by Rory Black
‘Ain’t many grown men want the job.’ Colby shrugged.
Iron Eyes looked hard at the deputy. ‘What they call you?’
‘Johnny Ryker,’ the deputy gulped and stammered.
‘Always watch your back, Johnny Ryker,’ Iron Eyes advised. ‘Most people get killed by cowards. Cowards like to shoot folks in the back. Remember that and you might get as old as the sheriff.’ The youth nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Colby pointed at the guns whose grips were pointing out from the tall man’s slim waist.
‘By all the stories I’ve heard about you, boy, I’d have thought you’d have the fanciest shooting rig going. How come you ain’t got a gunbelt and holsters?’
‘Ain’t never needed them.’ Iron Eyes walked back out into the darkness. His eyes screwed up as he focused across the street on to the saloon again.
Sheriff Colby leaned on the office door with his deputy staring over his shoulder.
‘Reckon it’s time, huh?’
‘Yep. It’s time.’ Iron Eyes stepped down on to the sand and started to walk directly towards the smell of stale sawdust and the sound of a tinny piano.
The Longhorn was busy, as always. Those who had witnessed the arrival of the infamous bounty hunter had not ventured into the saloon to inform those inside. They had done what all sane men and women would do when seeing Iron Eyes and headed back to their homes.
Iron Eyes studied the two-story building as he approached. It had a veranda with a low rail which stretched the entire length of its front. Four windows faced the main street. Only three of them had lights flickering behind their lace drapes. Two larger windows were set to either side of the saloon’s swing doors. Their panes were covered in painted images to prevent the innocent from seeing within.
The experienced hunter of men looked back at the windows above the veranda. He knew what was probably happening up in those rooms. And he also knew that the Brewster brothers were probably occupying them with a little female company. They would be celebrating their latest triumph.
Since he had set out after die outlaws he had never been this close to them before. He had never been close enough to their hoof dust for them even to imagine that they were being trailed by the most lethal bounty hunter in the West.
He stepped up on to the boardwalk, paused and then looked over the swing doors into the smoke-filled interior. His bullet-colored eyes narrowed. A dozen or more tables were crowded with men playing cards. Scores of other men were resting against the long bar counter as if afraid to venture too far away from the bartenders. A pair of bar girls in skimpy dresses moved around between the saloon’s patrons trying to find their next paying customers.
Iron Eyes rested a bony hand on top of the swing doors. He continued to stare into the room like an eagle trying to locate his chosen prey. Close to the saloon’s back wall he noticed a staircase which led up to a landing. It looked as though there were more rooms towards the rear of the building. A door up on the landing opened and a drunken man staggered out with a rather rotund female. Most of her face-paint was now covering the man’s face as they both navigated their way down the stairs back to the heart of the drinking-hole.
That was where the outlaws were, Iron Eyes silently told himself. The three Brewster’s were otherwise occupied. A cruel smile crossed his mangled features. That would make killing them easier.
He nodded to himself and put another cigar between his teeth before pushing the door inwards. He had barely taken two strides across the sawdust when he noticed that the piano player had ceased pounding the ivories. Every eye was upon him as he strode toward the bar.
Men of all shapes and sizes watched the strange, unholy-looking figure as he walked to the tune of his spurs. Each of the onlookers was silent.
Iron Eyes noticed how men parted and allowed him to reach the bar. He placed a boot on the brass rail, then looked to both sides. Men backed away without even realizing that they had done so. Even the bar girls did not approach. For what seemed an eternity Iron Eyes waited. At last one of the bartenders summoned the courage to move to him.
‘How can I help you, stranger?’
‘Whiskey,’ Iron Eyes said. ‘An unopened bottle with a label on it.’
As the bartender went to get a bottle Iron Eyes pulled a match from his pocket and struck it across one of his gun grips. He cupped its flame and sucked in the smoke before dropping the match into a spittoon.
The entire saloon was hushed in silence.
When the bottle and thimble-glass were placed before the bounty hunter Iron Eyes placed a silver coin upon the bar top, then pulled the cork. He lifted the bottle and drank from its neck. He took three long swallows, then he pushed the cork back and slid the bottle into one of his deep pockets.
‘I’m looking for the Brewsters,’ Iron Eyes exclaimed.
Without even realizing it, one of the bartenders looked up to the landing. The gaunt figure nodded at the man as though he had actually told him the answer to his question. He then began the long walk around the bar counter towards the staircase.
With one fluid action, Iron Eyes pulled one of his deadly guns and cocked its hammer. He slowly ascended the stairs towards the landing like a panther closing in on its prey.
Only his spurs made any sound.
Every single person in the saloon watched. Most had open mouths. All knew that at any moment they would hear the noise of lethal lead come from above them. They all realized it would be far safer to leave the saloon, yet none of them could tear themselves away from knowing who would be victorious in the forthcoming gunfight.
Iron Eyes reached the landing. He turned. His eyes darted across the open space to the four doors. Each had a number painted upon its wooden surface.
The sound of boisterous exercise was coming from two of the rooms, whilst the others were silent.
The bounty hunter walked to the line of doors. They were roughly ten feet apart. With the gun pointing from his hip, Iron Eyes leaned close to the first door and strained to hear.
There was no noise. His mind raced as he tried to recall which of the windows he had observed from the street had not had a light behind its drape. He remembered, and moved to the next door. He stared at the number ‘two’. This time he did not have to strain to hear. The sound of bed springs and grunting made it obvious that at least one of the outlaws was inside.
He glanced at the remaining two doors.
When the shooting started, he knew that the other brothers would soon come out with guns blazing.
Iron Eyes inhaled, drew the other gun and cocked its hammer to match the one already primed. He sucked in smoke and then raised his bony left leg.
The sound of the door being kicked off its hinges echoed around the Longhorn. Iron Eyes took only half a step forward and saw the head of the eldest Brewster rise from the thick quilted bedcovers. The face stared at him as the female began to scream, She was obviously not quite as drunk as Frank Brewster. She could see who had just destroyed the door.
‘Brewster?’ the bounty hunter drawled through cigar smoke.
The outlaw desperately clambered across the hysterical female and the bed towards the holstered gun in the fancy shooting rig on a worm-eaten stool.
Like a cat playing with a mouse, Iron Eyes waited the fraction of a second it took for Frank Brewster to pull the Remington free of its holster before he squeezed his own triggers.
A deafening rat-a-tat filled the upper floor of the Longhorn. Both of Iron Eye’s bullets hit the outlaw in the neck. Blood splattered over the bed and the female before Frank Brewster slid to the floor taking the sheets with him. The bar girl was naked and covered in blood. Upon seeing what covered her pale flesh she fainted.
Iron Eyes heard both of the doors to the other rooms opening. He swung around and saw the first man with his guns in his hands. Iron Eyes instantly recognized the face as matching the picture on the Wanted poster. This was Clem Brewster, his memory told him. The outlaw fired his weaponry. Two bullets hit the d
oorframe. A million splinters showered over Iron Eyes, filling his eyes with hot, burning debris. He staggered as the noise of two more screaming women filled the upper story of the Longhorn.
Instinctively Iron Eyes returned fire. He watched through half-closed eyes as the youngest of the outlaws flew backwards and landed at the feet of his stunned brother.
Joe Brewster ducked into the room as Iron Eyes fired again.
Iron Eyes spat the cigar from his mouth and pushed one of his guns into his belt. He cocked the hammer of his .36 with one hand as his other frantically tried to rid his eyes of the agonizing splinters which were burning into them.
He was panting as he managed to rid his eyes of most of the splinters. He dropped low and looked back along the landing. Steam rose from the two bullet holes in the half-naked body but there was no sign of the last of the outlaws.
‘I’m gonna kill you, Joe!’ Iron Eyes yelled. There was no reply from behind the furthermost door.
Then he heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the room. Iron Eyes drew back to his full height and ran to the closed door. He kicked it open. He squinted into the lamplit room and saw that the drapes were floating in the evening breeze. A terrified female knelt behind the bed, sobbing. Behind her he could see the broken window.
Iron Eyes raced across the room, leapt over the bed and landed next to the naked women. He poked his gun out of the window and then his head. He just had time to see the outlaw drop from the balcony to the street below.
‘Damn it all!’ Iron Eyes growled. ‘Some critters just don’t know when to quit living.’
Iron Eyes scrambled out of the window in fevered pursuit of his prey. He ran across the balcony just in time to see the half-naked outlaw pause at the corner of a building with the word ‘Bank’ emblazoned upon its facade.
Iron Eyes saw the gun smoke and then felt the bullet hit him in the left trail-coat pocket. The sound of the whiskey bottle shattering filled his ears, and the liquor soaked through the coarse fabric. He raised a gun but saw the outlaw disappear beneath the overhangs.
‘Git back here, you yella dog!’
Iron Eyes lifted a long leg over the railings and jumped from the balcony. He hit the ground hard as two more bullets cut through the darkness and passed within inches of him.
Joe Brewster was headed for the livery, the bounty hunter told himself. He had only just begun to make chase when he was knocked off his feet by what felt like a mule kick. He had been hit. The bullet had caught him in the ribs.
Iron Eyes lay on his back beneath a street lantern. Then heard a sound he recognized.
The sound of a horse thundering away.
He rolled on to his knees and watched his blood dripping into the sand as a shadow traced across him.
‘Need a hand, Iron Eyes?’
The wounded bounty hunter glanced through his long limp hair up at the sheriff.
‘Yep,’ Iron Eyes muttered.
Chapter Two
PUNGENT WHISKEY FUMES hung around Iron Eyes from the broken bottle in his deep trail-coat pocket. Although powerful it masked the other aroma which the bounty hunter wore like a badge of his profession. The smell of death. Iron Eyes had refused to submit to the pain which racked his emaciated body as he staggered towards the livery stable building that stood at the very end of the main street. The wily sheriff kept pace with the bounty hunter and chewed on his pipe stem silently. He was amazed that the younger man was even conscious, let alone capable of walking.
When they reached the stables bathed in the illumination of two street lanterns, Iron Eyes stopped and stared at the ground just outside the wide-open doors of the livery.
‘What you seen?’ Colby enquired with a slight tilt of his head.
‘Tracks,’ Iron Eyes retorted. ‘What the hell else would I see, Sheriff?’ Colby shrugged and poked both hands in his coat pockets. He shivered against the night air and looked back down the street towards the Longhorn. ‘You kill the other two?’
‘Yep.’ Iron Eyes knelt and ran a bony hand over the churned-up ground. ‘Killed ’em dead.’
Sheriff Colby shook his shoulders as though trying to fend off the night chill. He could not understand how the frail-looking Iron Eyes appeared not to have noticed the change in temperature since sundown.
‘What you looking there for anyways, boy?’ the lawman asked. ‘I bet a dozen or more wagons and horses bin across that piece of dirt today. You ain’t gonna find nothing.’
Iron Eyes glanced up at the whiskered man. ‘I’ve bin hunting all my life, old-timer. I can see things here that most folks would never notice.’
Sheriff Colby watched his companion return to his full height. ‘Yeah? What can you see in that chunk of dirt?’
Iron Eyes raised a scarred eyebrow. ‘I can see that Joe Brewster took both the saddle-bags out of there on the neck of his horse when he lit out..’
Colby edged closer to the wounded man. ‘What saddle-bags?’
‘The ones filled with money. Sheriff.’ Iron Eyes turned and walked into the dark interior of the building. Only the glowing embers of the blacksmith’s forge lit up the vast wooden structure. The eyes of a score of horses gleamed from the shadows of their stalls cast by the forge’s eerie red light.
The lawman trailed Iron Eyes into the livery. ‘What money we talking about, boy?’
Iron Eyes looked at the sheriff. ‘The money they stole from the bank up at San Remas.’
Colby scratched his neck. ‘If that’s right, they must have left the bags in here whilst they went down to the saloon.’
Iron Eyes nodded slowly. ‘Yep. They sure must have.’
‘You telling me that them outlaws left their saddle-bags — saddle-bags filled with loot, in this old barn?’ The sheriff looked confused. ‘I mean, they could have bin stolen by anyone who cottoned to them.’
‘Yep.’ Slowly Iron Eyes strolled towards the warm forge, put a cigar between his teeth and leaned over. The coals were still mighty hot. He sucked in the smoke and then turned to face the sheriff. Pain was carved into his twisted features.
‘That’s dumb,’ Colby added.
‘Didn’t say the Brewsters were smart.’ The bounty hunter exhaled a long line of smoke through his teeth. ‘I just said they was outlaws.’
Colby walked towards the tall figure. He could see the blood on the trail-coat. The closer he got the more blood he could see upon the bounty hunter’s sodden shirt and pants leg.
‘You need tending, Iron Eyes. You ain’t just bleeding, you’re pumping, boy.’ Iron Eyes sucked hard on the cigar, as though the smoke might stop the pain. ‘You could be right. I figure two of my ribs are busted.’
The sheriff lifted the side of the long, stained coat away from the brutal injury and stared at it hard and long. ‘Only two ribs?’
‘Maybe three.’ Iron Eyes smiled defiantly. ‘I’ve had me a lot of ribs shot up over the years. Hard to be exact.’ Colby swallowed hard. His eyes focused on the bones protruding from the thin man’s side amid the blood. His eyes went up to the scarred face. ‘That’s gotta hurt something awful.’ Iron Eyes nodded. ‘Yep.’
Sheriff Colby pulled at the sleeve of the tall man. ‘C’mon. I’ll take you to Doc Harper. He’ll fix you up. Reckon given a few days’ rest you’ll can be back on the trail of that Brewster varmint again.’
Iron Eyes started back for the tall doors. ‘I’ll be on his trail before midnight.’
Colby was about to disagree when he saw the determined expression on the face of the bounty hunter as the moonlight hit it. There was something in that twisted face that told him that Iron Eyes meant every word.
Dust blew continuously across the rolling landscape all around him; there seemed to be nothing to fill the rider’s lungs except dry choking air. The Indian pony was laboring beneath its master as the rider’s sharp spurs drove into its flesh for the umpteenth time. Attempting to outrun the vicious blood-covered spurs the pony raced down through a small wood back into the blazing sun and the
arid terrain which seemed to roll on to the almost featureless distant horizon.
The rider’s vicious wound had been sewn up and his narrow body wrapped like an ancient Egyptian mummy but the pain remained constant. Like his pony he was trying vainly to outrun his own agony. Racing along a dry arroyo Iron Eyes dragged on his reins and brought the exhausted animal to an abrupt halt.
The pony was about to fall when the bounty hunter leapt from his saddle, knelt and stared at the hard, unforgiving ground. Even his seasoned hunting prowess had been tested for the previous ten miles. He ran the palm of a hand across the surface of the ground and then sighed heavily. If there were tracks, he could not see them any longer.
They had been blown away, like everything else in this brutal arid place.
Iron Eyes stood upright, wrapped the long ends of the reins around his left hand and started to walk. With every step of his long thin legs the man with the matted mane of black hair kept looking all around him for any hint of his prey. But there was none.
Joe Brewster seemed to have vanished into thin air.
The bounty hunter knew that it was impossible for anyone to escape him. Nobody had ever managed that feat. He had always been able to track down the outlaws and gain the bounty money on their heads.
His bullet-colored eyes darted around him, searching. The low encircling hills gave no clues.
There had to be a sign, he told himself.
For the briefest of moments the bounty hunter paused. Then out of the corner of one eye he saw something upon the crest of the rolling hills to his left. He swung, drew a gun and screwed up his eyes.
There was nothing there. He returned his gun to his belt.
Had he imagined it? Iron Eyes ran fingers through his long sweat-soaked hair. He was confused.
The shimmering heat haze was like looking into a pool of restless water. Nothing was exactly where his eyes said it was.
Pain cut through his skeletal body once more. He coughed and tasted the acrid flavor of blood. He spat and ran a sleeve across his mouth.
