by Rory Black
‘Another rifle-shot victim,’ the sheriff muttered. ‘Somebody up yonder must be having themselves a real good time shooting folks.’
‘Yeah,’ the bounty hunter agreed. ‘Even loco prospectors don’t kill this many folks unless they’re protecting something. Something real valuable.’
‘Like a fortune in gold nuggets.’
Iron Eyes narrowed his eyes and stared up river to where the trees concealed a bend in its course.
‘I reckon they must have themselves a camp just round that turn in the river. Leastways, that’s what the signs all say.’ Hawkins watched the younger man as he wrapped the blanket even more tightly around the wounded brave. Then he touched the arm of the bounty hunter. ‘Are you really OK, son?’
‘Light a fire to warm this old fella up,’ Iron Eyes said.
The sheriff nodded. ‘We leaving him here?’
The bounty hunter gave a slow nod. ‘Yep. We’ll come back for him if things go our way.’
‘What you thinking, son?’ Hawkins asked. ‘I got me a feeling in my craw it ain’t got nothing to do with no campfire.’
‘You’re right. I’m thinking about that little girl, old-timer,’ Iron Eyes answered.
‘Is that all?’
‘Nope.’ Iron Eyes stood and checked his Navy Colts in turn before pushing them back into his pants belt. ‘I’m also thinking about killing me the bastards who killed her.’
‘Me too.’
The vicious attack had gone on for more than twenty-four hours within the Indian camp and seemed set to continue until the prospectors either ran out of stamina or lost their appetite for doing their worst. Few of the surviving natives had been spared the brutal whippings Will Hayes and his men dished out for any disobedience. The huge fire in the very center of the clearing had been constantly replenished by the women and children throughout the endless hours of merciless savagery. Yet in spite of the heat of the raging bonfire, there was a cold chill in the air of the ancient settlement.
Hayes and his four fellow goldminers were drunk. Not with the effects of alcohol but with unchallenged power. It seemed that whatever the age of the natives they were not immune to the brutal whippings of their self-appointed masters. Blood and scars both old and fresh covered all of the natives’ near-naked bodies. It was painful not to obey and do their masters’ bidding.
No medieval tyrants could have abused their power over the weaker and more peaceful souls with more severity. No longer hindered by the necessity to masquerade as gods and to kill the tribe’s menfolk, the prospectors were wallowing in their own filth.
The miners were truly intoxicated. Their inhumanity seemed to reach down to new depths with every passing heartbeat. It was now a certainty that few if any of the forest’s original children would survive to witness the departure of Hayes and the others when they finally left with their spoils.
Iron Eyes and Sheriff Hawkins reined back as their horses reached the bend in the river. Unlike the outlaws their approach had gone unnoticed by the men who wrongly thought that they no longer had any enemies to worry about. The bushes here, close to the bend of the wood-fringed river’s edge were sparce. Both horsemen had an unobstructed view of the horrors which were happening ahead of them in the Indian camp. The blazing bonfire illuminated the heart of the small settlement as brightly as day, even though it was close to midnight.
For what felt like a lifetime the horsemen watched with a growing sense of anger and revulsion. It was Iron Eyes who looked away first. He felt sick.
A mere few seconds later Hawkins lowered his eyes and gave a long sigh. ‘Damn it all, boy. I’d thought I’d seen most things but I ain’t never witnessed nothing like that.’
Iron Eyes did not speak. He drew long, slow breaths and tried to swallow as the pitiful screams of women and children washed over him. Then his long left arm reached back and groped for a whiskey bottle.
The lawman looked at him. ‘Can I have me a gutful of that stuff when you’re through, son?’
The bounty hunter swallowed a good quarter-pint, then handed the bottle to the sheriff. He still did not utter a word as he tried to calm himself down.
Hawkins almost matched the volume of fiery liquor he poured down his own throat, then he returned the bottle to the silent man astride the high-shouldered palomino. ‘Thanks.’
Iron Eyes replaced the cork and pushed the bottle back down into the leather satchel behind his high Mexican saddle cantle. He gathered up his reins and gritted his teeth as he looked all about the area. The river was fast-moving, but held no fear for the bounty hunter.
‘What’s you aiming to do?’ the sheriff asked.
‘I’m heading across the river,’ Iron Eyes replied.
‘Why?’ Hawkins’s eyebrows rose towards his hat brim. ‘Them varmints are less than two hundred yards ahead of us. We could ride on in there and kill them with their pants down. Why cross over the river?’
‘I got me a plan, old-timer.’ Iron Eyes produced a two-foot square sheet of oilskin from his saddle-bags and wrapped his guns in it. ‘I want you to stay here.’
The lawman scratched his chin as Iron Eyes pushed the guns inside his shirt. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘You will.’
Sheriff Hawkins leaned closer and looked hard at the gaunt horseman. ‘What you figuring on doing, Iron Eyes? What’s going on in that busted head of yours?’
Iron Eyes remained silent. He removed his coiled rope from his saddle, shook it loose, then looped its end around a sturdy boulder. He tightened it whilst firmly tying the other end round the silver saddle horn. A broad grin spread across the cruelly scarred features of the bounty hunter.
‘What you up to, boy?’ the lawman asked.
A bony hand patted the wide-eyed sheriff’s cheek.
‘Use this rope to haul my horse back to this side when I signal you,’ Iron Eyes instructed.
‘Why you heading over there for?’ Hawkins asked again.
‘I’m gonna fly, Joe.’
‘You could break your neck,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s suicide.’
‘I ain’t the one that’s gonna die, old-timer.’
Before the lawman could object the bounty hunter hauled his reins hard to his right, stabbed his spurs into the palomino and rode into the fast-flowing river. Within seconds the horse was up to its neck and fighting the current. Hawkins watched helplessly as the mighty stallion swam toward the opposite bank with its intrepid master clinging to the saddle horn.
‘Damn it all,’ Hawkins cursed. ‘I hope that rope is long enough.’
For more than two thirds of its width the river had proved a fierce challenge even for the mighty palomino stallion. The last fifty or so feet had been shallow enough for the horse to find its feet and carry its bedraggled master to the opposite bank. Iron Eyes fell from the high back of the exhausted animal as though every ounce of his strength had been drained from his thin body. For more than five minutes the bounty hunter lay where he had fallen, holding on to his reins and staring up into the branches of the tree he knew he would have to climb.
Eventually he managed to summon all his energies into getting back on to his feet again. He stared out to where he had left his companion. Hawkins still sat astride his saddle horse watching Iron Eyes’ every move, awaiting the signal. Iron Eyes rested against the saddle of the stallion. He felt a strange pain inside his head and he raised both hands to check that the cement cast was still in place. To his surprise, it was.
Again he looked up into the dark shadows above him. The wire had been rigged by an expert and was strong enough to take his pitiful weight, he concluded.
Iron Eyes pulled the guns from inside his shirt and carefully unfolded the oilskin. They were dry and ready for action. He pushed their cold barrels into his pants belt, then ripped his soaked shirt from his scarred torso. He cast the shirt aside and untied the saddle-bags from behind the cantle. Iron Eyes checked inside both satchels. A bottle of his precious whiskey rested in
each of them. He placed the saddle-bags over his shoulders so that one satchel hung to each side. He checked that his long thin arms could reach the necks of the bottles. He nodded to himself.
‘That oughta do it,’ Iron Eyes drawled. He turned the horse round until it faced his partner across the fast-flowing river. Silently the bounty hunter signaled to Hawkins. He watched as the older man started to haul on the long rope. Reluctantly the stallion walked into the river and began the taxing journey back to the opposite riverbank.
With the agility of a mountain cat, Iron Eyes climbed up the trunk of the tree until he reached a high branch more than thirty feet above the ground.
His icy stare was drawn back to the scene around the blazing campfire. The sickening screams filled his ears again and fueled his already raging fury.
Balancing on a sturdy branch Iron Eyes unbuckled his belt from his pants and cast it over the wire above him. He refastened its buckle. He placed an arm and his head through the looped leather and checked that it could take his weight.
His eyes narrowed. All he could see were the prospectors doing their worst around the huge fire as its flames leapt up into the night sky.
Without an ounce of fear Iron Eyes sprang away from the tree with only his two-inch-wide belt between himself and a long deadly fall. Within seconds he was hurtling over the raging river, down along the wire, at a speed he had never imagined possible towards the small Indian village. Smoke and then flames began to trail from the leather belt as the friction grew more and more intense the faster Iron Eyes travelled along the wire.
Holding on for dear life the ghostly figure cleared the wide river and headed on towards the heart of the clearing. Then Iron Eyes crossed directly over the campfire. He hauled his precious bottles of whiskey from the saddle-bags and hurled them both down into the middle of the flames. The bottles shattered, expelling their spirituous contents in all directions.
Suddenly the flames were alive. A fiery fountain rose upward behind the hurtling bounty hunter. He felt its heat burning his back. Blazing rain showered over the large wigwam, catching its dry fabric alight. A ball of fire rose a hundred feet into the night sky.
Yet before Will Hayes or any of his evil followers had time to realize what was happening, the belt holding their attacker aloft burned through and broke.
Iron Eyes felt himself falling towards the ground at incredible speed. Like a cat he turned before his lean frame hit the floor of the valley. His bony hands drew both guns, cocked their hammers and fired at two of the miners a split second before he crashed into the unforgiving soil.
Winded, the bounty hunter lay motionless for what felt like an eternity. Then through the smoke that his burning whiskey had created Iron Eyes saw both Pete Brown and Clint Henson knocked off their feet by his well-placed bullets. Neither would ever rise again.
The native women and children scattered into the undergrowth as Hayes mustered Sly Rowe and Bob Tobey to arms. The three men grabbed their rifles and began their search amid the choking smoke.
The bounty hunter felt as if he had just been run over by a herd of buffalo, yet he managed to force himself off the hard ground with his smoking weapons still clutched in his hands.
Blood ran freely from both his nostrils as his narrowed eyes focused on the last three of the miners as they came charging away from the large burning hut. Tobey and Rowe spotted him first. Rods of white-hot lead vainly chased the winded figure across the clearing as Iron Eyes somehow managed to run for cover.
Bullets tore all around the shaken Iron Eyes as his long legs somehow carried him behind one of the smaller huts. He cocked his gun hammers again and tried to steady himself against the thin wall of the Indian dwelling.
Then another deafening volley of bullets cut through the hut’s thin walls, all around his slender frame. He felt the burning in his leg and instinctively knew he had been winged but refused to acknowledge the pain that ripped through him. Iron Eyes turned and jumped down on to the ground. He rolled over and over as Rowe and Tobey came running out of the black smoke.
There was no hint of alarm at the sight of the two men charging towards him. The fearless bounty hunter squeezed both triggers in turn. Rowe was knocked off his feet as one of the well-aimed bullets went into his temple and shattered his skull. Tobey was hit low in the guts and staggered on until a second shot found his chest. As the second of his targets landed heavily beside him, Iron Eyes got to his knees and searched the area for the last of the heartless men he sought.
Then he saw him.
Realizing that he was alone, Will Hayes backed off towards the large building, which was now well ablaze. As the flames swept over the ancient wigwam he was almost tempted to rush in after the fortune in gold that was still harbored within its burning walls.
Then Hayes saw the gruesome Iron Eyes rising to his full height beside the bodies of Rowe and Tobey. The smoking barrels of the Navy Colts hung in Iron Eyes’ bony hands at his sides.
With smoke billowing between them, Hayes frantically cranked the mechanism of his Winchester and swiftly fired at the approaching bounty hunter.
Shot after shot left the long barrel of the repeating rifle as the magician tried to kill the unholy-looking creature who doggedly moved silently towards him. Hayes could not believe that none of his bullets had found their target. Yet if they had how was this monster with a cement skullcap and long, limp hair still walking?
Hayes had seen most things in his life. The carnival freak show was not new to him but nothing had prepared his burning eyes for what he saw looming at him through the twisting acrid smoke of the raging inferno.
‘What are you?’ Hayes screamed out as his trigger finger fired the last of his bullets at the man, who yet walked through the flames straight at him. ‘What are you?’
Iron Eyes stopped, cocked both gun hammers and raised his arms in one fluid movement. He did not answer the question but asked one of his own.
‘Was it you who killed that little gal and threw her in the river?’ the bounty hunter yelled back over the noise of the unchecked fire.
‘What?’ Hayes turned the rifle upside down and gripped its hot barrel. He was prepared to use it as a club should the strange apparition get any closer. ‘You talking about that little stinking Injun kid? Sure it was me. What’s it got to do with the likes of you, anyway?’
Iron Eyes squeezed both triggers. His deadly accuracy did not fail him. Both his bullets hit Hayes between the eyes. There was not a whisker between them. The head of the defiant man was destroyed by the powerful impact. Hayes fell lifeless into the flames.
With the sound of the shots still echoing around the clearing, Hawkins ran cautiously through the smoke with his gun drawn, to the side of the towering bounty hunter. His eyes darted around the area.
‘Any of them left, boy?’
‘Don’t fret none, Joe. They’re all dead. They ain’t gonna kill no more little ’uns.’ Iron Eyes pushed the smoking barrels into his pants and walked away.
Finale
Iron Eyes was patting the earth down with his bare hands as the sheriff rode up to him and leaned on his saddle horn. Hawkins bit his lower lip and watched the bounty hunter as the thin man pulled on his black frock-coat again.
‘That old Injun we found in the river is still alive, boy,’ Hawkins said. ‘I took him back to their camp. Them women and kids were there. They was sure badly beaten up.’
Iron Eyes did not speak. He rubbed the mud from his hands down the front of his coat, then turned to where his horse was tethered. He limped towards it.
‘That leg playing you up?’ the lawman enquired.
The bounty hunter pulled his reins free and looked at Hawkins. There seemed to be no expression in his gaunt face, except pain. Only pain.
‘Don’t you ever stop gabbing, old-timer?’ he asked as he lifted his leg, poked the tip of his left boot into the stirrup and hauled his lean frame up and on to the tall stallion. ‘Seems to me that anyone as old as you are would have run o
ut of words to say by now.’
Hawkins edged his mount closer to the palomino and its solemn master. He pushed the brim of his hat back on his head until his white hair could be seen against his tanned face.
‘You buried her deep, boy?’ the older horseman asked. He glanced at the grave.
Iron Eyes nodded. ‘Yep. Good and deep so the wild critters will leave her alone. They can smell death up to six feet down, you know?’
‘I know.’ Hawkins gathered his reins and watched as the bounty hunter touched his still bleeding thigh. ‘You need stitching up again, son.’
‘Yep.’ Iron Eyes turned the powerful horse until it was aimed back at the distant range. ‘Reckon I’d better head on back to that town of yours. I need me some hard liquor real bad.’
‘Good idea.’ Hawkins urged his mount on. The palomino walked beside the smaller horse along the river’s edge. ‘We can pick up them outlaws’ bodies on the way so you can collect the bounty.’
‘I didn’t kill them varmints though.’ Iron Eyes muttered.
‘What does it matter?’ Hawkins shrugged as both horses began to increase their pace. ‘You killed the varmints who did and that’s as good as killing them in my book, boy.’
‘Reckon so.’ Iron Eyes was holding his reins firmly. ‘When I get me back to San Remo I’ll buy me a whole lot of whiskey and a brand-new red shirt and a new pair of pants.’
‘A red shirt?’ Sheriff Hawkins smiled. ‘Ain’t that kinda bright for the likes of you?’
Iron Eyes tilted his head back. ‘Red don’t show the blood so easy, Joe.’
Hawkins chuckled. ‘Least you can see old Doc again when we gets to town.’
Iron Eyes turned his head.
‘I sure hope so, old-timer.’
‘What you mean, boy?’
‘I ain’t seen nothing at all since I shot that bastard who killed the little gal.’ Iron Eyes turned his head back to face the trail ahead of them.
