Iron Eyes 12

by Rory Black

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Desert Springs was an oasis that drew the dregs of Texas down into its profitable boundaries. Among the many ruthless characters, there was none so fearsome as the infamous bounty hunter, Iron Eyes. He had trailed a dangerous outlaw right into the remote settlement. But Iron Eyes was wounded: shot up bad with arrow and bullet after battling a band of Apaches. A doctor fought to save him, but even his knowledge and skill wasn’t enough to save the patient. Iron Eyes was dead.

  But that was the thing about Iron Eyes—he was too damn’ mean to die for long!

  IRON EYES 12: IRON EYES IS DEAD

  By Rory Black

  First published by Robert Hale Limited in 2010

  Copyright © 2010, 2021 by Rory Black

  First Electronic Edition: May 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Dedicated to the actor, western star and stunt rider, Dick Jones.

  Prologue

  THE SWELTERING HEAT haze twisted the burning air before the horseman’s sand-grazed eyes. Images in a sickening soup mocked him. It was like a tormenting rattlesnake drawing him towards its lethal fangs. Yet the tall palomino stallion remained sturdy as it obeyed the sharp spurs of its new master. Even in this unforgiving climate the powerful animal continued to forge on as the sun grew increasingly hot the higher it rose above the vast expanse of blistering sand. But it was not the sun nor the heat which filled the mind of the rider. It was the deep hoof-tracks of his prey in the white-hot sand that lured the emaciated horseman ever onward in his quest to administer his own form of justice once and for all. They were like a magnet to the deep-set bullet-colored eyes of the deadly rider.

  A lure that he was helpless to ignore.

  The sun was now directly overhead and both man and beast were beginning to flag. This was a place where shadows disappeared at the very time when they were most needed. The rider allowed the stallion to stop and lower its head. Rolling dunes surrounded them. Dunes which appeared to move as the hot air played tricks with his bleeding eyes. He raised a hand and vainly rubbed at the cruel grains of sand which filled them. It made no difference. A million crazed hornets could not have stung more. He stared at the blood on his fingertips and spat to his side, then pulled a cigar from his deep jacket pocket. He placed it between his teeth and ran a match across the saddle horn. It ignited. He cupped its flame and sucked in the strong smoke.

  It felt good.

  He concentrated. All that lay ahead was a vast expanse of more sand with the trail of his human prey imprinted upon its dry surface. Smoke drifted from between his small sharp teeth as they gripped the cigar firmly.

  He smiled.

  It was a knowing smile. A cruel smile. He knew that there would be no escape this time for the outlaw who had already managed to outwit him once.

  The bounty hunter knew that however hard Joe Brewster rode the powerful beast beneath his saddle he would eventually catch up to him. However cunning the outlaw might have been up until now, Brewster was doomed to follow the same fate that the bounty hunter had already dished out to the outlaw’s two brothers.

  Death was the only certainty.

  Death was inevitable once Iron Eyes had the scent of his prey in his flared nostrils. And he had inhaled that aroma a long way back on the trail to this unholy place. The thin figure tapped the ash from his cigar and then returned it to his mouth and sucked hard. As acrid smoke drifted all around his face, he saw something through the hot pitiless air.

  Something which he knew might slow his progress or even bring it to an abrupt halt.

  The bony hands released their grip on the reins and wrapped the long leathers around the saddle horn. He raised his arms and then forced his fingers through his matted mane of long black hair until every scar upon his hideous face was visible. Every fight and battle he had endured over the years could be seen in the twisted flesh which had once been a face like so many other faces.

  The fearless rider narrowed his eyes and gave out a long sigh. Then he leaned back to his saddlebags and plucked a bottle of whiskey from one of the satchels. He pulled its cork, raised the bottle to his lips and sucked in the fiery liquor. With every swallow his unblinking eyes watched the half-dozen Apaches who sat astride their ponies. Tellingly, they stared right back at him.

  Any other man might have gone unnoticed or even ignored by the hunting party of near-naked braves, but not Iron Eyes. It was as though every native of this vast land had heard of him in the myths which spilled from the mouths of elders around their campfires. The trouble was, they believed every word of the legend, which grew with each telling.

  It was said that Iron Eyes hated Indians.

  So Indians hated Iron Eyes.

  The truth was far simpler. Since the strange hunter of men had first emerged from the dense forests far to the north-west his appearance had never allowed anyone truly to claim him as one of their own.

  He was a misfit.

  For Iron Eyes did not fully resemble either white or red man, yet he had similarities to both.

  He was tall and thin, like many a white man, yet with naturally tanned skin and long black hair and a face which refused to grow any facial hair, like an Indian.

  He was both feared and rejected by them all.

  To the Indians and the white men alike, he was vermin. Men killed vermin, or at least tried to kill them. It was what men did.

  Iron Eyes continued to stare with deadly intent at the Apaches who were blocking his advance. It was a situation he had experienced many times before with various tribes. Each time it had ended in bloodshed. Each time he had managed to survive and carry on.

  Still watching them with narrowed eyes, he slowly lowered the bottle and rubbed his mouth along the sleeve of his tattered trail jacket. He returned the cork and pushed it down into the bottle’s neck.

  They were young bucks.

  Probably no more than half his age but they recognized the legendary figure before them from the stories they had been raised with.

  To most tribes Iron Eyes was a ghost. An evil spirit who could never be killed because he was already dead. Yet they always wanted to test the theory. For the warrior who did manage to kill this fearsome apparition would go down in Indian mythology.

  The bony left hand of the bounty hunter pushed the bottle back into the satchel behind his cantle. The sound of it touching the other whiskey bottles rang out across the silent landscape.

  One of the Apaches raised a rifle and started to yell out across the fifty or so yards’ distance between them. Then the five others joined in the ranting. Although the bounty hunter did not understand one word of the cursing which grew ever louder, he knew what it meant.

  What it always meant.

  It was a challenge.

  A challenge from hot-blooded young braves to battle to the death with a mythical being. A creature more than a man in their collective mind. A monster. Iron Eyes was someone whom they knew had never been defeated and yet they had to face and fight him.

  There was no other way.

  Only cowar
ds sought one.

  Angrily, Iron Eyes took a deep breath and tossed his cigar away. He gathered up his reins in his left hand and then curled his long bony fingers around one of his two Navy Colts, which poked out from his pants belt. As the wailing and taunting grew deafening, his thumb clawed back on the gun’s hammer until it fully locked.

  Iron Eyes slid the weapon from his belt and rested it across the saddle horn in readiness. He lowered his gruesome head and angrily glared at them. Blood traced from both eyes and ran down the scarred features.

  ‘Damn it all!’ he cursed with a shake of his head. ‘I hate killing Apaches! There ain’t no profit in it! No profit at all!’

  The stallion beneath him snorted as the horsemen turned their mounts and started towards him.

  Iron Eyes raised the gun and then gave out an even more chilling cry. He thrust his spurs back and the palomino charged toward the six braves.

  The air soon filled with gun smoke.

  Half the young Apaches had rifles; the other half carried three small bows with deadly flint-tipped arrowheads. Yet within five paces of the huge palomino horse, two of the braves had been punched from the backs of their ponies by the sheer impact of the Navy Colt’s lead. The young warriors whipped their mounts with rawhide reins and raced down the dune at the rider who was almost upon them.

  Rifles blasted.

  Iron Eyes felt the tails of his long trail coat being lifted by the vicious bullets and yet he kept charging. His gun kept spewing out its own retribution.

  Then one of the Apaches let an arrow fly from his bow. It did not miss its target. Iron Eyes reeled as the arrow went straight through his thin frame just below his left collarbone. The bounty hunter’s horse tore between the four Indians and then was hauled to an abrupt stop. Ignoring his own pain, Iron Eyes dragged the stallion around. The Apaches did exactly the same. They were facing one another again. Blood flowed from the shaft of the arrow in his chest but Iron Eyes refused to quit. He hauled his other gun from his belt and cocked its hammer.

  Two more rifle shots blasted from the barrels of their weapons. He felt one tear into his right leg as the other passed over his head.

  Iron Eyes steadied his wide-eyed mount and returned fire.

  He watched as both riflemen went flying backwards off the backs of their ponies. Even before they had crashed into the sand, he had spurred his horse into action again.

  The wounded bounty hunter galloped back towards the two remaining Apaches. With every stride of the stallion’s long legs, Iron Eyes fired his guns until their smoking chambers were empty.

  Iron Eyes dragged rein and stopped his horse.

  The sand was crimson.

  There was no satisfaction to Iron Eyes in the sight of six dead Apache braves. It had been yet another pointless battle.

  As the gun smoke drifted away. Iron Eyes stared at his bleeding leg and then saw the feathered flight of the arrow a few inches from his face. He went to pull it and then realized that it had gone right through his thin frame. He realized that there was no way he could remove this arrow without killing himself in the process.

  ‘Damn it all!’ He cursed again before dropping his guns into his deep coat pocket. ‘I bin well and truly skewered this time. I gotta get me some doctoring damn fast!’ He swung the horse around and spurred.

  The stallion obeyed.

  Chapter One

  THE SOUND OF gunfire swept like a tidal wave across the arid landscape. At first it resembled thunderclaps to the ears of the solitary horseman. Then he realized exactly what it had been which had spooked not only his mount but himself. The outlaw pulled back on his reins as the noise of the brief but deadly gun battle resounded around the dry desert air. Joe Brewster stood in his stirrups and looked back with narrowed eyes. Back to where he knew the shots had come from. Every sinew in his aching frame knew who it was back amid the mountains of dunes, unleashing lead. It could only be one person. One man who doggedly refused to quit the chase.

  Iron Eyes.

  For the first time since he had fled Mexico Brewster realized that the infamous Iron Eyes was still hunting him. Hunting him like most men hunt down game or vermin. The trouble was Brewster knew that he was still the game. The hunted.

  A rage burned inside him as he recalled how Iron Eyes had killed both his brothers with no hint of emotion. Wanted dead or alive meant only one thing to Iron Eyes.

  It meant dead.

  ‘How can he still be alive?’ Brewster snarled nervously. ‘I left that fool back in the middle of a Mexican war! Can’t anything kill that bastard?’

  The rider sat back down on his saddle and brooded. He had known that there were some cold-hearted hunters of men who refused to quit once their dander was up. Iron Eyes was that breed. His kind never turned their backs on a bounty. They kept on coming. Like the Grim Reaper, nothing could sway them from their chosen path or victim.

  Brewster gathered his reins up and then stared at the mountainous dune before him. It appeared to be the biggest one of them all. He lifted his canteen and gave it a shake. Like all the others which hung from his saddle horn, it was as dry as the sand beneath his horse’s hoofs. He rubbed his gloved hand across his mouth and felt his lips crack and begin to bleed.

  The sight of black wide-winged vultures floating on high thermals chilled the outlaw. They were circling. They had sensed the recent kill. They would feast on the carcass whether it be human or beast regardless, before sundown.

  It was now more than two days since he had used up the last of his water and he hurt bad. Thirst was a mighty hard thing to handle. His left hand pulled out a well-worn map from his vest pocket. He shook its fragile paper until it unfolded before him. Brewster stared at the crude map his brother Clem had drawn for them. Clearly marked was a town amid wooded terrain at the edge of the desert. That was where they were meant to go and catch a stagecoach north to Waco. He patted the canvas bags of coins and paper money which he no longer had to share with his siblings.

  But would he ever reach that town which Clem had insisted was there above the desert? Brewster doubted it. He was a rich man but feared that soon he would be a rich dead man.

  He had followed the stars through the desert just as Clem had taught him. Stayed exactly on course, yet all he could see was that damn big expanse of sand. He knew that he had not wavered off the route set down on the map. Now he wondered whether there was really a town out here at all? Had Clem got mixed up? Could there be a town out here in the middle of this hell?

  The outlaw gritted his teeth and screwed up the map into a tight ball. He tossed it away and growled. He was going to die out here because of a dumb map made by his even dumber brother.

  That was the truth of it.

  Brewster glanced upward for a few seconds and then realized that if the souls of his brothers were anywhere it was not up there. He lifted himself up and balanced in his stirrups to take the weight off his mount’s back. He lashed the shoulders of his lathered-up horse until it began to react. The horse obeyed its master’s desperate exhortations and the sound of the leathers as they cracked against the dry air to either side. The animal climbed the steep dune of sand slowly but never once lost its footing.

  When both horse and rider reached the flat top of the slope of soft, shifting sand he caught sight of the very thing he had begun to believe did not exist. Then a smile crossed his features as his tired eyes focused on the town a quarter of a mile ahead of him. Its countless windows caught the rays of the sun and glinted like precious jewels.

  Brewster steadied the animal beneath him. The scent of fresh water filled both their nostrils.

  ‘So that’s Desert Springs!’ The outlaw sighed thankfully. ‘Clem was right all the time!’

  Desert Springs stood in the heart of an oasis. The land was filled with grass and trees. So many trees that he was unable to count them all.

  Joe Brewster ran a glove along the neck of his horse and gave a last glance backward to where he knew the shooting had come from. It
was so hot back there that the air made it impossible for him to see anything clearly. Hell on earth, he thought. Only Iron Eyes would willingly ride into terrain such as that in pursuit of his prey. If any man was more suited to the bowels of Hell it was the deadly bounty hunter. Iron Eyes had probably not even broken sweat yet, he speculated.

  Then another thought filled the outlaw’s mind. He wondered whom Iron Eyes had been fighting back there. If it actually was Iron Eyes, that is. Brewster had not seen another living soul in that arid lifeless terrain. Then another thought amused him. What if Iron Eyes was dead? Could one of those shots which had echoed around the vast desert have actually claimed the monstrous creature who kept on following him?

  It was a mouth-watering thought.

  ‘C’mon, boy!’ The outlaw urged the animal beneath him to continue on towards the town. The scent of the fresh water in both their flared nostrils drew them on.

  It was a sweet smell.

  It was the aroma of life in an otherwise land of death.

  The bounty hunter refused to listen to or heed the screams from his wounded body. Soaked in his own blood Iron Eyes defiantly pressed on. He swayed in his saddle like a man close to meeting his Maker but Iron Eyes refused to fall. He would continue to pursue the outlaw who, he knew, must now be close. His eagle-like eyes burned as they stared at the marks left in Brewster’s wake. The hoof tracks left by the outlaw’s mount were clearer now. Iron Eyes stopped the stallion and stared down at them. Even a brain starved of blood noticed the difference from a few miles back. The sand must be getting damper somehow, his fevered mind mused. Hoof-tracks in dry sand were undefined but now he could actually make out the shape of the horse’s shoes.

  It confused him for a few seconds until his attention was drawn to his own bleeding leg again. The bullet had gone clean through and was embedded in his saddle but that made no difference to the amount of blood he had already lost and was still losing.