by Rory Black
They raced down from the hacienda with the military precision of a swarm of soldier ants. Like the deadly insects they too would try to find and overwhelm their enemy. The magnificent horses carried their masters into the depths of the valley.
Riding in all his finery the Spaniard looked every inch the nobleman he claimed to be as he led his small army along the well-trodden trail beside the fast-flowing water. He had left a mere eight vaqueros and guards in the hacienda to protect his stronghold.
Sanchez wanted to impose his authority.
This had little to do with vengeance for Pedro Ruiz and more to do with proving his power not only to the people who dared challenge his right to this beautiful land but to his own band of heavily armed followers.
Fear kept men like Sanchez in power. It was something he had learned long ago back in his homeland.
Countless cattle scattered and ran into the high grass as the horsemen galloped north through their pastures. Sanchez narrowed his eyes and steered his mount into the creek, then spurred hard. Water flew up over the stallion and cooled them both. It had been a long time since he had ventured along the entire length of the valley and he knew that it would take the better part of a day to cover the ground even on his own specially bred horses.
Someone had killed Ruiz but the vainglorious horseman gave the killer little thought. To him this was just a grand show of his might. In his mind they would find the culprits easily and execute them without mercy. He was not leading the majority of his men towards battle; this was going to be a massacre.
Don Miguel Sanchez glanced over his shoulder at the men who rode behind him. He then returned his gaze to the trail ahead. With a whip in his left hand he lashed the powerful shoulders of the white stallion. The horse found more pace.
Sanchez smiled.
The stallion charged on through the creek. The vaqueros mounts followed at matching speed. Every one of them imagined that this was going to be little more than a well-polished turkey shoot.
None of them knew towards what or whom they were blindly racing. If they had they might have slowed their pace.
There was a war awaiting them at the end of the valley.
A two-legged war.
Its name was Iron Eyes.
Iron Eyes had faced down entire gangs before with little more than two guns and dogged courage to protect him. Yet this was a whole lot different, he thought. For the first time he had the lives of innocent people in his hands. These were not people who knew how to fight anything harsher than the elements and the ever-changing seasons. Yet there were those who wanted them dead and they had no way of protecting themselves. None of them had any weaponry and of them all there were just three grown men.
Landon had mentioned that the mysterious Sanchez had fifty vaqueros on his payroll. Iron Eyes knew that time was running out fast for these hardworking people.
If muscles could defeat bullets, Iron Eyes would have had faith in Landon, James and Garcia. But muscles could not prevent death when it spewed from the barrels of guns and there were guns aplenty headed their way.
That was something Iron Eyes knew for certain. Although the big Dan Landon had said that the farmers’ troubles had started long before he had even entered the valley, Iron Eyes felt that he was responsible, because of his killing of the vaquero. Guilt was an emotion new to the bounty hunter.
It did not sit well with him.
Every eye watched him as he walked around the cabin and surveyed the area which surrounded them. Every step brought even more doubts to those who watched. But Iron Eyes was not so easily deterred from his belief in his own ability to defeat anyone foolhardy enough to go up against him.
He paused beside the three females and their brood of children. His eyes looked at the dirty faces of the boys and girls before darting to the trio of troubled farmers.
He drew a cigar from his pocket, pushed it between his teeth and chewed on it as he paced up to Landon and the other two. For minutes he did not speak as the black weed moved between his cracked and scarred lips.
The three men could not hide their concern from the bounty hunter. The smoke still curled into the blue sky from the chimney like an Indian smoke signal but Iron Eyes was not worried by their lack of faith in him. He had enough for them all. Without uttering a word Iron Eyes lowered his skeletal hands into both of the trail-coat’s deep pockets. His bony fingers separated the cigars from the bullets until he was able to scoop every single one of his .36 caliber shells out into the morning light. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the bullets.
‘What’s wrong?’ Landon queried.
‘Ain’t enough,’ Iron Eyes eventually mumbled.
Landon stepped closer. ‘Don’t you have any more ammunition, Iron Eyes?’
Iron Eye’s gaze bored into the farmer’s eyes.
‘Nope,’ he answered. ‘I figured that I wouldn’t need any more than this to kill the outlaw I’ve bin chasing. Never figured on this trouble.’
Landon held on to the hands of the man before him as he roughly counted the bullets they held. He then looked up and said the number aloud.
‘Twenty-one.’
Iron Eyes nodded, dropped the bullets back into the deep pockets and then touched the grips of his Navy Colts.
‘I got me twelve more in my guns,’ he calculated. ‘I figure that makes thirty-three. Ain’t nearly enough if that Sanchez critter has as many vaqueros as you say he has.’
‘Then we’re doomed,’ James blurted out. ‘Doomed.’
‘I knew making the smoke was a mistake.’ Garcia almost cried.
Landon leaned close to Iron Eyes. ‘What’ll we do? If you ain’t got enough bullets to fend them varmints off, we’re finished, like Stan reckons.’
Iron Eyes produced a match from somewhere and scratched its tip with a thumbnail. He inhaled the smoke of the cigar deeply and gave the area another hard look. If the bounty hunter was worried, it sure did not show.
‘First thing you gotta do is get these women and young ’uns away from here,’ he said.
Landon turned and raised a hand to point.
‘There are caves at the foot of the rocks.’ he said. ‘We stored a lot of things there when we first come to this valley. Stuff we wanted to protect in case them vaqueros found our cabins.’
Iron Eyes tilted his head back. ‘What kinda stuff?’
‘Wagons and things,’ Landon added. ‘We figured it would be safer to keep the big stuff in or close to the caves.’
‘Anything else? Maybe dynamite or something?’
Landon shook his head and then paused as his memory recalled something he had forgotten. His eyes focused on the emotionless figure who sucked on the cigar.
‘Hold on a minute. One of the dirt farmers who come in with us was named Seth Hogan. Him and his family was killed by the vaqueros. He had black powder in a few barrels that he’d figured he could use for blowing up tree-stumps. Trouble is it was always too dangerous to use the powder in case it brought those vaqueros down on us. Seth never got to use any of that powder. It must be still up at the caves.’
‘Black powder, huh?’ Iron Eyes was thoughtful.
James stepped towards the two men.
‘It still has to be there on the flatbed of his old wagon, Dan. There was five small barrels of the stuff as I recall.’
‘That’s right. Five barrels,’ Landon agreed.
Iron Eyes scratched his cheek. ‘I ain’t never used black powder before but it’s gotta be easier and safer than sticks of dynamite. That stuff can be darn tricky if you get the length of the fuse wire wrong.’
Landon looked at their families and then back at the man with the smoldering weed between his teeth.
‘When do you figure we should head on up to the caves, Iron Eyes?’
‘I figure about now would be a damn smart time to start,’ the bounty hunter snapped back at the large man. ‘I got me a feeling that trouble is coming in fast now I’ve sent up that smoke signal.’
‘You
heard him, Dan. Let’s go,’ James urged.
Iron Eyes sucked on the cigar and stared through its grey smoke. He nodded at James.
Landon moved to the other men. ‘You heard him. Git the women and kids out of here, boys. Take the milk cows and enough provisions to last a couple of days.’
With great relief James and Garcia did exactly as Landon had instructed. As they saw it they had been given the one thing they both wanted and that was to flee.
The bounty hunter stared curiously at Landon, who was watching the others.
‘Ain’t you going as well, Dan?’ Iron Eyes asked.
‘Nope. I’m gonna help you fight off them vaqueros,’ Landon said.
Iron Eyes shook his head slowly in obvious disagreement. ‘No you ain’t. You ain’t even got a gun and this is gonna be a blood-bath to end all blood-baths. Git going. I ain’t got time to teach you how to duck bullets.’
‘But I ain’t scared.’
‘It ain’t a matter of being scared or not, Dan,’ the bounty hunter explained.
‘I need you to herd them others up to them caves. I’ll come looking for you when I’m through here.’
‘You figuring on using the black powder?’
Iron Eyes inhaled on the cigar again. ‘It’ll be our last line of defense as them soldier boys up north say. If Don Miguel Sanchez is the kinda loco bean I reckon he is, we’ll need that powder to finish this once and for all.’
Reluctantly Dan Landon left the side of the thin man and joined the others on their exodus.
Iron Eyes pulled one of his guns from his belt and cocked its hammer. He knew that there were riders headed to this secret place hidden within the woods. The smoke was a bait they could not resist. Every ounce of his honed hunting instincts told him his prey was getting closer.
‘Reckon I better try and get me a few more guns,’ he muttered to himself as he silently made his way into the dense brush.
Turning away from his wife and child, Dan Landon went to ask Iron Eyes something. To his utter surprise the man was gone.
Chapter Twelve
JOE BREWSTER KNEW that something was wrong in this apparent paradise. Very wrong. He had found refuge in the beautiful valley in an attempt to escape the relentless bounty hunter who, he knew, would die rather than give up his intention to add him to his tally of dead wanted outlaws. Yet the place Brewster had thought would be a peaceful and safe place to hide was anything but. Just like the vaqueros and farmers, he too had heard the gunfire the previous day and wondered who had squeezed those triggers. Unlike the others though, the outlaw had no desire to go and find out. He knew that it might have been another of the tricks the bounty hunter employed to lure the naive into his web of death.
The creek which ran along the length of the valley would have been an easy way to travel from its northern end to the distant south but Brewster knew that that would have given Iron Eyes an easy target. Joe Brewster had already seen what the infamous hunter of men had done to his brothers and did not want to join them in the bowels of Hell too soon.
The outlaw had seen Iron Eyes fall wounded when he had fired a volley of deadly lead at him back at Rio Valdo. Anyone else would have quit his pursuit, but not the hideous bounty hunter. He had somehow managed to keep on coming after him.
Brewster remembered his utter shock when he had glanced behind him and seen the rider still following him.
The outlaw knew that if he were to have any chance of escaping the certain death of finding himself in Iron Eyes’ gun sights he had to stay in the woods and eventually try to navigate a way down into the Mexican heartland.
A thousand trees and the dense undergrowth would have to be his shield, his only protection from Iron Eyes’ lethal accuracy. Yet Brewster had already learned that this was no easy place through which to ride. After hiding in the dense woodland for nearly a whole day he had finally decided to try his luck and start out on his bid for freedom.
He had to escape. Time was running out and every nerve and sinew of his body told him so.
But this place was far more dangerous than he had imagined when his eyes first saw the unexpected valley from the high desert ridge.
All day he had seen and heard riders as they travelled through the fast-moving waters of the wide creek. Something was definitely wrong and he did not want to get involved in anything which might hamper his attempt to escape Iron Eyes’ vengefulness. Brewster had not recognized any of the horsemen but knew what hired gunmen looked like, whatever their nationality. The vaqueros were heavily armed and obviously looking for someone or something to kill.
He knew that it could not be his hide they sought as only one man knew that he had entered the valley, but that did not make him sit any easier on his rested mount. They were gunning for someone and after escaping Iron Eyes he prayed that he would not get caught in the middle of other men’s lethal crossfire. The ruthless Brewster knew how to kill but he was no fighter. His breed were back-shooters. Nothing more and nothing less.
So far his luck had saved him. Yet luck can be bad as well as good, he told himself.
Brewster steadied the horse beneath him and patted the saddle-bags. They were swollen with the money he and his dead brothers had stolen down in San Remus. Now it was all his and he wanted to spend every damn penny of it.
He tapped his spurs and moved away from the small clearing where he had spent so many hours chewing on jerky and hardtack and began his journey once more.
As the horse began the difficult walk between the trees his mind raced. A thought came to the outlaw. One which made him smile.
Maybe those Mexican gunfighters were after Iron Eyes. It was a thought which gave him the courage to continue onward.
Pepe Gomez was no tracker but even he could not fail to see the unmistakable hoof tracks left by the palomino stallion ridden by the unknown man who had bettered Pedro Ruiz. The tracks had led away from where they had discovered Ruiz’s body, across the muddy bank of the creek and into the wood. The vaquero had led his six companions across the almost trackless ground. Only one animal had travelled this route in days and that was the palomino.
The sun filtered through the tree canopies and was on their backs but none of them seemed to notice. Each of them knew that somewhere ahead death awaited them. They continued trailing the elusive horseman with only one thought between them.
They knew that they would not only have to find their prey but they would have to kill him as well. Don Miguel Sanchez would expect nothing less than a trophy to calm his anger. A head to place on a pike upon the high walls of his hacienda. A carcass to skin and nail to the drawbridge as a warning to all others who dared to enter the forbidden Eden.
When the seven horsemen had set out just after dawn it had seemed an easy task to achieve. Seven men to kill just one. The longer they had ridden the more their mutual doubts had grown.
They had begun to realize that this was no ordinary man they were hunting.
Who was it who could get the better of Ruiz with a single shot? Whoever it was, the man was brave. No coward had fired that lethal shot.
The bushes and trees were getting harder and harder for the seven horsemen to negotiate. Everything green seemed to be entangled in thorn-covered brambles. Barbed wire created by nature itself. Progress had become slow and painful. The further they travelled the more difficult it was for their sturdy mounts to find ways through the unyielding undergrowth. These were prized horses and none of the vaqueros wanted them to be scarred or ripped apart by the savagely thorny vegetation.
Iron Eyes, on the other hand, had spurred and driven onwards the powerful stallion beneath him without a second thought for the animal’s welfare.
Every drop of sweat reminded Gomez that they had to continue their search for, even though they were all weary of the chase, their fear of returning to Sanchez without the killer was even more terrifying. Gomez knew that it would be their heads on pikes should they fail in their mission. Nothing less would appease Sanchez.
&nb
sp; Gomez rode at the head of the seven riders. As they emerged from the woods it was he who kept his eyes upon the soft fertile soil. He who followed the tracks left by the stallion’s hoofs.
The seven vaqueros rode up a small rise and then saw the one thing that they had spent days searching for. All the horsemen reined in and stared in disbelief across the tops of the trees at the black smoke which could still be seen twisting up into the blue sky miles ahead of them.
Gomez lifted a hand and pointed.
‘Look. Smoke,’ he declared.
The other vaqueros remained silent as they too stared at the smoke. Each man wondered who it was who had suddenly allowed smoke to rise into the heavens.
Was it the last of the settlers?
Or was it the unknown gunman whose trail they had followed for so long?
Gomez turned and looked at another of the men called Antonio Picario. Picario was almost thirty and, unlike his fellow vaqueros, wore two guns. He could use them both with equal accuracy.
‘What do you think, Antonio?’ Gomez asked.
‘I think it is smoke,’ came the insolent reply.
‘But who has made this smoke?’
‘Whoever it is I think we should kill him.’
Gomez nodded in agreement.
Suddenly, to their total surprise, a hundred yards ahead of them the vaqueros saw a fleeting glimpse of someone moving behind a line of trees.
‘There he is,’ one of the horsemen announced, dragging his pistol from its holster.
Gomez held on to his reins tightly.
