Iron Eyes 11

by Rory Black

  ‘What is that, Iron Eyes?’

  ‘A camp-fire,’ came the swift reply.

  ‘I don’t see a fire.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Iron Eyes lowered his arm. ‘But I can see what the fire lights up, Dan.’

  Landon returned his attention to the man next to him. ‘What you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Them vaqueros have lit themselves a fire to cook grub, Dan,’ the bounty hunter told him. ‘I can’t see the fire either, coz the trees are in the way but I can see the light from it dancing on that creek and the men who are moving around it. Look hard.’

  ‘How’d you know they’re cooking?’

  Iron Eyes sniffed at the air. ‘Smell that? That’s real good Mexican vittles. That ain’t no bacon or hardtack they’re rustling up, Dan.’

  ‘Don Miguel Sanchez’s men?’

  ‘Reckon so.’ Iron Eyes pointed back along the narrow line of boulders they had used to reach this high place. ‘Start moving downhill. I’ve seen all I need to see.’

  They both moved slowly down the steep trail towards the ground. It was like finding stepping-stones in a stream. They had to stretch their legs in order to reach each one in turn. It was a difficult descent, made no easier by the darkness.

  Landon jumped down the last six feet. He turned and watched the bounty hunter move far more carefully. Iron Eyes reached the ground and then paused for a few seconds.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Landon queried.

  ‘I want you to hitch my horse between the traces of one of them wagons, Dan,’ Iron Eyes said. ‘The one with them kegs of black powder on the flat bed.’ Landon rubbed his neck. ‘That’s a mighty heavy wagon there, Iron Eyes. It might cripple that horse of yours.’

  ‘So? I can always git another horse.’ Landon watched the eerie, thin man start back for the caves and the rest of the people who had gathered there. He could not understand this man.

  The bounty hunter walked slowly as though every step hurt.

  ‘You gonna blow them critters up?’ Landon eventually managed to ask.

  Iron Eyes looked over his wide shoulder. The starlight caught his legendary eyes.

  ‘Like I told you before, I’ll use the powder as a last resort.’

  ‘What comes first on your agenda then?’

  ‘Hell. I’m gonna set fire to your houses first,’ Iron Eyes replied. ‘That’ll bring them all to me.’

  ‘Burn our homes?’ Landon gasped. Iron Eyes carried on walking.

  Chapter Sixteen

  IRON EYES HAD only just finished unharnessing his stallion from between the wagon’s traces outside the small cabin when he heard a noise to his left. A noise he recognized. Every sinew in his thin body told him someone was coming. The darkness enabled him to move unseen to the palomino’s neck. His eyes narrowed as they searched for whoever had made the sound that had alerted his keen senses.

  Then he saw them. The trees and brush were dense but enough starlight managed to penetrate the tops of the trees for him to spot the three outlines. A trio of riders astride horses was getting closer by the second.

  Silently he drew one of his Navy Colts from his belt and in one fluid motion cocked its hammer.

  Iron Eyes moved like a phantom away from the tired horse towards the line of trees, silently and with purpose. Every step brought him closer to the approaching horsemen. They were upwind and he could smell their stale sweat in his flared nostrils.

  He paused. His eyes screwed up until they were almost closed as he stared unblinking at the three shapes. Even the dim starlight could not hide their distinctive headwear from his keen vision.

  Sombreros.

  They were vaqueros.

  For a moment Iron Eyes wondered why they were coming from the north and not the south like the others he had spotted from the cliff wall earlier. Then his curiosity waned. It did not matter which direction they were coming from, he told himself. They were vaqueros like the one who had tried and failed to kill him. That single fact had signed their death warrant.

  Ignoring the sharp thorns of the tangled briers wrapped around the trunks of tall trees Iron Eyes pushed his thin frame forward and raised his cocked weapon. He felt the thorns rip at his flesh and blood start to trace down his lean body but it did not stop him.

  Suddenly the weary horsemen saw him. A horrific figure bathed in the sort of eerie light only found in woods at night.

  Startled, they dragged their guns from their holsters but it was already far too late. Faster than any other gunslinger could have acted the bounty hunter fanned his deadly Navy Colt’s hammer three times. He stood firm as their horses reared up and shook their lifeless burdens from their backs before scattering into the woods.

  Iron Eyes pushed the smoking barrel of his gun back into his belt and walked to each of the dead vaqueros. He plucked their guns from their hands and dropped each of them in turn into his deep trail-coat pockets.

  The emotionless Iron Eyes was about to return to his horse and the wagon in the small clearing when he spotted one of the dead vaqueros ’ mounts a mere twenty feet from where he stood. His eyes narrowed and focused through the bluish half-light which filtered down over the scene at the bags tied behind the high saddle cantle.

  A thought came to him.

  More quickly than blinking he pulled one of his guns back out from his belt, cocked its hammer, aimed and then fired. Iron Eyes watched through the circle of gun smoke as his bullet hit the horse in the head. The sound of the skull shattering echoed around him. The horse toppled like a felled oak. Its hind legs twitched.

  Iron Eyes pushed his gun back into his belt and then pulled his Bowie knife from his boot neck. He moved quickly through the tall grass to the dead creature, slid the blade of the knife under the leather laces behind the cantle and cut the saddle-bags free. He unbuckled both satchels and searched them. It did not take long before he found what he had been looking for. A box of bullets and a full bottle of mezcal.

  Iron Eyes smiled.

  Like the ghost many claimed him to be, the bounty hunter retraced his steps through the gun smoke back to the wagon.

  Unlike the others up at the caves, Dan Landon had been unable to rest since the bounty hunter had driven the weathered wagon down to their homes. The thought of Iron Eyes razing their homes to the ground would not go away. He was tired but unable even to consider going to sleep. Not this night. He wanted to help the seriously injured Iron Eyes.

  This was his and the others’ fight and yet Iron Eyes had taken it upon himself to venture back into the jaws of death alone.

  Why?

  The question had haunted him for hours. Could it be that the bounty hunter was acting on their behalf because he was simply grateful to them for tending his wounds and giving him a little broth?

  Would anyone risk their lives for a bowl of broth?

  Landon had heard the gunfire moments earlier and it had drawn him away from the others. Most were already asleep and had not even heard the shots ringing out through the trees, but he had.

  The big man clenched both fists and stared out into the darkness. He felt helpless. Just because the bounty hunter had told them all to remain at the foot of the cliffs, did that mean he had to obey?

  Iron Eyes had implied that if they did not have guns they could not fight. Landon raised his powerful hands and stared at his muscular arms. Even starlight did not make them appear any less dangerous.

  He had never needed a gun or rifle to settle his battles before. His strength and ability to use that strength had always seen him through in the past. Why not now?

  Landon knew that he could snap a man in half with his arms. Some folks did not require guns, he thought.

  At last the big dirt farmer realized that he could no longer remain here like a helpless old woman. Landon snorted like a raging bull. He moved to the small pile of belongings he and his wife had brought from the cabin. He reached down and plucked his long-handled axe from the ground.

  He stared at the sharpened edge of its blade. T
his was a weapon, if he used it as a weapon.

  ‘You might not want any help, Iron Eyes,’ he muttered. ‘But you’re sure gonna get it anyways.’

  Axe in hand, he quickly marched into the trees. Whether the bounty hunter liked it or not, Dan Landon was determined to help him.

  But the big man was not alone on his way down the trail back to the cabin. If he had taken a fraction of a heartbeat to glance over his broad shoulder he would have spotted someone following him.

  Like all sons who worship their fathers, little Billy was shadowing his father’s every step.

  Both were rushing down into the ravenous jaws of death. One willingly. The other innocently.

  Somewhere out in the center of the valley more than thirty vaqueros were driving their horses on at increased pace to where they thought they had heard the shots coming from. Their whips and spurs were closing down the distance between themselves and their unknown enemy fast. But where in the fertile tree-covered northern end of the valley was that enemy? Finding a needle in a haystack would have proved easier but soon they would be given a fiery clue.

  A guiding beacon towards which to aim their mounts.

  Yet who were the hunters and who was the hunted? Were the vaqueros led by Don Miguel Sanchez hunting down their foe or was it actually Iron Eyes who was luring them into a deadly trap? A trap which could only be set by an expert hunter. Either way more blood would soon be spilled in the valley.

  So much blood its creek would flow red.

  There was still an awful lot of night left and the bounty hunter intended to use it to his advantage. Smoke might be OK during the hours of daylight but when the sky was black only one thing could draw human prey better.

  Fire.

  For since man had first learned how to make fire it had taken on an almost hypnotic quality in his soul. Iron Eyes knew that only too well. If you wanted to catch yourself a man in the dark nothing would draw him like a fire.

  Iron Eyes stood beside the wagon he had driven down from the distant caves and led the palomino stallion away from between its traces. He walked the mount to the rear of Dan Landon’s cabin and secured its reins to a sturdy tree. Having outdrawn the three vaqueros close to the cabin Iron Eyes now had five guns and enough ammunition to fend off a hundred men. But the vaqueros’ weapons were .45s and far heavier than his own prized Navy Colts.

  Too heavy for his old trail-coat pockets. There was only one way to carry this type of gun without the burden of holsters, he mused. That was to tie string to each of the guns’ trigger guards and suspend them round his neck. Iron Eyes could find no string, but he decided to trim strips of leather from his saddle-bags with his Bowie knife. It took less than five minutes for the bounty hunter to complete his task.

  He moved away from the stallion with the three .45s hanging from a crude leather noose. The guns dangled at the same level as his Navy Colts in his belt.

  In all his years of killing, Iron Eyes had never before attempted to take on so many foes as the number he knew were after his hide now. If tackling outlaws were battles then this had to be a war.

  Could one man alone win a war?

  The thin figure who moved back to the wagon had no doubts that it was possible. The odds were against him but he had always managed to defeat the odds.

  Iron Eyes knew that most men feared death and that gave him the edge on them. For him, death held no fear. It had ridden on his shoulder his entire life.

  He had already removed the five small barrels of black powder and rolled them up to the cabin door forty feet away from the four-wheeled vehicle. From inside the cabin he found the Landons’ only coal-oil lamp. He poured its meagre contents over the weathered flatbed. Its dry wood soaked the oil up like a sponge. He then added half the bottle of mezcal before consuming the rest of the fiery liquor. Again he chewed on the worm.

  A twisted smile crossed his face in anticipation of what was soon to follow.

  For now it was time to set his plan into action. Time for the spider to spin his web. The emaciated bounty hunter gathered up as much dry kindling as he could find in the small clearing and loaded it on top of the flatbed. To this he added every blanket he could find inside the small Landon home.

  Iron Eyes glanced upward at the cloudless star-filled sky and pushed a cigar between his teeth. The alcohol had warmed up his innards enough for him to forget the nagging pain in his side.

  He pulled a match from one of his deep coat-pockets and ran a thumbnail across its tip. It burst into flame. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and then stared at the stick of golden flickering fire between his finger and thumb. Then he tossed the match on to the kindling and blankets and watched as the flames spread across the wagon. The oil and mezcal turned the flames blue as they spread out like a living creature.

  Iron Eyes knew that within a matter of seconds the fire would engulf the entire body of the wagon and send its flames higher than even the tallest of the surrounding trees.

  The heat forced him back until he was standing beside the barrels of black powder. He could feel his skin blistering as the fire turned into an inferno. It felt good to have the cold driven out of his bones.

  He leaned over and made a hole in the top of one of the barrels. He then grabbed it and started off down through the brush, leaving a trail of the deadly black powder behind him. He repeated this task four more times until he had each of the barrels placed exactly where he wanted it.

  The bounty hunter knelt and placed the first keg down on its side, so that the trail of powder led straight to the small hole in the wooden top. He turned and looked at the flames which were already rising higher than trees in the valley. A myriad crimson sparks floated over the area like crazed fireflies.

  ‘I reckon that ought to bring ’em on in.’ Iron Eyes sucked on the cigar deep before slowly allowing the grey smoke to drift from between his teeth. ‘Yep. It’ll bring ’em just like moths to a flame.’

  Iron Eyes was right.

  He was a hunter who knew his chosen prey well.

  A towering funnel of raging fire spewed upward like water from a whale’s spout. It rose up into the blackness until it appeared to be touching the very stars scattered across the vast heavens. A stunned Sanchez hauled rein and stopped his powerful white charger. The most powerful man within a hundred square miles steadied his stallion whilst his vaqueros gathered around their transfixed paymaster.

  ‘Look, amigos,’ Sanchez insisted. ‘We have found them.’

  Luis Fernandez drew his own mount level with the Spaniard and leaned across the distance between them. Unlike his fellow riders, Fernandez knew the truth of what had happened to Pedro Ruiz. He knew that they were not hunting down a bunch of back-shooting settlers. There was only one man who mattered out there. One deadly soul who had the ability to kill with a solitary bullet.

  ‘It is a trick,’ he said.

  Sanchez glared briefly at the vaquero. ‘I am not a fool, Luis. I know it is a trick but that is exactly why we shall defeat them.’

  ‘We must not be drawn to that fire, Don Miguel,’ Fernandez said wisely. ‘The man who killed Pedro is trying to lure us into his gun sights.’

  Sanchez looked at Fernandez again. It was the look men always cast upon those whom they believe to be cowards. His eyes then returned to the flames.

  ‘Man? We are not hunting a man, Luis. We are hunting a stinking gang of trespassers.’

  Fernandez gathered his reins. ‘It is a trap.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sanchez agreed. ‘I am aware of that but unlike you I am unafraid because we are many and they are few. No trap can be big enough to ensnare us all.’

  Another of the vaqueros known simply as Renaldo moved his horse closer to the white stallion.

  ‘Why would the vermin set such a fire, Don Miguel?’

  ‘To trick us of course, Renaldo,’ Sanchez retorted. ‘But we shall not fall for such a childish trick. I shall lead half of you straight towards those flames and the rest of you will circle aroun
d behind the fire. They will be surrounded. We shall see who it is who becomes trapped.’

  Fernandez looked back at the fire. ‘But the light of the flames will make us easy targets. We shall be cut down before we ever reach them.’

  Sanchez dismissed the notion. He dragged his reins hard to his right and stared straight up at the flames. The vaqueros looked at their leader as the reflected light danced in his cruel eyes.

  ‘Renaldo will take half of you that way,’ Sanchez pointed. ‘The rest will follow me. We shall spread out once we are in the woods. We shall massacre them all. Their heads shall adorn the high walls of my hacienda.’

  There was no time for arguments. Men like Don Miguel Sanchez never listened to anyone but themselves anyway. The riders split into two equal groups and then spurred their mounts hard into action. The vaqueros rode through the shallow creek and then began to separate as Sanchez had ordered. Their thoroughbred mounts headed straight towards the beacon of flames as their masters continued to spur them on.

  They swarmed like a cavalry charge into the morass of trees in search of their sacrifices. Their weapons were primed for the forthcoming slaughter.

  An invisible gauntlet had been thrown down. Sanchez had valiantly responded to the challenge.

  But unknown to the vaqueros ’ leader there was a ghostly figure awaiting their attack with even more anticipation. Waiting to unleash his own form of retribution.

  Iron Eyes was ready and eager for the conflict to begin.

  They had no idea that he had already declared war.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE SMALL BOY had silently trailed his father all the way from the caves without detection. His small bare feet had taken three steps to every one stride of the huge man he worshipped. Then Billy saw the back of their cabin illuminated by the fire behind its simple form and became afraid of what lay beyond. He dropped down into the high grass and hid. But as with all fearful creatures he was unable to subdue his youthful curiosity. His large eyes and soup-basin haircut remained just above the vegetation. Billy watched.