The Spurs of Iron Eyes (Iron Eyes Western #3)

by Rory Black

  Then it happened.

  The first explosion deafened everyone including the bounty hunter as he was rising to his feet. Blood and gore flew in every direction as the dynamite chain lifted one bandit and then another into the air. The sound of crippled horses was the first thing the bounty hunter heard as he found himself lying upon his spine covered in burning debris.

  Crawling onto his still painful side, Iron Eyes had barely enough time to focus when the second explosion ripped through the air and threw him violently backwards. Only the thickness of his skull saved him as he crashed into the wall of one of the adobes.

  Iron Eyes stared through the dense dust in the direction of the bandits. He could see nothing at all, apart from blinding flashes amid the choking fog of burning debris. Rising once more, he began to see the devastation he had created. He was no expert with dynamite or gunpowder and began to wonder whether he might just have used too much of both. Suddenly like a volcano erupting into life, the third explosion blasted upward and outward, its force far greater than the two previous ones. Watching in disbelief, Iron Eyes saw three horses lifted high above his head with their lifeless riders still in their saddles before being dropped in a far-off pasture like rag dolls.

  Now confused, Iron Eyes tried to work out how many more deadly outbursts of dynamite and gunpowder were left. It was impossible to calculate.

  Staggering forward, Iron Eyes held his two guns at waist height as he made his way into the swirling, choking cloud of dust. Then somehow more bullets came defiantly out from the stifling mist from the guns of the few bandits still capable of squeezing their triggers. They tore through the tails of his long coat. Undaunted, Iron Eyes could hear a single horse whinnying in a mixture of fear and anger deep inside the impenetrable cloud as he continued walking directly into the mayhem.

  From the relative safety of their hiding places, the farmers watched in disbelief as their savior strode out toward the rising flames - firing his weaponry at the sounds which filled his ringing ears.

  It was like watching the Devil returning to Hell.

  Firing blindly at the blurred flashes, Iron Eyes heard one bandit after another feeling the heat of his lethal lead. As yet another blast ripped up the surface of the ground, the bounty hunter found himself showered in hot ashes as he was forced down onto his knees. Ramming his empty left pistol into his thick leather belt, Iron Eyes ran his free hand over his head trying to extinguish his smoldering hair.

  Iron Eyes’ head was bursting with the echoing of the dynamite and gunpowder blasts he had so ruthlessly planted.

  Fumbling for bullets in his deep coat pockets, the bounty hunter tried vainly to reload his pistol. Attempting to see anything through the choking flames and smoke which now hung before him became increasingly difficult. He had never been so bruised or battered before and yet the job was not finished in his mind. Manillo was his prey and Iron Eyes would not stop until he was convinced he had added that evil soul to the long list of his victims.

  The horse which leapt out from the flames and almost crushed Iron Eyes beneath its hooves, was the black stallion laden with gold over its saddle and tackle. For a fleeting moment, as the bounty hunter fell backwards, his mind was confused. How could they have survived the explosions?

  Then, glancing up as the rider passed above him, Iron Eyes saw the blood-soaked face of Manillo. Aiming high, the determined hunter fired and heard the man’s anger as he pulled his mount to a stop and turned.

  Manillo returned the shot through the swirling smoke and Iron Eyes felt the skin on his shoulder burn as it was grazed by the bandit’s bullet.

  Angrily, Iron Eyes squeezed his trigger again but its hammer fell on empty chambers as the bandit drove the bleeding stallion into him.

  Rolling head over heels, the long-haired man found himself lying in the hot ashes as Manillo rode after him again. Now it was merely a fight between these two determined men. It had become a battle which only death could end.

  Pulling at his reins, Manillo forced his injured mount to rear up and bring both hooves down within an inch of Iron Eyes’ head. As if in a trance, the emaciated hunter grabbed at the left stirrup of his attacker and hauled himself upright. Manillo thrust his spurs into the belly of his enemy before raising his pistol above his head and bringing it down. As the gun barrel glanced across his skull, Iron Eyes felt his legs weaken, but he refused to release his grip on the rider’s leg and clawed his way through his own pain.

  Blow after blow caught Iron Eyes across his shoulders and scalp but his grip remained true. Staring up through his limp hair as blood ran down the individual strands, he snarled at the bandit.

  Viciously spurring the stallion, Manillo forced the injured creature to race across the green pastureland away from the scene of the battle.

  Holding on for dear life, Iron Eyes clawed his way up until he was able to reach the golden saddle horn and lift his feet off the ground.

  Smashing the gun down across the bleeding black hair again, Manillo could see the blood pouring down Iron Eyes’ face, yet he refused to be beaten and hung on until the mortally injured stallion stumbled.

  The two fighting men suddenly felt the once proud animal crumbling beneath them: its heroic fight had ended.

  Manillo hit the ground heavily, but he, like his enemy, refused to allow anything short of death itself to stop him. Getting to his feet, the bandit wiped the blood from his own face and aimed his body at the rising bounty hunter. There was a grunting noise as the two bodies crashed together. The force with which both men hit the ground robbed them of what little wind they still had within their wheezing lungs.

  For a few seconds the two men lay beside one another, bleeding, as they tried to find the strength to finish their deadly duel. Once again, it was Manillo who somehow rose first onto his knees as Iron Eyes rolled around helplessly, wiping the blood from his face as he frantically tried to see where the Mexican was.

  As his vision cleared, Iron Eyes looked straight across at the man who was loading his gun with stiff, bruised fingers. Bullets fell over the ground as Iron Eyes pulled his empty pistol from his belt.

  Smashing it down across Manillo’s wrist, Iron Eyes spat out blood at the ground as he staggered toward the man.

  The scream which came from the Mexican’s lungs almost shattered Iron Eyes’ eardrums as he pounced on top of the bandit and began wrestling with him. With a power which came from his own sheer vanity, Manillo tore himself free of the bony fingers and got back onto his feet. Looking around desperately, trying to work out what he could do next, Manillo saw the distant horses. Only two of the bandits’ mounts now remained upright, seemingly uninjured by the mayhem which had destroyed the others.

  As Manillo took his first steps in the direction of the horses he heard the cold chilling voice behind him. Slowly turning, the bandit stared at the hollow-eyed vision who was swaying as he tried to maintain a tentative balance.

  ‘I said you ain’t going anyplace, Manillo,’ Iron Eyes repeated his statement as he squared up to the bandit. ‘Not alive, anyway.’

  There was an eerie silence as the two men studied one another carefully. Blood seemed their only unifying quality; lots of blood, both wet and drying. Manillo used every ounce of his arrogance as he tried to outstare his opponent. The trouble was you could not outstare Iron Eyes.

  ‘Are you the hunter of men called Iron Eyes?’ Manillo asked, slipping his fingers into his torn jacket pocket searching for the tiny gold-plated Colt .41 derringer he always kept hidden there for emergencies such as this.

  Iron Eyes stared down at the flattened ground and his empty Navy Colt pistol before looking up into the smiling face of the man with golden teeth.

  ‘Yep. They call me Iron Eyes, Manillo.’

  ‘You have heard of the great Manillo?’ The bandit’s chest swelled with self-importance as he spoke.

  ‘I’ve heard of everyone with a price on their head,’ Iron Eyes said, as blood continued to drip onto his red shirt. He nodded to hi
mself when he realized he had been right about the color. It did not show. ‘How much is a dandy like you worth in American money, Manillo?’

  ‘I think your question is pointless, Iron Eyes.’ Manillo continued fumbling in his pocket for the small single shot pistol.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because you will not live to collect any reward money for Manillo, senor. There is no man alive who will ever defeat the great Manillo.’

  Iron Eyes threw his hair off his face with a flick of his long neck. Blood sprayed the flamboyant bandit.

  ‘Maybe so, but are you damn sure I’m alive?’

  The bandit rubbed the blood from his face as he watched the strange creature before him.

  ‘If you were already dead, it would make sense, senor. I have never seen a living man who looks as dead as you do.’

  Iron Eyes took a step forward and watched as the fearful man retreated.

  ‘A dude like you ain’t so brave without his army of misfits to back up his words.’

  ‘I am the great Manillo.’

  ‘I reckon your dead horse has more brains than you, Manillo,’ the bounty hunter said, while he watched the man’s arm moving as his fingers searched the jacket pocket.

  ‘Your words are big, senor.’

  ‘Not half as big as yours.’

  Manillo shrugged.

  ‘But you are unarmed and not in the best of states, my friend. For a man such as myself to be taken prisoner by an unarmed bounty hunter is not possible.’

  ‘I don’t take prisoners, Manillo.’ Iron Eyes felt a smile crossing his face. ‘I’m taking you in, all right. Dead.’

  Finally, the Mexican pulled the small derringer out from his pocket. Iron Eyes saw the glinting of the tiny golden barrel and ducked down just as the shot blasted away from the small gun. The bounty hunter felt the heat from the tiny lead ball as it passed over his head. Grabbing at the handle of his long knife inside the right mule-ear boot, Iron Eyes pulled it out and threw the bloodstained blade straight at Manillo. The knife hit the bandit squarely in the middle of his frilly shirt.

  Manillo seemed to hover for a moment before dropping the tiny derringer. Then, both his hands reached up to touch the handle of the knife stuck firmly in his chest. As Iron Eyes walked towards him, he toppled silently backwards.

  Dragging the knife out of his victim’s chest, Iron Eyes spat at the body. He had killed many men in his lifetime for reward money, but he would have killed Manillo for nothing.

  Staring up, Iron Eyes saw the rejoicing Pablo and his fellow farmers coming across the fields towards him.

  It was over.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The border town of Rio Vista was bathed in the light of a new day as Sheriff Bass stretched his arms and felt his bones clicking back into place. He had not slept well during the past two humid nights and knew his mind was on the fate of the strange bounty hunter he had watched ride off with the old Mexican farmer named Pablo.

  This was the best time of the day in the sleepy border town, thought the sheriff. For the first hour after sunrise the sun was simply bright, but as it crawled higher in the cloudless sky, the heat would begin to take its toll upon every living thing. Even now, he was sweating, as he stared out over the wide, rippling river below him.

  Walking along the ridge overlooking the river, Bass wondered if he should have joined Iron Eyes on his suicidal mission. But he was no gunfighter or marksman like the bounty hunter. For Bass, shooting a twin-barreled shotgun was as skilful as he had ever managed to get; even then he had to get in close.

  Yet he was troubled. Over the years he had met many souls as they drifted on through his small town, but none of them ranked in the same league as Iron Eyes. The legendary bounty hunter who was infamous for never showing any emotion or pity for anyone or anything had left his mark upon the sheriff Bass knew the man had ridden to help the Mexican villagers fight off the evil Manillo and his gang, and even with all the explosives and extra weaponry, it had seemed a doomed gesture.

  Hearing the distinctive sound of the shuffling sandals belonging to the robed Father Jose behind him, the sheriff raised a hand.

  ‘That you, Father?’ Bass called out, without bothering to look around.

  ‘Si, Sheriff Bass. It is another fine morning, is it not?’

  The sheriff nodded as he sighed thoughtfully.

  ‘You reckon Iron Eyes knew what he was riding into with old Pablo, Father?’

  The priest could hear the concern in the sheriff’s voice as the man kicked at the dusty trail.

  ‘You liked the strange Iron Eyes, did you not?’

  Bass glanced at the robed man.

  ‘I can’t figure out why but I did like him. Most men are complicated but not Iron Eyes. Maybe he was just plain honest.’

  ‘You are concerned for his safety?’ Father Jose had felt the same worries filling his own conscience.

  ‘They rode out two days ago, Father,’ said Bass running his tongue over his teeth. ‘Whatever was going to happen, must have happened already, I guess.’

  ‘You feel he might have ridden to his death?’ Father Jose rested a hand on the firm shoulder of the lawman.

  ‘Yep. He seemed like he was ready to die, Father.’ Bass shook his head at the thought.

  ‘I do not think he was ready to commit suicide, Sheriff The voice seemed almost musical as it floated over the words.

  ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Understand what? His bravery? His willingness to help those weaker than himself?’

  Bass turned to face the shorter man.

  ‘He had a fortune in gold and silver coin in his saddlebags and yet he was unhappy. He seemed unable to come to terms with the fact he did not have to hunt men any longer. Then he comes along and says he’s lost the money and has to take a job helping Pablo and his friends. Does it make sense, Father?’

  Father Jose began to smile knowingly.

  ‘Do you know where he lost all that money, Sheriff?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘He lost his money in my chapel.’ The priest smiled and crossed himself as he stared at the sky above them.

  ‘Would you repeat that, Father.’ Bass scratched his chin and stared hard into the face of his companion. ‘You say he lost the money in your chapel? How?’

  ‘After Iron Eyes left with Pablo I went into the chapel to pray for the safety of their souls,’ Father Jose began. ‘I had no sooner knelt down before the altar when I noticed something beneath the altar cloth.’

  ‘He hid the money underneath the altar?’ Sheriff Bass shook his head.

  ‘Every golden eagle and silver dollar somehow found itself beneath the altar of the chapel.’ Father Jose began to smile.

  ‘It don’t make any sense. Why would the critter do that?’

  ‘Perhaps the fortune was nothing more than a heavy weight he no longer wished to burden himself with, Sheriff,’ Father Jose said, walking along with the lawman at his side.

  ‘Yeah, by losing the money he gave himself the excuse to help old Pablo.’ Sheriff Bass began to understand.

  ‘Si. Iron Eyes is one of those strange men who cannot admit he would ever help anyone.’ The priest gestured with his hands as they paused above the glistening waters of the clear river.

  ‘But by pretending to be broke he gave himself an excuse to help them folks.’ Bass shook his head.

  Iron Eyes is a very unusual man,’ Father Jose sighed.

  ‘I never met his like before and that’s a fact.’ Sheriff Bass wondered if he would ever cross paths with Iron Eyes again.

  ‘For all his deadly skills, he could not turn his back on his fellow man.’ The priest suddenly remembered the figure on the golden crucifix and how he had told the bounty hunter of how Jesus Christ had given His life willingly to save others. A cold chill came over him.

  ‘What’s wrong, Father Jose?’ Bass asked, as he noticed the color draining from the priest’s face.

  ‘Nothing, my son. I just remembered
something.’

  ‘Something important?’ Bass enquired.

  The holy man did not know what the answer to the simple question was. All he knew for certain was he had told Iron Eyes of one brave man’s sacrifice and perhaps the bounty hunter might have willingly ridden to his own death because of those words.

  It was still early when they began walking back toward the small town and the aroma of cooking breakfasts which filled the morning air. The trouble was, neither man was hungry.

  The pair of riders who passed the sheriff’s office and headed their mounts to the hitching rail outside the hotel caused little interest to the citizens of Rio Vista. They looked ordinary enough to be about anything, except hard-working cowboys. Only one man gave them a second look as they dismounted and quietly entered the hotel.

  Sheriff Bass bit his lower lip as he stood beside the window of his office sipping at a cup of coffee. He had not seen the two men since Iron Eyes had shown an interest in them. After they had left the saloon that hot afternoon, they had vanished into thin air. Glancing at the pile of posters piled high upon his untidy desk, Bass knew it was pointless searching through them to find out who these men were. The bounty hunter had done that and taken the two incriminating scraps of paper with him for future reference. They were wanted dead or alive, that much was certain. Iron Eyes never wasted a second look upon wanted posters which did not give him the option of killing his prey.

  Bass wondered why they had chosen to return to his small town, knowing the bounty hunter might still be around. Only damn stupid outlaws would be so foolhardy unless they had something up their sleeves.

  Could there be something in Rio Vista worth risking their lives for? Bass pondered the question as he finished the black beverage. He had never been a man to seek out trouble and yet he knew something just did not figure.

  Bass checked his shotgun and placed a few extra cartridges in his vest pockets before donning his Stetson and walking out into the blazing sunshine. As he locked the door, he heard his office wall clock striking twelve noon.

  The streets were as quiet as usual. It seemed hotter than a normal afternoon to the law officer as he strolled along the boardwalk toward the small cafe, situated on the corner. Entering the building he sat down beside a window and watched the hotel opposite. His mind was filled with a thousand thoughts as he studied the street and the few souls who walked up and down its single thoroughfare. The small bank which lay two buildings away from the hotel caught his attention.