Iron Eyes 12

by Rory Black

  He could see the blood pumping from the bullet hole in his thigh. His pants leg was soaked and his boot felt as though it was filled with his precious gore.

  Iron Eyes pushed the long lifeless strands of hair from his face, then turned. He reached for the bottle in his saddle-bag and pulled it clear. His teeth drew the cork free and this time he spat it away. He carefully poured whiskey into the hole and gritted his teeth as he felt the fiery liquid make its way right through his leg until it found the bullet’s exit wound. A weaker man might have been unable to stop himself from screaming out in agony, but that was not his way. All pain had to be denied, for to admit its fury was to give it power. Iron Eyes gasped and then raised the bottle to his lips. He drank most of what remained and then when there was barely an inch of the amber liquor left in the clear glass vessel, he tilted the neck and poured the remnants over the arrow which still protruded from his shoulder both front and back.

  Again, he fought the pain and refused to scream out. After what felt like an eternity the burning ceased and he felt his heart slow. Sweat now dripped like rain from his bony scarred face but Iron Eyes did not notice. He tossed the empty bottle away and sighed heavily.

  The leg was still pumping blood. Instinctively his bony hands drew his Bowie knife from its hiding-place in the neck of his boot. He used its sharp blade to cut a length of his reins free, then returned the cruel weapon back into his boot. He looped the leather strip around his thin leg and tied a firm knot in it.

  The blood did not stop pumping but it slowed a little. His eyes looked up.

  There was a scent on the air.

  A scent he knew.

  It was the scent of his prey. Brewster’s sweat lingered on the warm air as it drifted over the arid land. Iron Eyes inhaled deeper and then caught the aroma of another familiar fragrance.

  Water.

  There was water close. A lot of water. His eyes looked at the head of the stallion who also sniffed at the air. It too had caught the scent.

  Iron Eyes spurred once more.

  Chapter Two

  THE TOWN OF Desert Springs was well named. It stood at the very northernmost tip of one of the most arid terrains in all of Texas. Yet unlike the desert around it, this was a lush oasis that continued on for another fifty miles. Few settlements could better it for sweet grazing grassland or its plentiful supply of clear spring water which had never ceased bubbling up from subterranean caverns to fill countless wells. It was a quiet place, which had only occasionally erupted into violence during its short but fruitful existence.

  At first a Spanish mission had been established to tame the restless natives but then God gave way to free-thinking men and the town quickly grew around the once dominant whitewashed building. The adobe structure still survived in the very center of the sprawling town but now it served no purpose except to remind those old enough to remember of times long since gone.

  Now Desert Springs boasted more than a hundred buildings which covered twenty acres around the natural spring. The main street covered a quarter of a mile with a dozen side streets branching off in every direction. Richer folks lived away from the vibrant heart of the town in homes only wealth could have constructed. Yet the majority of those who dwelled within the lush oasis chose to remain in the busy center of the town. Apart from its location, Desert Springs appeared on the surface to be exactly like a hundred others. Yet it was different in many ways.

  Many subtle ways.

  Isolation had been a blessing and also a curse to the residents. For years the people had only themselves to encounter on a daily basis. Everyone knew his neighbor and trouble tended to be swiftly dealt with. Then the outside world discovered the remote place, which seemed to have been blessed with more than its share of bounties. The Overland Stage Company had established a regular route to and from Desert Springs and with the invasion of so many outsiders, trouble had started to grow.

  Grow like a cancer.

  The marshal’s office stood in the very middle of the main street. Flanked by a saloon on one side and a hotel on the other it was well placed to handle any trouble which raised its ugly head. And lately trouble had been rife.

  For the first time in the history of the small settlement it had required the services of a lawman. A damn good lawman. And they had found one.

  Laredo-born Marshal Monte Bale had enjoyed his thirteen months in office. Having a deputy made his job far easier than it had been in some of the poorer towns he had frequented during his thirty-seven years of life. A seasoned man who had learned his gun skills long ago as a hired gunfighter, Bale had settled in the quiet town when the wealthy elders of Desert Springs had sought him out to handle their increasingly hostile streets. A marshal who had earned the star he proudly wore on his shirt on the deadly streets of El Paso, Bale had no illusions that this apparent Eden was in fact as dangerous as any he had ever guarded.

  The tall, broad-shouldered man leaned against the doorframe of his office and rested a hand on his holstered gun grip. He studied the long street with knowing eyes. He had reached a stage where he actually thought that he could smell trouble brewing long before it ignited into bloody confrontation. People in Desert Springs always acknowledged the lawman with smiles, nods or the simple touch of a hat brim. They all knew that this was a man who could and would risk everything for any one of them should the need arise. Only the strangers who continued to flood into the oasis on the edge of the burning desert did not acknowledge either the man or his authority.

  They seemed actually to want trouble. The previous month had already seen three men gunned down for reasons best known to themselves. None of the victims had been local folks. Each had died with far more money in their billfolds than seemed logical and the marshal was curious about that.

  A new gambling-hall had been constructed on the end of Main Street by outsiders with deep pockets and an endless supply of hard cash. So far its doors had not opened for business but already the well-dressed owner named Texas Jack Kelly had gathered a dozen gunslingers around him.

  The seasoned lawman knew that that was something he had to keep an eye on. It was a tinderbox amid so many naked flames. Any one of which could explode and destroy a small town like this one. Money could buy most things with ease but it could not tempt Monte Bale. He was a man who was satisfied with his monthly pay-check. There was an old saying that you could not con an honest man. You could not bribe or buy him either.

  Bale was a man who smiled.

  Smiled a lot.

  He knew that a smile could unnerve a lot of folks because it showed that he was fearless. After thirteen months Bale knew most local people in Desert Springs by name and that counted for a lot to the people of this town. For it meant that they actually mattered to someone. Someone who wore a star and smile.

  But each day the stagecoach seemed to bring in more and more strangers. Drifters with more weaponry than seemed necessary also arrived on horseback, either alone or in pairs. These were faces Bale did not know and a lack of wanted posters only added to his concern.

  Marshal Bale was one of the rare breed of men who would actually defend each and every one of them, though. He showed no favor to any of them as long as they behaved themselves. The tall man reached around the door, plucked his hat from its wall hook, then beat it against his right pants leg.

  Then, after running his fingers through his black hair, he placed it on his head. His eyes screwed up in anticipation of the glaring sunlight of the street.

  ‘You coming, Joshua?’ Bale asked over his shoulder to the thin deputy who was trying to sweep out the cells behind him, beyond the pair of desks.

  Joshua Peck was a fast-talking twenty-two-year-old who had been born just 200 yards from the wooden building. A deputy for almost as long as Bale had been a marshal, he looked up when he heard his name being uttered. His eyes brightened as he tossed the broom aside and hurried to the marshal’s side.

  ‘Where we going, Monte?’

  ‘Reckon it’s about time w
e had us a bite to eat.’ Bale sighed and stepped out into the sunshine.

  ‘Is it breakfast already?’ Joshua rubbed his hands together. ‘I sure am mighty hungry!’

  ‘It’s nearly noon.’ Bale closed the door behind them, stepped down into the sandy street and started across towards the cafe. The younger man hurried beside him. ‘We already had breakfast three hours back.’

  ‘I still got room for another one, Marshal.’ The lawman looked at the man beside him and tutted. ‘Ain’t you feeling a tad naked, Joshua?’

  The question caused the deputy to blush. ‘I’m wearing my britches, Monte. Why would I be feeling—’

  ‘You forgot your gun again,’ Bale corrected. ‘How many times have I gotta tell you to always remember to wear your gun, boy? A man can get into trouble as fast a rattler can bite. Always keep your gun strapped around your middle and if trouble happens, you’ll be ready.’

  ‘But nothing ever happens around here, Marshal.’

  They both reached the opposite boardwalk. Bale paused, turned to his deputy and pointed back at their office.

  ‘Go and get your gun and belt, boy.’

  Joshua sniffed at the air. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee and frying steaks filled his nostrils. ‘Can’t I go get it after we’ve had our grub?’

  Bale lowered his head. His eyes stared straight into Joshua’s. He did not speak. He smiled.

  ‘OK! OK! I’ll go get my gun and belt!’ The deputy shrugged, turned and ran back towards the office.

  ‘Steak?’ Bale called out.

  ‘And biscuits and gravy!’

  The marshal stepped up on to the boardwalk and rested his hand upon the worn doorknob. As he turned it, he caught the reflection of a rider in the cafe window. The tall lawman released his grip and turned back to face the street. His eyes narrowed as they focused on the horseman who had just entered the town from the direction of the desert.

  ‘Now who the hell is that sorrowful-looking hombre?’ Bale asked himself. He placed the palm of his left hand on a wooden upright and leaned out into the brilliant sunlight.

  Joe Brewster rode like a man who had a thirst and a million saddle sores. His exposed skin was burned and blistered from the desert’s fury. When the laboring mount reached the hotel, the exhausted rider slid down to the ground and rested both hands on the pump beside the trough as his horse drank.

  Bale watched as the outlaw pumped water into the trough and placed his open mouth beneath the crystal-clear liquid. Both man and beast drank feverishly.

  The deputy ran back to the marshal’s side and managed to buckle his belt just before he reached the tall, curious Bale. He looked in the direction where the marshal’s gaze was focused. He scratched his head at the unexpected sight.

  ‘Well glory be! Now I wonder who that poor-looking critter is, Monte?’

  Bale ran his fingers along his strong jaw. ‘Whoever he is he came into town from the wrong direction, Joshua.’

  The younger man nodded. ‘He sure is thirsty. I ain’t never seen anyone that thirsty before and no mistake.’

  The marshal nodded without taking his eyes away from the outlaw. ‘Wouldn’t you be mighty thirsty if’n you’d just crossed that desert?’

  Joshua looked at the man beside him. ‘I’ve lived here all my life and I ain’t never seen anyone make it here from thataway, Monte. You reckon he did cross the desert?’

  Bale slowly nodded. ‘Look at them. No man or horse could look that bad without crossing a desert, boy.’

  ‘Must have come up from Mexico,’ the keen deputy said.

  ‘Yep!’

  Then Joshua inhaled the aromatic scent of the cooking food again. He licked his lips. ‘I’m powerful hungry, Monte!’

  Marshal Bale pushed the door open and followed his deputy into the cool cafe. As he closed the door behind them his eyes continued to stare through the window across the wide street at the man who had now staggered into the hotel, carrying his hefty bags of plunder. ‘That sure is curious.’

  ‘What ya looking at, Monte?’ Joshua asked as he sat down at the nearest table.

  ‘Them bags he’s hauling, they sure look mighty heavy, Joshua,’ Bale answered. ‘As if they’re full of coin.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a bank robber,’ the deputy joked as he clutched a knife and fork eagerly in his hands.

  Monte Bale turned and looked down at Joshua. His left eyebrow rose as a smile crossed his features. ‘Maybe.’

  Chapter Three

  IT FELT LIKE an eternity to the emaciated rider as he guided his magnificent stallion down through the last of the sand dunes towards the scent of the fresh water. Every stride of the tall horse was agony to the defiant blood-soaked horseman. The arrow in his thin shoulder moved with every jolt of the striding palomino causing the bounty hunter to roll like a rag doll. His almost closed eyes could see the blood continuing to trace from the makeshift tourniquet. Yet his injuries did not worry Iron Eyes. He could sense that at long last they were now closing in on the place to which Brewster must have been headed for these past weeks. Somewhere close there had to be a town or even just an outpost where the outlaw knew he would find salvation. Iron Eyes silently vowed that he too would find that place.

  The horse approached the last of the giant mounds of sand as its master leaned back and stared through his limp, long, sweat-soaked hair. The hoof-tracks of the outlaw’s horse pointed the way. All he had to do was keep following them.

  The mind of the rider was now filled with a stew of thoughts that only fever could have assembled. His bony left hand jerked back on his reins and slowed the animal to a walk.

  ‘Easy, horse!’ Iron Eyes growled as his wits alerted him to the possible danger of what might lie ahead. Even half-conscious, the wounded rider knew that the outlaw might be lying in wait for him. Brewster had winged him months earlier when he had been cornered. Iron Eyes did not want the outlaw to repeat the action. He forced himself up off his saddle and balanced in his stirrups as the stallion began, slowly to climb the rise of sand. A swift glance at his bleeding leg was dismissed. Iron Eyes drew one of his Navy Colts and cocked its hammer.

  The burning sand and a vast expanse of cloudless sky had not stopped him. The Apaches’ bullet and the arrow had only slowed his progress. Only death could have ended his pursuit of the outlaw Joe Brewster.

  ‘Dead or alive,’ he kept repeating.

  After what felt like a lifetime the horse reached the top of the vast dune. Iron Eyes dropped back down on to his saddle and gave out a long weary sigh. The sickening air still played its tricks to his eyes but now the rider either did not notice or did not give a damn. Only when a man was this close to death did he feel truly immortal.

  He rubbed his eyes and then saw the town. He could hear the people in its streets going about their rituals. This was no mirage, he told himself. It was there. It was real. Iron Eyes released the hammer of his gun and pushed it back into his belt against his flesh.

  Then tentatively he eased his emaciated frame off the horse and rested against the saddle. His thin legs were unsteady but even they still somehow obeyed him. He tightened the leather around his thigh and watched as the blood slowed its flow from the bullet hole. He reached up. His fingers clawed at the cool water bag before dragging it free.

  As it hit the sand he produced the Bowie knife and sliced through its leather to expose what remained of the precious water. The stallion stepped back, then lowered its head and began to drink.

  ‘Drink ya fill, boy. You earned it.’

  Iron Eyes found a cigar and pushed it into his mouth. He struck a match and sucked in the smoke. It did not help. He coughed and then angrily threw the smoldering weed away.

  He reached for the nearest satchel. His fingers found a full bottle and he clutched it to his chest. Iron Eyes was angry with the outlaw who had managed to avoid his bullets for so long. No one had ever been that lucky before. He tugged the cork from the neck of the bottle and spat it away as he slid slowly down to the sand beside t
he horse’s legs. He raised the whiskey bottle and began to drink. The fiery liquid tasted like water. He could not understand it.

  Iron Eyes lowered the bottle and looked at the contents inside its clear glass. It was whiskey all right. Again he took a swig and swallowed it. Again it seemed to have no flavor.

  He shook his head and then poured the whiskey freely over his wounds. He felt it burn like a forest fire. It was whiskey, he told himself. After a few moments Iron Eyes tried to get back to his feet.

  Suddenly, for the first time in his memory, his legs refused to obey. He placed the empty bottle in the sand, reached up to the closest stirrup and clutched it. It would take every ounce of his willpower and evaporating strength to pull himself up but that was what he did. After what felt like a lifetime Iron Eyes was back on his feet, clinging to the saddle.

  Somehow Iron Eyes had managed the feat. He clung to the drinking animal’s saddle and knew that now he would have to climb back up on top of the tall animal if he were to reach the town that lay below. He screwed up his eyes and looked at the horse beside him. This was no Indian pony, he thought.

  This was a pure-bred Mexican horse which was fit for nobility, far taller than all the other animals he had tortured over the years. He felt weak. A mountain could not have offered the bounty hunter a more formidable challenge.

  He had to get back in the saddle again, he told himself. But how? To fail was to die. The desert was merciless and took no prisoners. So hot that even sidewinders refused to move across the smooth, fine ocean of sand during the day. He had to get back on top of this tall creature or he would be buzzard bait.

  Hell itself could not have been hotter or more dangerous to anything still clutching to life. He tried to raise his good leg but the injured one could not take his weight. He then tried to raise his wounded leg but it would not respond to his cursing.

  ‘Damn it all!’ Iron Eyes growled.

  Iron Eyes blinked hard and concentrated harder than he had ever done before. If he could not climb up on the horse then he had to make the creature come down low. Low enough for him to virtually crawl on to the saddle. Holding the reins firmly with one hand, he pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard with the other. The severely wounded bounty hunter began to tap the back of the stallion’s knees with the long rifle barrel. The animal’s legs bent, then it dropped down until it was kneeling. Through the entire action it continued to satisfy its thirst as Iron Eyes tossed the seldom-used rifle away. With pain carving its way through his every sinew, Iron Eyes climbed on to the saddle and forced his boots into the stirrups. He sat with the reins firmly gripped in his hands and waited for the horse to stand again.