Iron Eyes 12

by Rory Black

  More dead than alive Iron Eyes patiently waited. Each beat of his pounding heart felt as though life was slipping away from him. But he was unafraid. Death held no fear to the man who had dispatched so many to Boot Hill.

  Then his bullet-colored eyes focused again on the trail left by Brewster’s horse’s hoofs. A cruel smile crossed his face as the stallion rose up from the sand and snorted with satisfaction.

  ‘See that town down there, boy?’ Iron Eyes asked the powerful animal beneath him. ‘We’re headed there to find us a doctor to patch me up and then we’ll find and kill that low-down dirty varmint called Joe Brewster.’

  The stallion shook its mane of golden hair as though it understood the rider it carried. It dragged a hoof across the sand as though it were a bull faced by a matador.

  Iron Eyes knew that he had to look after the strong creature beneath his saddle. Without it he would never have survived this painful trek. For the first time Iron Eyes realized that he would never find another horse to replace this mighty stallion.

  ‘You sure ain’t no Indian pony,’ he praised his animal again.

  Again the horse snorted.

  Defiantly Iron Eyes dismissed the brutal pain which tortured his body’s every movement. He raised his long leathers and slapped rein.

  The golden stallion began to descend the slope carrying its disheveled charge. Dust rose up into the blue heavens with every stride of the powerful palomino. Iron Eyes urged the horse on as his eyes focused straight ahead.

  He was closing in on his prey.

  The stallion raised its noble head and began to increase its pace.

  ‘C’mon, boy! He’s so close I can smell his fear,’ Iron Eyes said through gritted teeth as he stared at Desert Springs.

  The horse thundered on.

  Chapter Four

  THE FOYER OF the Desert Hotel had been practically empty, apart from Rufe Carter, the manager, who sat behind his desk as he carefully browsed through his newspaper. It seemed like so many other afternoons to the man with the handlebar moustache and well-oiled hair, until a shadow traced across the foyer and fell upon his paper. Carter looked up and then blinked hard. The sight of the sun-blistered outlaw carrying his hefty bags towards him made the well-dressed man lower the single sheet of type and swallow drily. There had been many strangers in town lately, but none had ever looked quite like Joe Brewster looked. It was clear that the outlaw had taken the most dangerous route to Desert Springs. One which most failed to complete.

  Carter raised an arm and loosened his stiff collar with an ink-stained finger. He then gulped again. Again there was no spittle. At first sight the man who labored with the swollen bags would not have been made welcome, but as the dusty outlaw approached the desk Carter knew that he had better keep his lip buttoned.

  Perhaps it was the pair of holstered guns strapped to the hips of the stranger that had caused Carter to be cautious. It might have been the fact that this man looked as though he had just escaped from the desert which cooled the manager’s normally blunt tongue. Men could get ornery when their brains had been boiled out there in the desert.

  Perhaps it was the outlaw’s eyes that had frozen the soul of the hotel man. These were the eyes of someone who looked as though he knew how to kill and was ready to do so at any moment. Carter rose from his chair and rested the palms of his shaking hands on the desk to either side of the thick, open register. He cleared his throat, forced a smile, then picked up the pen and dipped its nib into the inkwell.

  ‘Hello,’ Carter forced himself to say as he offered the primed writing-tool to Brewster. ‘Room?’

  Joe Brewster exhaled and gave a slow nod. He accepted the pen and scrawled something approximating to his name across the page. He then lowered the pen and rested it beside the inkwell before turning and glancing at the street through the open doorway. Even though he had not seen any sign of the bounty hunter for weeks he still expected the gaunt, disheveled figure to appear at any moment. Only killing Iron Eyes could stop the fear which haunted the outlaw.

  Carter spun the book and studied the name carefully.

  ‘How long do you think you will be with us, Mr. Brewbaker?’ Carter asked.

  ‘That depends,’ Brewster answered as his left hand pulled a golden half-eagle from his vest pocket and placed it down on the open register. ‘How long will that buy me a room for?’

  ‘Over a month.’ Carter smiled as he scooped up the coin and looked at its perfect golden surface. ‘Don’t see many fresh-minted half-eagles in these parts.’

  ‘You can keep the change,’ Brewster said in a low tone.

  ‘That’s most generous.’ Carter’s eyes lit up. He turned and plucked a key from a dozen others off the rack behind him. He handed the key to the outlaw. ‘Here. The best room in the house—and we have many good rooms.’

  Brewster accepted the key and stared at it. ‘Number Three. Is that facing the street?’

  ‘It certainly is, Mr. Brewbaker.’ Carter slipped the coin into his pants pocket. ‘If you open the window you can stretch your legs on the veranda. We have a wonderful view of the desert from up there!’

  ‘I already seen the desert, mister,’ Brewster growled. ‘I tasted the desert and I’m carrying a lot of it in every crack in my damn body right now. What I need is a tub of hot soapy water and a tailor to sell me some new duds.’

  ‘I’ll have a tub sent up to the room and you’ll be soaking before the hour is out.’ Carter nodded firmly. ‘I can also have a tailor come to your room to take your order.’

  ‘Good!’ The outlaw nodded and looked at the ceiling as though he were actually able to see through it. ‘Is there a staircase from the street to this veranda of yours?’

  ‘No sir,’ Carter replied.

  Brewster smiled wide and true. ‘Good! I’d hate for anyone to come visiting me from the street. Folks can get themselves killed thataway. Savvy?’

  Carter nodded nervously. ‘I ... I imagine so!’

  The outlaw looked at the staircase. The carpet was new and still remained free of damage from spurs. He rubbed his unshaven face and then raised an eyebrow at the hotel manager.

  ‘Some folks might be looking for me.’

  ‘Do you wish me to tell them where you are, sir?’

  ‘That also depends. One man who might be looking for me is real ugly. He looks like a tall, thin scarecrow with long black hair. If he comes looking for me you better tell him I’m someplace else.’

  Rufe Carter was just about to object when he saw another golden half-eagle being pushed towards him. He smiled and, as fast as a cardsharp could deal from the bottom of a deck, pocketed the money. ‘No problem! If an ugly man with long hair asks for you, I shall indeed divert his attention.’

  ‘And warn me,’ Brewster added firmly. ‘You’ll have to warn me fast coz that critter will try to kill me. That’ll be worth another half-eagle.’

  Carter smiled broadly. ‘Excellent!’ The outlaw again glanced at the street. ‘Another man named Texas Jack Kelly might be looking for me. If he does I’ll be much obliged if n you show him to my room personally.’

  ‘Texas Jack Kelly.’ Carter repeated the name. ‘I don’t think I know the man but if he announces himself, I shall escort him to your room immediately.’

  ‘I like you, pardner,’ Brewster said. ‘What they call you?’

  ‘Rufe. Rufe Carter.’

  Brewster nodded and adjusted the bags on his shoulder. The sound of coins mingling with paper filled the hotel foyer as the outlaw aimed his scuffed boots away from the desk. ‘If you play my game, Rufe, you’ll be a lot richer than you ever dreamed you would be. OK?’

  ‘OK!’

  Brewster turned his head and looked at the man carefully. ‘I like that suit of yours. Get that tailor to bring me one like that as well as some trail gear.’ Carter ran his finger down his suit. ‘That I will!’

  ‘Get the livery stable man to come and take my horse and bed it down.’ Brewster pulled a five-dollar bill from his pa
nts pocket and placed it on the edge of the desk. ‘That ought to cover it.’

  Carter smiled. ‘Consider it done. I shall ensure your horse is well taken care of.’

  The outlaw headed to the staircase and slowly walked up towards its landing. With each step the sound of coins rang out from one of the hefty bags through the hotel foyer. The manager of the hotel rubbed his chin and then rushed to the open doorway. He snapped his fingers and a small boy ran to him. Carter gave the boy a nickel.

  ‘Go to the livery and tell Bronson to come here, boy.’

  The child ran with the shiny coin clutched in his small hand. Carter looked at the horse at the hitching rail. It was in the same state as its owner, he thought. As he made his way across the foyer back to his desk the hotel manager began to think about his new guest more carefully. He had seen bags like the ones Brewster carried before.

  Banks used bags exactly like them to transfer money in.

  Carter sat down and picked his newspaper up again, yet he was unable to concentrate on it. All he could think about were the bags as his imagination began to attempt to calculate how much money might be in their canvas-and-leather bellies.

  Far too much for a filthy drifter.

  His fingers pulled at the desk drawer until it opened a few inches and enabled him to view its contents. The Colt .45 had seldom been used but that made no difference. He closed the drawer again and then stood up. He opened a door behind him.

  ‘You out there, Charlie?’ he yelled out. ‘Get a tub and take it up to room three and then take up hot water.’

  Rufe Carter walked back to his desk and pulled out the gleaming golden coins he had just been given. His fingers began to sweat.

  ‘How many more of these beautiful things have you got in them bags of yours, Mr. Brewbaker?’ he whispered.

  Chapter Five

  LITTLE ESCAPED THE attention of the handsome John Wesley Kelly as he stood outside his magnificent gambling house while the last finishing touches were added to its already gleaming facade. The nameboard was being raised by a half-dozen burly workmen whilst he and his small army of gunmen stood watching. As the name of The Texas House was being nailed into position directly above the double-door entrance the gambler looked along the long main thoroughfare towards the hotel.

  Like all men of his dubious profession Kelly was always poker-faced. Whatever he was thinking remained a secret to all onlookers. He placed a thumb in a silk vest pocket and kept watching the hotel rather than his own gambling hall.

  Although Texas Jack had not been in Desert Springs long, he had already made his mark. A mark which was bloody and caused fear amongst the other businessmen whose trade he was intending to take. Kelly regarded the other gambling-houses in exactly the same way that he regarded a game of poker. If he could steal the pot with a pair of deuces by bluffing, he would. If it took the lead of his henchmen to smother the competition, then that was fine with him as well.

  As long as he won the pot.

  Three men had died since his arrival in Desert Springs with his heavily armed troop of followers. Men who, like himself, were from other parts of Texas but, unlike himself, unable or unwilling to kill to get what they desired.

  The three men who now rested on Boot Hill had thought they were partners with the flamboyant Kelly. In fact, they had just been a way for him to get the cash he had required to build his glitzy gambling hall and lay the foundations of an empire.

  Kelly sucked on a long Havana and savored its flavored smoke. His keen eyes had watched the arrival of the weathered Joe Brewster only moments earlier. As with all skilled gamblers there was no sign of what he actually felt about the sight of the outlaw who carried the hefty money-laden bags. He continued to stare long and hard down the street well after Brewster had dismounted and disappeared into the hotel.

  His top gun moved away from the boardwalk beneath the hammering men and the rest of the idle gunslingers to his employer’s side. Fargo had been with Kelly for nearly two years and in that short time killed more than five men for him. Unlike many hired guns Fargo never questioned his orders to kill. He actually enjoyed ending people’s existence as much as Kelly himself enjoyed a long cigar and a winning hand at poker.

  Fargo loosened his bandanna and lifted a boot until it rested on the edge of a trough. He too stared down the street to where the dust- and sweat-covered horse stood.

  ‘Fargo,’ Kelly acknowledged.

  ‘What you looking at, Texas Jack?’ Kelly allowed smoke to roll around inside his mouth and then blew a line of it towards the ground.

  ‘Did you see the rider who left that gluepot outside the hotel, Fargo?’

  Fargo shrugged and rested his hands on his gun grips. ‘Nope. I can’t say I was watching the street! I was looking at them boys rupturing themselves with the sign!’

  Kelly nodded. ‘I did. I saw him.’

  ‘Can’t be much of a rider if he got a nag like that between his legs, boss.’

  ‘You’d look like that if’n you rode from Mexico through the desert, Fargo,’ Kelly said bluntly.

  ‘But I got me more sense than riding through a desert. I still reckon that only a down and out would ride a horse like that anyplace.’ Fargo grinned but saw no reaction in the gambler’s face.

  The gambler turned and surveyed his sign, then eyed the gunslinger beside him. ‘That’s where you are wrong, Fargo. The man who rode in on that pitiful horse is very much a man. A real dangerous man.’

  Fargo lowered his leg back to the ground and leaned forward, resting his knuckles on his holstered gun grips. ‘More dangerous than me or the boys?’

  ‘That has yet to be seen.’ Kelly gripped the cigar firmly in his teeth and smiled as the workmen clambered down their ladders to the street. He applauded them for their craftsmanship. ‘A mighty fine sign and a job well done! You boys sure know how to build a gambling-hall and no mistake!’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Mr. Kelly,’ the burliest of the sweating men replied.

  The gunman ran the palm of his left hand across his sweating neck and moved in front of Texas Jack. Their eyes met. Again there was no hint of emotion of any kind in the eyes of the gambler.

  ‘Who is he, Texas Jack?’

  There was a long silence as Kelly produced a wad of bills from his pocket and started to count out six of the crisp fives for the carpenters.

  ‘Who is he?’ Fargo repeated the question.

  ‘Joe Brewster Kelly,’ answered without blinking. ‘Have you heard of him?’

  Fargo slowly nodded. ‘Sure, I’ve heard of the Brewster brothers, boss. How come he’s alone? I thought them boys were glued together at the hip!’

  ‘That is something I have yet to find out.’ Kelly pulled the cigar from his lips and tapped the ash with his index finger; then returned the expensive smoke back to his mouth. ‘I was expecting all three of them. You’re right, Fargo. Why is Joe on his lonesome? That is a mighty troubling question. Something must have gone wrong.’

  ‘You sent for them Brewsters?’ Fargo looked offended. ‘What you go calling for them for? Ain’t me and the boys good enough to handle this town for you anymore?’

  Kelly lowered his head. He glared at the ground. ‘You and the men you have recruited are the best there is, Fargo. My business with the Brewster boys has nothing to do with my hiring them. They ain’t gunslingers, they’re bank robbers.’

  ‘Then why’d you send for them?’ Fargo was confused. ‘You figuring on robbing the bank in this town?’

  ‘Nope.’ Kelly sighed. ‘I have a lot of my own money in that bank. Seems a tad pointless.’

  Fargo shuffled his boots like a child who had suddenly discovered that he was no longer the favorite. ‘Then why’d you send for them? Why send for a pack of lowdown thieves?’

  ‘Business. It’s just business.’ Kelly replied firmly. The gambler then walked to the sweating workmen and began handing out crisp five-dollar bills to each of them in turn.

  ‘A little bonus for you for doing a fin
e job, boys. Hope you come to The Texas tonight to try your luck. Free drinks and all you can eat. Remember now that the doors will be open at six sharp.’

  The satisfied men started to round up their respective tools and then slowly began to wander away. None of them knew that the money they had just been given would not last long once they entered the gambling hall later that day.

  The gunman walked to the shoulder of the gambler and leaned close to the man’s ear. ‘What’s going on, Texas Jack? You never needed no bank-robbing varmints on the payroll before.’

  ‘I don’t need bank robbers on the payroll now, Fargo.’

  Fargo was frustrated and it showed in every sinew of the man’s large frame. ‘I heard tell that them Brewster boys are pretty handy with their guns. Is that it? You want more guns?’

  ‘Nope,’ Kelly answered swiftly. ‘I got me all the gunmen I need, Fargo. Besides how good with a gun does any man have to be that robs banks? Any fool can run into a bank with a bandanna over his mouth waving a hogleg and scare yella-belly bank-tellers witless.’

  Fargo looked down the long street at Brewster's horse once again. ‘I don't get it, boss. There ain't no sense in sending for folks like the Brewster brothers. They're trouble.’

  ‘Take it easy, amigo. There ain’t nothing for you to fret about, Fargo.’ Kelly glanced into the face of the hardened killer. ‘When the time’s right, I'll tell you everything you need to know. What you have to do.’