Iron Eyes 13

by Rory Black

‘Them totem poles, boys,’ Hayes ranted at the others who huddled close as they watched the strange natives paddling away with their canoes full of fish. ‘Ain’t you read the pictures on them damn totems? The answer’s there.’

  Pete Brown leaned over the others. ‘What you mean? How can you read a dumb totem?’

  Hayes jumped to his feet and started to lead them from their hiding place out on to the soft muddy shoreline. ‘C’mon.’

  Like obedient hounds they followed. Before the Indians had turned up, Sly Rowe, Rance Bean and Clint Henson had nearly broken their youthful backs collecting the unimaginable hoard of gold nuggets which were littered everywhere on both sides of the river. Rowe rubbed the sweat from his face with the palms of his hands and sighed heavily.

  ‘Them carvings you mean? Is that what’s got you all fired up, Will?’

  Rance Bean shook his head and looked at Henson over his shoulder. ‘He’s gone loco, Clint. It’s this damn heat. He ain’t never cracked up like this before.’

  Henson nodded. ‘I ain’t sure he was ever a magic man at all.’

  ‘Them’s just pictures, Will.’ Tobey said bluntly as he watched the Indians disappear round the bend in the river, going to where smoke could be seen billowing from hidden campfires. ‘We ought to just go and shoot them savages. Then we can help ourselves to all them nuggets they done collected.’ The men walked to where one of the totems stood close to the river’s edge. Hayes stopped, turned to his five comrades and gestured at the carvings on the wooden pole.

  ‘Look at these carvings. Look at the ones where the man turns into a bird. See them?’

  ‘Just native garbage.’ Brown dismissed the images.

  Hayes took one of his guns from its holster and stared at it. He then looked into the faces of his five henchmen. ‘We got us a powerful amount of guns but we don’t need them. Them Indians only got themselves bows and arrows and that’s just fine. Whatever happens, we get the better of them. I’ll have them thinking that we’re gods, boys. They’ll be eating out of our hands by the time I’m finished messing with their minds.’

  ‘You seem awful sure about this idea of a trick fooling them Injuns,’ Bean said. ‘I reckon the guns are our best bet.’

  ‘The guns are our insurance.’ Hayes nodded.

  Tobey stared hard at the carvings Hayes had mentioned and then looked at the oldest of their small band. ‘A man who turns into a bird? But that ain’t possible.’

  ‘What if you seen it with your own eyes, Bob?’ Hayes smiled and looked at all their faces in turn. ‘What if you all saw a man flying like a bird? What would you think?’

  They were all silent.

  Hayes rammed his gun back into its holster. ‘Before the gold rush back in ’forty-nine I was the best damn magician in Frisco. I’ve fooled the smartest of folks in my time. I made people float in the air. Made them fly around the theatre over the top hats of some of the richest dudes you ever seen. Made them really think what I wanted them to think. Hell, I can rig up an illusion to fool even the cleverest of people and get them to believe that it was real.’

  ‘Can you really do that, Will?’ Tobey asked.

  ‘That and a whole lot more, Bob.’ Hayes reached into his pocket and to their utter surprise pulled out a small trinket that none of the others had seen before. It was a small, well-molded golden model of a deer. ‘See this? I found it a few hours back when you was filling sacks with nuggets. This was made by them Indians or maybe their ancestors. There might be more to be had. Nuggets are good but what if we can lay our hands on a whole load of stuff like this? This is worth a fortune. The nuggets gotta be smelted down. This kinda thing has already bin smelted.’ Bean tilted his hat back off his face. ‘You figuring on trying to hoodwink them Indians and getting them to hand over all their golden baubles, Will? With a trick?’

  Hayes nodded hard. ‘Yep. We gotta make them think that their gods have returned and then force them to hand over all their gold. Let them do all the hard work for us.’

  ‘That’s a mighty dangerous thing to attempt, Will,’ Rowe observed. ‘We ain’t got no clue as to how many of them there are up the river. Could be hundreds. That’s a lot of folks to fool and keep under control.’

  Will Hayes stood. ‘I’ve fooled thousands in my time. Besides we got us guns if they get ornery.’

  The sight of the trinket in Hayes’ hand made the others realize that there could just be an even greater fortune to be plundered.

  ‘A flying man?’ Bean pondered the thought. ‘Is that even possible. Will?’

  ‘Yep.’ Hayes surveyed the forested slopes which surrounded them on both sides. The mist hung in dense patches along the length of the valley. Hayes pointed in turn to two trees, one either side of the river, then glanced back at his men. ‘We have to rig up a line from there to there,’ he said aiming a finger at two stout branches. ‘The mist will help us a whole lot as well.’

  ‘Why rig up a line across the river, Will?’ Bean queried.

  Hayes turned to Bean and the others. He showed them the golden deer trinket again. The morning sunlight danced across its beautiful shape as it lay on the upturned palm of his left hand. Hayes mumbled strange words and then passed his right hand over the gleaming model.

  It disappeared.

  The men gasped.

  ‘Why rig up a line?’ Hayes repeated the question. ‘How else am I gonna fly over them Indians, Rance?’

  Chapter Two

  It was a sickening vision which chilled even the most hardened of witnesses to the bone. The sight and the smell of a burning man spread out beneath the broken chandelier amid the dozen candles upon the sawdust-littered floor had stunned them all. Yet only a few moments earlier the bounty hunter had been anything but helpless. His pair of matched Navy Colts lay to either side of his bony hands. Smoke was still trailing from their barrels like snakes seeking more prey. Each of the men and women in the saloon had moved closer as it became obvious that for the moment the deadly Iron Eyes had been knocked clean out by the heavy light fitting which had smashed down on to his unsuspecting skull.

  But it was the bodies of the Barton brothers which stopped even the most drunken of them from venturing too close. The bullets which had ended Ben Barton and his brothers’ lives had proved that the strange thin figure was a cut above anyone else who had ever visited San Remo.

  Even unconscious and alight, Iron Eyes had the ability to frighten people. They kept their distance not through respect but from sheer fear. Only one man had the courage to close the distance between himself and the bounty hunter. That man was Joe Hawkins.

  The sheriff emptied a bucket of water over the smoldering figure on the floor of the Golden Bell. The smell of the bounty hunter’s burning hair and coat faded as the water washed the candles across the sawdust-covered boards. A pool of blood from the brutal gash across the top of his scalp had encircled the head of Iron Eyes. A mixture of wooden splinters and candle wax made the injury appear even more horrific.

  For a moment the figure dressed in undertaker’s clothing did not move. Then his thin bony hands began to twitch. Every eye in the saloon watched as the bony fingers clawed at the boards. Then Iron Eyes coughed and pushed himself up.

  ‘You OK, Iron Eyes?’ Hawkins asked nervously. He cast the bucket aside and rested his hand on the grip of his holstered Colt.

  The bounty hunter managed to get on to his knees before the pain inside his skull stopped him for a few moments. Iron Eyes coughed again, then continued to push himself off the sodden floorboards. People backed off until nearly everyone in the saloon was pressed against the building’s walls.

  ‘My head!’ the bounty hunter grunted as he tried to remember what had happened.

  Hawkins leaned over but kept a respectful distance between himself and the hands of the deadly bounty hunter. ‘Yep! You got a mighty bad chunk of scalp ripped up there.’

  Iron Eyes rolled over until he was seated. He blinked hard and touched his bleeding scalp. Droplets of blood trailed
along the strands of his hair before dripping on to his lap. It did not trouble him, though. He had endured far worse. Iron Eyes looked at the gore on his fingertips and then at the man with the star on his vest. ‘Did someone hit me?’

  ‘Nope,’ Hawkins replied, pointing at the three dead men on the floor behind him. ‘You killed them varmints and then a couple of others shot the rope holding up the light fitting. It fell on to your head.’

  Iron Eyes sighed and scrambled like a new-born fawn to his feet. He swayed for a few seconds, then managed to straighten up to his full height. With blood covering his features he looked even more hideous than before.

  ‘What’s that smell, Sheriff?’ he asked, his nostrils flaring.

  ‘That’ll be your hair,’ the lawman answered. ‘Them candles set fire to that mane of yours. Lucky I put it out before you ended up like me.’

  ‘What?’ Iron Eyes kept a hand on his head and focused on the sheriff as Hawkins removed his Stetson briefly to reveal his bald head. ‘Oh.’

  Hawkins moved to the towering figure and then bent down and picked up the two Navy Colts. He was surprised at how light they were in comparison to his own .45. He handed them to the bounty hunter who poked them into his belt. ‘Ain’t you got a gunbelt, boy?’

  ‘Never liked them,’ Iron Eyes said as he felt his blood dripping through his fingers.

  Hawkins looked towards the Barton brothers again. ‘You sure they’re wanted dead or alive?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I ain’t never seen no circulars on them critters,’ the sheriff said drily. ‘I don’t imagine you can prove they’re wanted dead or alive, can you?’

  The bounty hunter lowered his bloody hand and rammed it into one of the pockets of his tail coat. He pulled out a few crumpled Wanted posters and pushed them into Hawkins’s hand. ‘That good enough?’

  Hawkins studied the posters and gave a nod. ‘Yep. That’ll do just fine. I’d have hated if you had turned out to be some loco killer who just roamed around shooting folks for no reason.’

  ‘I never kill folks for no reason, Sheriff.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for that.’

  Iron Eyes blinked hard. He still could not see straight and it troubled him. ‘You happen to see which way the other two members of the gang went. Sheriff?’

  ‘I sure did.’ Hawkins smiled.

  The bounty hunter’s ice-cold stare fixed upon the tier short lawman. ‘You gonna tell me?’

  ‘In good time.’

  ‘What?’ Iron Eyes gritted his teeth. They were small and sharp, like an animal’s.

  ‘First I’m gonna take you to get that head of yours sewed up.’ Hawkins grabbed the emaciated figure’s bony arm and led him through the crowd. They did not stop walking until they reached the boardwalk. The fresh air hit them both but it was Iron Eyes who seemed to dislike it most. As the swing doors of the saloon rocked on their hinges the bounty hunter swayed and staggered. Only the wooden porch upright prevented him from falling face first into the street. Iron Eyes clung to the upright as he sucked in air and vainly attempted to make his eyes work properly.

  ‘You OK, Iron Eyes?’ There was genuine concern in Hawkins’s voice as he wrapped an arm around the injured man.

  ‘My eyes!’ The bounty hunter gasped. ‘I can’t see straight. Every damn thing is blurred.’

  ‘I figured as much.’ Hawkins pulled the man, who seemed to weigh far less than his size would suggest, away from the porch support. ‘I’ll take you to the doc’s.’

  ‘All I need is whiskey.’ Iron Eyes closed his eyes. His head felt as though a thousand Apache warriors were beating their war drums inside his skull.

  ‘You and me both, boy.’ Hawkins helped the man down the street towards the wooden sign with the simple word ‘Doctor’ painted upon it.

  As they walked Iron Eyes dragged a cigar from his pocket, rammed it into his mouth, then found a match. His thumbnail struck the match into flame and he sucked in the smoke deep and long.

  ‘You kill a lot of folks, Iron Eyes?’ Hawkins asked.

  As smoke drifted from his mouth the thin man answered, ‘A few, old-timer. A few.’

  Chapter Three

  No Fourth of July could have equaled the show which the once famed magician created that night six months earlier in the depths of the forest. Using the skill honed like a straight razor decades earlier William Hayes had brought the remnants of a once mighty tribe to their knees in less than ten minutes flat. It had been a concoction of fire and water masterfully orchestrated to bend even the strongest of minds into submission. It had been a work of genius, considering that Hayes had only what was carried on their pack mules’ backs to work with. Wire, ropes, black powder and sheer guts had been enough, though. Enough to fool the unsuspecting eyes of the innocent natives.

  Hayes had learned his trade well. Even after endless years of chasing his dream of striking it rich by finding gold where others had failed to do so, he had lost none of his mastery when it came to the art of illusion.

  As he had always said, it was all in the presentation. Even a poor trick could appear good if you had enough flames and swirling smoke surrounding it. This trick was good, however, and the addition of smoke and flames simply added to its overall effect. Hayes and his five cohorts had rigged up a series of wires and ropes across the width of the river during the day. Then the master of illusion had carefully used the contents of one barrel of gunpowder to make a dozen crude Roman candles. He knew how to control the deadly black powder so that it obeyed his commands. Black powder only exploded if confined in an outer casing when ignited. Placed either in a loose tube or even on the ground it would flare but never explode. A thousand magic tricks had proved that fact.

  Smoke and mirrors.

  Hayes had no mirrors but the reflections off the river were an acceptable substitute for a man with imagination. The smoke was easily created and mixed with the valley’s natural low-hanging mist.

  The unsuspecting Indians had been peacefully preparing for the coming of another night around their campfire when Hayes had started his show. The stunned and terrified natives had witnessed the five heavily disguised figures moving towards them along the river’s edge. Each of the miners was throwing fireworks ahead of him. The carefully controlled explosions and smoke terrified an already frightened people into virtual submission before Hayes had even finished his prologue and made his own well-crafted appearance.

  The five miners had been covered in mud and leaves to such an extent that it was virtually impossible to see any human outline in their forms. As the tribe cowered before the big domed building, filled with precious offerings. Bob Tobey gave out a guttural roar and held a smoking stick of black powder heavenward. As it spat out venomous curled fire it blended with the eerie moonlight, mist and smoke. Then, dressed as some strange birdlike creature, Hayes leapt fearlessly from the branches of a tree on the opposite bank with two blazing torches in the hands of his outstretched arms.

  He flew majestically across the river with the grace of a man half his age. The fast-flowing water below him reflected the flames of his torches and frightened the Indians even more. Fiery smoke trailed him until he reached the place that he knew would be the key to his illusion’s finale. Hayes discarded his torches ahead of his men. The five miners threw handfuls of black powder at the torches and a cloud of acrid smoke shielded Hayes from view for a brief moment. He disappeared behind the branches of a tree less than twenty strides from his wide-eyed audience.

  It was enough time for him to release himself from the hastily constructed harness and drop to the ground. A horrific birdlike mask and swooping wings made from branches and leaves suddenly became something far more frightening in the eyes of the people who watched him march out in front of his five followers, pluck the blazing torches up again in his hands and wave them at the natives.

  A scream went around them. They were so stunned that none of them had even thought of picking up their weapons. All they could do was to look a
t what had presented itself.

  Then more explosions followed as Rowe and Henson threw their explosives into the river. Plumes of water sprayed over the camp as the six men made their victorious unopposed entrance.

  From that moment the half-dozen miners had become gods just as Hayes had predicted. From that moment on they ruled the innocent people who had seen a man bird fly into their lives.

  The prospectors forced the naive Indians to bring them more and more of the valuable golden rocks which were scattered throughout the forested valley. Their appetite was insatiable.

  Hayes and the others could simply have gathered up what was already inside the big building and become far wealthier than they might ever have expected in their wildest imaginings, but that would have been too easy.

  For these men had suddenly become gods.

  They were worshipped and feared. They had their pick of the females and knew that their firepower could crush any objections the Indian braves might raise. They had enslaved an entire tribe.

  It is not easy to turn your back upon being a god.

  Smoke and mirrors.

  Yet sometimes even the wisest of men can be fooled by their own elaborate illusions. Sometimes smoke can blind not just the audience but also the performers.

  It was a dazed Iron Eyes who reluctantly entered the doctor’s office accompanied by the sheriff and stared through the long limp strands of blood-soaked hair at the old man seated before a cluttered desk. He was still unsteady on his long thin legs and he swayed beside the lawman. The doctor rose, made his way to the two men and studied them in turn. It was obvious who required his expertise.

  ‘What we got here, Joe?’

  ‘This is Iron Eyes, Doc.’

  ‘Sit down, Iron Eyes,’ Doc Lowe said in a gruff voice which did not suit his fragile frame. ‘Let me get a good look at that head of yours.’

  The unsteady bounty hunter did as he was told. He sat upon the hardback chair beside the desk and glared at the man who peeled the hair away from the brutal gash across the top of his torn scalp. Iron Eyes felt the fingers probing the wound as the doctor bent over and looked straight at him.