their guns and whipped the tails of their horses feverishly in a bid to escape the avenging Kiowas’ arrows. Laker bent over the neck of his mount and encouraged his horse to gallop.
Arrows rained in on the three horsemen from every angle as the Brooks gang attempted the impossible and outrun the lethal projectiles. No sooner had the outlaws’ mounts responded to the frantic spurs of their masters when the arrows swooped in on their targets.
The brutal impact of the lethal projectiles hit the horsemen from every side. Cohen had an arrow buried deep in his thigh but he continued to fire his six-shooter into the trees before his gun hammer fell on spent casings. Only then did the wounded Cohen turn his mount and gallop away in the direction of the railhead.
Miraculously unscathed, Brooks continued to fire in all directions as he felt his mount collapsing beneath him. The outlaw leader hit the ground hard and somersaulted across the moonlit ground. He scrambled to his feet, pulled his other six-shooter from its holster and con
tinued firing blindly as he made his way toward his stricken horse.
The moonlit sand was coloured dark crimson as blood poured from the animal’s horrendous wounds but that meant nothing to the lethal Brooks. All he could think about was the canvas bank bag full of money tied to his saddle horn.
More arrows hurtled from the surrounding trees at their elusive target. Brooks ducked and crawled as the arrows embedded into the body of the horse and saddle. He fired again and then heard the sound of pounding hoofs. His hooded eyes glanced to his left and saw Laker riding back toward him. His bloody hand pulled his rifle free of the saddle scabbard and cocked its mechanism. Before Laker had brought his horse to a stop, Brooks grabbed the money bag from the saddle horn and tossed it over his shoulder.
Laker defied his own fear and rode up to Brooks. The young outlaw pulled his right boot out of the stirrup and held out his hand.
‘Get up behind me, Ben,’ he implored. ‘Sol managed to escape but I reckon he’s hurt bad.’
Brooks gripped Laker’s forearm and was about to raise his boot and step into the stirrup when another flurry of feathered arrows cut through the gloom and gun smoke around them.
A sickening noise filled the moonlit trail as the youngest of the Brooks gang shook on his saddle.
‘Aaaagh,’ Laker screamed out and arched in agony as he was skewered by two of the Kiowas’ arrows. Ruthlessly, Brooks looked up at the wounded outlaw and then tightened his grip on Laker’s shaking arm.
‘I’m hit, Ben,’ Laker said as blood poured freely from his mouth. ‘Help me.’
‘I need your damn horse more than you do, Jody,’ Brooks snarled before callously hauling the wounded Laker off his saddle.
The outlaw crashed into the ground at his cohort’s boots. Blood sparkled in the moonlight as Brooks instantly replaced the youngster atop the nervous horse. Without a second thought he cocked his rifle, aimed it at the young outlaw and fired. Laker’s head exploded.
‘You should have kept riding, Jody. That’s what I’d have done.’
Brooks gathered up the reins quickly, turned the horse and fired the rifle in his outstretched hand at their unseen enemies. The mount thundered away from the blood-stained ground with Brooks crouched across the three hefty money bags, still firing his Winchester back at his foes.
As arrows flew through the moonlight in pursuit of the fleeing rider, Brooks had only one thought on his mind. He had to reach the Durango railhead and ride the rails away from this bloodbath.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
An eerie mist rose up from the frost-covered ground like a thousand spirits in search of sanctuary yet the rider of the powerful palomino did not notice any of them. All the gruesome bounty hunter could see was the tracks of those he hunted cut into the moonlit trail before him.
Iron Eyes had made good time from Ten Strike into the dense wooded hills south of the remote settlement. His prized mount had responded well to the few hours’ rest its determined master had allowed it. Now, as it thundered through the moonlight and followed the tracks of the Brooks gang’s horses, the high-shouldered palomino seemed to be gathering pace when lesser animals would have floundered.
The bounty hunter had not once needed to use his blood-stained spurs to encourage his mount. The powerful horse raced along the southern trail toward the distant railhead without any encouragement from its master.
The haunting figure navigated through the dense forest in pursuit of the three bank robbers with just one plan carved into his unholy mind.
To kill them and claim the bounty on their heads.
To Iron Eyes there was no other way. The posters said ‘dead or alive’ and to him that simply meant ‘dead’. For he did not take prisoners.
The swift-footed stallion obeyed every unsaid command of the daunting man balanced in the stirrups above its muscular shoulders. All Iron Eyes had to do was move a muscle and the pure-bred stallion instantly understood what was expected of it.
Unlike the outlaws he chased, Iron Eyes had already learned that the next train out of Durango was not until the early hours of the morning. There was plenty of time to not only catch up with his prey, but to also kill them.
As Iron Eyes stood in his stirrups and leaned over the cream-coloured mane of his galloping mount, the scent of recently fired gun smoke filled his flared nostrils.
Like a ravenous wolf, he sensed his valiant mount was closing the distance on death itself.
Iron Eyes eased back on his reins and slowed his horse to a walk. Every honed instinct in his thin, emaciated body was warning him to be wary. He sniffed at the cold night air like a bloodhound and then lowered himself back down onto his highly decorated saddle. The tall palomino stallion walked steadily along the trail road as its silent master chewed on the smouldering cigar between his teeth.
His pupils darted around the strange scenery before him. Sam Parker had told him that the road led to only one place and that was the railhead at Durango but something was gnawing at his innards with every step of his golden horse’s long legs.
Even hardened bounty hunters could fall into a well set trap, Iron Eyes thought. His eyes searched for any hint of a bushwhacker’s gun in the shadows which encircled him.
The scent of death hung on the cold air. There was no mistaking the smell of gun smoke to a man that had lived his life either shooting or being shot at. As the muscular stallion continued to walk steadily along the winding trail, he knew that death was somewhere ahead.
He pulled the cigar from his lips and tossed it down at the dusty road. Smoke drifted through his small sharp teeth as the horse continued to walk ever closer to whatever had happened ahead of him.
Iron Eyes leaned against his ornate saddle cantle and studied the tall trees which flanked the trail road. He pulled a whiskey bottle from his saddlebags and eased its cork from the neck. He took a swig of the fiery contents and then saw something ahead of him which made him pull his long leathers up to his chest.
The crumpled moonlit shape was partly covered in frost.
The palomino stopped and stood like a statue as its master returned the cork to the bottle neck and patted it down. His eyes remained glued to the strange shape ahead of him as his bony fingers dropped the bottle back into the satchel.
With well-rehearsed expertise, Iron Eyes swung a long leg over the head of his horse and silently slid to the ground. He kept a firm grip on the reins and then slowly advanced forward.
The eerie light that only a large moon could cast down upon everything trapped below its strange illumination was dancing upon something ahead. Iron Eyes kept on striding toward the mysterious object.
Then it became obvious what had caught his attention.
The body of the young Kiowa brave lay where Ben Brooks had left it. The crumpled Kiowa lay in the middle of a pool of congealing gore. The bounty hunter glanced around the trail road and recognized the familiar horse shoe marks left by the gang.
Iron Eyes knelt and ran a hand over the dead brave’s face.
The shot had been deadly accurate, he thought. Iron Eyes rose back to his full height and then saw the pinto pony through the trees a few yards away from its downed master.
The gaunt figure pulled his reins toward him until the palomino stallion was at his shoulder. Iron Eyes was about to turn when his keen eyesight spotted something else marked on the sand. He lowered his head until his long black hair hung over his scarred features.
His eyes burned down onto the sand at the marks of moccasin tracks. A lot of moccasin tracks. It was clear that the Kiowa had discovered the body and set out after the men that had killed the young buck. Iron Eyes straightened up and ran his bony fingers through his hair as his eyes darted around the surrounding trees.
‘Just like them smoke signals said. We ain’t alone, horse,’ the tall hunter of men whispered as he raised his long thin left leg and hoisted himself back up onto the saddle. ‘Reckon we’d best be careful from here on. The last thing I wanna do is tangle with a herd of ornery Kiowa
.’
Iron Eyes tapped his spurs and got the horse moving again.
As the stallion started to trot along the shadowy trail, the bounty hunter kept looking and listening for anything that did not seem normal.
Few places troubled the man that was said to be a living ghost but this terrain was different. This land troubled him because nothing was as he thought it should be. For one thing, he could not understand why there were Kiowa this far away from their ancestral homeland. The only reason that made any sense to Iron Eyes was that the entire tribe had been forcibly removed from their own land and planted here instead.
Why? Iron Eyes lashed his reins harder across the tail of the trotting horse as he rode deeper into the land he neither understood nor trusted.
He had ridden a few miles when he caught the scent of recently fired guns again. Iron Eyes stopped his palomino again and searched the trees and bushes for any sign of the warriors he felt sure were close.
If they were nearby, Iron Eyes could not sense or see them. He turned his tall horse and moved closer to the trees as he trailed the growing scent of gun smoke.
The tall horse walked slowly but its thin rider knew that the thoroughbred was like a coiled spring and ready to burst into action whenever he spurred. Using the shadows along the road for cover, Iron Eyes continued to quietly urge the stallion forward.
For another mile the horse obeyed its master and kept on to where the smell of the recently fired guns still lingered on the night air. Then as the palomino rounded a corner, Iron Eyes saw the very thing he had been looking for.
His bullet coloured eyes focused on the macabre sight.
The blood seemed to cover half of the trail road. Lying in the heart of the moonlit gore he spied another body but this one was totally different to the previous one he had found. This was a white man.
Iron Eyes drew back on his reins and stopped the horse’s progress as he studied the lifeless horse twenty feet away from the dead man.
The acrid smell of death might have been fresh but it still unnerved the palomino beneath him. It took every ounce of his horsemanship just to control the powerful animal. Iron Eyes drew the reins up to his chest as he dropped one of his hands into his trail coat pocket and pulled the Navy Colt free of the loose bullets.
