by Rory Black
‘That skull of yours don’t feel right, boy.’
‘What you mean, Doc?’ Hawkins asked.
‘Feels like a busted egg shell,’ Lowe answered severely.
The sheriff rubbed his chin. ‘That don’t sound good.’
‘It ain’t,’ Lowe retorted. ‘How’d this happen, Joe?’ The doctor went to the corner where an enamel bowl was sat beside his stove.
Hawkins watched as Lowe poured some hot water from a kettle into the bowl. He knew the entire story was too gruesome to recall in detail. ‘The chandelier in the Golden Bell fell on this poor critter’s head.’
The old doctor made a tutting noise as he returned to his desk and placed the bowl on top of a pile of papers. He opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of bandages.
‘How’d you feel?’ Lowe asked the bounty hunter.
‘I’ve felt better,’ Iron Eyes growled back.
Doc Lowe cleaned the wound. He continued to tut. ‘Any ill effects?’
Iron Eyes sighed. ‘I can’t see straight.’
‘A few days rest will see you OK,’ the doctor ventured. ‘Leastways, I hope it will. That skull of yours feels as though it’s been cracked apart, though.’
Hawkins pulled out a pipe from his vest and placed the stem between his teeth. ‘You could get a room over at the hotel, Iron Eyes. They got real fine beds in there. I don’t reckon you ought to be riding for a while.’
The bounty hunter sighed. ‘I got me vermin to catch and kill.’
Lowe bent over and squinted hard at the wound. He carefully picked out splinters of wood embedded in the torn, bleeding scalp. ‘This sure is a mess. Reckon I’ll have to pour some surgical spirit over this before it gets infected. Then I’ll sew it up.’
‘Ain’t you got no whiskey?’ Iron Eyes asked. ‘I’m powerful thirsty.’
Lowe pointed at the closed bottom drawer of his desk. ‘I got me a bottle of whiskey in there but—’
The doctor did not have time to finish his sentence before the bounty hunter’s long thin left arm dragged open the drawer and retrieved the bottle of amber liquor. He pulled its cork with his teeth and spat it across the office before downing a long swallow. He then handed the bottle to Lowe.
Lowe looked at Hawkins and shrugged. ‘I reckon I could put it on his bill.’ Suddenly without warning, Iron Eyes lowered his head and gave out a groan. He then stood and screwed up his eyes as if in agony. Both men watched as the bounty hunter grabbed both sides of his head. He staggered across the office and bumped into the far wall.
‘What’s wrong, boy?’ the sheriff asked, rushing to the tall, swaying figure’s side.
The doctor moved cautiously to the other side of the bounty hunter and held the man’s nearer arm. ‘Easy, son. Don’t panic. What’s wrong?’
Slowly Iron Eyes lowered his hands from his head. He turned and faced both men. Blood continued to drip from the limp hair which covered most of his face. He opened his eyes and blinked several times. Even his scars could not conceal the fear etched into his face.
‘What’s the matter, Iron Eyes?’ the sheriff pressed. ‘Tell Doc what’s wrong.’
Lowe held his grip on the bounty hunter’s arm. ‘Tell me, son. I’m sure I can help you.’
Iron Eyes swallowed hard.
‘I can’t see nothing. I’m blind.’
Chapter Four
The girth of the heavily built man made most others stand aside when he approached. It was as if he had a barrel hidden under his large coat. A bullet belt crossed his chest in which a variety of different caliber shells were neatly held in dozens of hand-tooled pockets. It told even the most guileless person that this was a man who lived by the gun. Many guns. Yet it was the pristine Remington Frontier .44 hanging across his pants studs in a crude but effective holster which caught the eye before anything else. Its black metal finish and wooden grip looked well used. The notches carved into the grip supported the theory.
Kansas Drew McGinty was a powerful man by any standards. Built more like a bear than a man he walked with swaying powerful shoulders along the dark street from the direction of the livery stables. The smell of freshly discharged gun lead hung along the boardwalk outside the Golden Bell as the huge outlaw approached the saloon. Yet for McGinty the scent of freshly fired weaponry was so familiar that he hardly ever noticed it any more. The only thing on the big man’s mind was finding a bottle of whiskey and a willing female.
The light of the saloon cascaded out into the dark street. McGinty rubbed a sleeve across his bearded face and licked his lips as he rested a hand on the top of the swing doors. Then his black eyes narrowed as they looked into the oddly quiet drinking hole.
He inhaled deeply. Then he knew that there was another kind of smoke lingering inside the Golden Bell, besides the regular cigar and pipe variety.
Gunsmoke.
The big man could see the still shaking and weeping girls huddled together at the corner of the bar counter. For a breed that tended to use every opportunity in which to trap their next client, the females seemed totally distracted. He drooled at the sight of the bare breasts hanging like ripe fruit over the tops of their dresses. McGinty rubbed his groin and then saw that one of the bar girls was feverishly trying to wipe something off her flesh.
Excitedly, the outlaw pushed the doors inward. He walked slowly towards the women with only one thing on his mind. It had been a long ride to San Remo and there was only so much bouncing up and down on a hard saddle a man could take before something inside him awoke. Something which he had never been able to ignore.
Then, as he got within ten feet of the females he heard men talking across the saloon. He paused, rested a hand on the grip of his gun and turned.
‘That Iron Eyes critter sure was fast,’ one man said.
‘I seen faster,’ another drunkenly argued.
McGinty seemed to grow a few inches as he absorbed the name of the bounty hunter. It was a name he knew well. He was about to approach the men when he saw the blood. A lot of blood.
It was splattered up the far wall. The burly outlaw hesitated when he saw what lay crumpled on the floor. The three bodies with the bullet holes in them looked expressionless. The Barton boys were well-known to McGinty. He had ridden with them three times over the previous two years. Each time he had profited by the collaboration. McGinty rubbed his beard and gritted his teeth angrily. They were the only reason he had ridden to this remote town. Ben Barton had promised him the biggest payday of his entire life.
Now that promise lay congealing.
The brothers were lying shoulder to shoulder in an ocean of their own red gore. The bullet holes in them were all dead center, just as he knew Iron Eyes liked to place them.
A fire started to burn inside him. It was the fire that he had wrongly thought was extinguished. He swung away from the hideous sight, marched to the bar and rested both his hands upon its wet counter.
‘What’ll it be, stranger?’ the bartender asked in a tone which defied the fact that there were three dead men lying less than spitting distance away.
‘Whiskey,’ McGinty answered in a low growl.
‘Bottle?’ the bartender asked as his left hand hovered over an array of bottles set behind him.
‘Bottle,’ the outlaw confirmed. He thumbed a coin from his coat pocket and slammed it down.
‘Bottle it is. You sure missed one hell of a play in here a while back,’ the bartender said, exchanging the bottle for the coin. ‘Never seen such shooting.’
McGinty lifted the bottle, tore its cork from the glass neck and spat it away. ‘Iron Eyes?’
The man behind the bar raised his eyebrows. ‘Why yes. That was his name. Funny-looking critter. Long hair like an Apache but he was no Indian. Killed them boys with hardly a waste of bullets. Never seen such shooting. Heard he was a bounty hunter and them boys were wanted. Still, it ain’t a good way to go.’
The outlaw filled a glass and downed the whiskey. ‘This Iron Eyes varmint, was he a tall and thin c
ritter?’
‘That’s the man.’ The barkeep nodded vigorously. ‘Ugly as sin itself.’
‘Iron Eyes.’ McGinty mumbled the name and repeated the action of filling and emptying his glass three more times. Hard liquor filled him with fumes but it was nothing compared to the non-alcoholic fumes that were brewing up inside the outlaw. ‘Where’d he go?’
The barkeep polished a glass thoughtfully. ‘I think he was carried out of here by the sheriff. Yes. That’s what happened. I reckon the sheriff was taking him to see the doc.’
McGinty looked hard at the man with an apron wrapped around his middle. ‘Why’d the sheriff take him to see the Doc? Was Iron Eyes wounded? Did one of the Barton boys manage to shoot him before he done for them?’
The barkeep stepped closer to the counter and leaned over.
‘A couple of other varmints started shooting at that bounty hunter and brought the damn chandelier down on top of that thin critter’s head. With him knocked senseless they high-tailed it and rode out of town. I sure don’t blame them none.’
McGinty glanced across the room and saw the wooden wreckage of the chandelier. His eyes returned to the bartender. ‘I reckon he was hurt bad.’
‘Just stunned. That kind are too mean to die like respectable folks,’ the barkeep said. He placed the gleaming glass down next to a score of identical glass vessels.
‘Damn it all!’ McGinty snarled, pounding his left fist down on the bar counter. Glasses fell from where they had been stacked and were hurriedly rounded up by the bartender. ‘I ain’t seen Iron Eyes for more years than I can recall and yet he’s still blessed by the Devil himself. No real man deserves that sort of luck. Ain’t he ever gonna die?’
‘I take it he ain’t a friend of yours?’
‘I got me a score to settle with him, friend,’ the outlaw answered fast and hard. ‘Only his blood will settle it. You hear me, barkeep? Only him being dead will pay the bill he owes me.’
‘What he do?’ the bartender tactfully enquired.
‘He killed my brother,’ McGinty replied loudly. ‘Just up and killed him.’
‘Why’d he do that?’
McGinty shrugged. ‘For the reward.’
The bartender backed away. ‘Oh.’
The outlaw tilted his head. He looked to where the females were still chattering like a flock of frightened hens. His eyes surveyed each and every one of them. He had never been in a saloon where the bargirls displayed their wares so openly before. He looked at each of their sets of breasts like a man choosing a chicken for the pot. He drooled and ran a hand down his wild beard before sliding his bottle across the damp counter towards them. He followed it until he was looming over them.
One of the women was still frantically rubbing a spittle-laden handkerchief over her pink flesh. He leaned over and studied her chest, then raised his eyes to her face. Her make-up was smeared down her cheeks but it made no difference to the outlaw. He had already seen her ample bosom.
‘What you looking at?’ she asked.
‘What you trying to rub off there, little lady?’ McGinty asked. ‘Them nipples are stuck on, you know.’
Edna Hart was at least thirty and had long lost the first bloom of youth, but in towns like San Remo it did not matter. As long as a female was willing to raise her petticoats high enough and spread her legs, she could always earn a living.
‘I’m trying to get this blood off me,’ Edna replied in a jerky tone.
McGinty’s eyes lowered again. He could see no blood. ‘I figure you done a mighty fine job.’
The other girls moved around the burly stranger like flies around an outhouse. They were buzzing at the prospect of a new man to fleece.
Edna did not like the competition. She pushed close up to the outlaw, placed a long red fingernail on his chin, the grabbed hold of his beard. ‘I can still see drops of blood. It come off them boys me and the girls were favourin’ when that scarecrow shot them. I was drenched in the damn stuff. Can’t you see it?’
McGinty felt his head being pulled down until his cracked lips were brushing her skin. He inhaled hard. The scent of stale sweat and cheap body powder filled his eager nostrils. He liked it.
‘See ’em?’ Edna asked, fending off the other bar-girls with her free arm. ‘See the blood?’
‘Yeah. I see ’em,’ McGinty lied as his tongue rolled out from his mouth and licked her flesh. ‘I can taste ’em as well.’
Edna gave out a girlish giggle.
One of the other girls named Maisy reached round the narrow gap between the outlaw and Edna. Her small hand pushed the holstered Remington aside, then she pulled at the pants studs until they gave.
McGinty’s eyes flashed to his side. He saw the smiling female who had already slid her hand into his pants. He smiled.
Maisy gave out a gratified yelp. She had found more than she had anticipated. ‘You ain’t gonna believe what this boy has in his pants, Edna.’
Edna tossed her head back. ‘Big?’
‘Big enough to satisfy all of us.’ Maisy nodded as she produced the massive sidewinder from its hiding place. ‘Look, girls. You could make a walking-stick out of this thing.’
‘You like that?’ The outlaw sighed heavily.
‘What’s not to like?’ Edna answered. Her eyes widened at the sight of what was in Maisy’s small hand.
Kansas Drew McGinty felt himself being led towards the staircase. With all the girls hanging on to various parts of his body he willingly began to ascend the steps.
‘What about that Iron Eyes critter?’ the bartender called to the outlaw. ‘I thought you was all fired up about him?’
McGinty reached the top of the staircase and looked down at the man in the apron. He gave out a booming laugh. ‘Don’t go fretting about Iron Eyes, little man. I’ll kill him later.’
The bartender swallowed hard as the bar girls led the burly figure into the nearest room. He turned to a few of his other patrons and shook his head. ‘He seems to have gotten over his grief for the moment.’
Chapter Five
The thin emaciated figure of Iron Eyes had not moved from the spot for nearly an hour. He stood like a statue, staring with eyes that were unable to see anything. Only his expression altered as he vainly attempted to work out why his world had been plunged into darkness. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the office as steam issued from the blackened pot. The two older men sat at the desk sharing the bottle of whiskey and watching the bounty hunter with a mixture of fear and sympathy. Yet even though Iron Eyes claimed to be unable to see, their attention was on the pair of deadly Navy Colts which ominously jutted from his belt above his flat belly.
The well-worn gun grips looked as though they might be drawn into action at any given moment. Doc Lowe picked up a towel, stood and moved across the room to the coffee pot. Gingerly poured three cups of the strong beverage into mugs.
‘I reckon that some of my special coffee might help you, Iron Eyes,’ Lowe suggested. ‘Might get them nerves in your eyes working again.’
Iron Eyes lowered his head. ‘Ain’t you got nothing better than stinking coffee?’
‘Don’t you like coffee, boy?’ Lowe asked. The thin tall man refused to move from the spot where he had realized that his eyes no longer functioned.
‘Nope,’ the bounty hunter drawled. Hawkins and Lowe glanced at one another, as though they both silently feared that the brooding stranger might decide to take out his fury upon them.
‘Gotta agree with the boy, Doc.’ The sheriff smiled. ‘Some folks can make coffee taste just like trough water.’ Lowe placed all three steaming mugs on his desk.
Hawkins cleared his throat. The scarred head upon the long thin neck turned towards him.
‘Doc will fix you up,’ he assured Iron Eyes. ‘He’ll have them eyes of yours working again in no time. No time at all.’
A pool of blood encircled the boots of the bounty hunter, who had still not allowed the doctor to sew up his bleeding scalp. Iron Eyes raised
his hand and ran his bony fingers over his gaunt face. He gave out a long sigh and carefully turned his entire body until it faced the pair of onlookers.
‘Yep! I reckon so. Trouble is I ain’t got no time to waste. I got me two more outlaws to catch and kill.’
‘Stop thinking about killing,’ Lowe insisted. ‘We have to make sure that you’re fixed up before you can do anything. That skull of yours needs mending, otherwise it’ll kill you just as sure as any outlaw’s bullet. Savvy?’
Iron Eyes had his face turned towards where he heard the stern voice of the doctor. There was no visible reaction to any of the words of warning.
‘Come sit down here, son.’ Hawkins rose to his feet and walked the short distance to the side of the injured man. He guided Iron Eyes to the chair he had just vacated and eased the man down. Iron Eyes had been hurt many times. He had lost more blood in his time than most battlefields had seen wasted upon them but he had always been able to see. For the first time in his entire life he was bemused. His bullet-colored eyes searched the room, yet they still saw nothing but blackness.
‘What you intending to do, Doc?’ the bounty hunter asked.
‘I’ll have to try and put all the pieces of that skull of yours in the right place and then figure out a way of keeping them there,’ Lowe answered.
‘Cement,’ Iron Eyes suggested.
Doc Lowe was about to laugh when he suddenly realized that the bounty hunter might be right. Cement could do the job but he was not sure how. ‘Damn it all. Now I gotta be a damn builder.’
Sheriff Hawkins rubbed his neck. ‘Could cement be used on a head, Doc?’
The older man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sure enough. If I carefully wrap tight bandages around his skull and then we wet them up I reckon that a sprinkling of cement dust rubbed in could set and hold his skull together. If I did it right, that is.’
