The Curse of Iron Eyes (10 page)

To the youthful
horseman, they were all true.

Although he had found
evidence of only one unshod pony, he allowed his fertile
imagination to run unchecked.

Where
there was one Apache, there had to be an entire tribe of them. This
could be the beginning of another Indian War. After all, Devil’s
Pass was close to the Indian Territory and who knew what other
barbaric acts of carnage went on there?

It was a terrified
Billy Bodine who threw himself back on to his saddle and allowed
the horse to continue to race along the main pass.

This was important.

There could be an
entire war party of hundreds of warriors waiting for Wallis and his
men, hidden in the canyons of this unholy place, he concluded.

He had to inform
Captain Wallis about it.

The
bounty hunter stared hard at the town bathed in moonlight before
him. He knew that it should not be there, but it was there. Calico
was strangely quiet as Iron Eyes steered the exhausted mount
towards it. He could hear music playing somewhere in the heart of
the town, but there were few people on the streets. The rider was
totally confused. He had completely lost track of time as he had
followed Harve Calhoon’s hoof-tracks through the narrow maze of
canyons. Now Iron Eyes was starting to doubt his own sanity as he
focused on the wooden buildings ahead of him.

Was he dreaming?

Perhaps it was the blood loss that he had suffered from the
knife wounds inflicted on him during the valiant battle with the
Apache warrior that was playing tricks on his weary
mind.

Whatever it was, he was
confused.

He was also
thirsty.

He needed whiskey real
bad.

Iron Eyes eased back on
his reins, stopped the pony and then stared at the town again.

For a few moments he
was totally baffled.

Where was he?

The bounty hunter had
thought that he was heading for the Indian Territory. Yet he was
looking straight at dozens of wooden buildings where there should
not be a single one.

Where was this
place?

Iron
Eyes tried to fathom out what had happened. Had he somehow gotten
lost and ridden into a place that he did not know existed? Could he
have succumbed to the effects of his injuries and lost
consciousness long enough for his pony to have ridden so far off
course?

He
looked down at the sand and saw the tracks of Calhoon’s horse. He
had trailed the man to this place, exactly as he had
thought.

Another thought entered
his mind.

Iron Eyes knew that he
had lost an awful lot of blood during the hot afternoon, but had he
lost so much that his mind was creating hallucinations?

He leaned back in his
saddle and stared down at his sand-caked chest and stomach. The
sand had stopped the blood flowing from his wounds but he hurt like
a thousand rattlesnake bites.

‘
This is real,’
Iron Eyes growled to himself.

He rubbed his
throat.

It was dry, but he did
not want to quench his thirst with water.

Iron
Eyes needed whiskey to wash the dust out of his mouth and throat.
He needed to burn the pain out of his body and knew that only hard
liquor could do that. His keen eyes could make out at least three
signs ahead of him which had the word ‘saloon’ painted on
them.

Yet as
far as he could see, there were no signs declaring the word
‘sheriff.’ Iron Eyes wondered why not. Of all the hundreds of towns
that he had ever ridden into over his long life as a bounty hunter,
he had never once entered a town where there was no sheriff’s
office.

Maybe
it was tucked away around a corner or in a side street, he thought.
He would have to find it if he caught up with the last of the
Calhoon gang, if he were to collect the bounty on the outlaw’s
head.

Iron
Eyes knew that all towns had a sheriff’s office. Just as they
always had barbershops and undertakers.

But he did not dismiss
his concerns totally.

He pulled one of his
Navy Colts from his belt and emptied the spent bullets from it on
to the sand beside his pony. His thin bony hand reached down into
his deep coat pocket and gathered six bullets up. He pushed them
into the chambers of his weapon and then snapped it shut. He
repeated the action with his other pistol, then pushed them into
his belt. Both gun grips jutted out from his waist.

Whatever doubts filled his tired brain the overwhelming thirst
that burned his throat persuaded him to continue.

The bounty hunter
gritted his teeth and then allowed the pony to walk on. He watched
every structure as he rode closer and closer to the outskirts of
the town.

A crude sign informed
him that this was Calico.

The name meant nothing
to him.

Iron Eyes leaned down
from his saddle and touched the wooden sign. It was real and so was
the town itself. This was no mirage.

It actually
existed.

The Indian pony
approached the closest of the saloons and he hauled back on his
reins. He stared up at the large sign nailed to the balcony rail
above him.

The Wayward Gun
Saloon.

The bounty hunter could
smell the aroma of whiskey floating on the warm evening air. He
dismounted slowly, wrapped his reins around the hitching pole and
tied them tightly. He still did not trust the skittish animal. He
knew that given half a chance, it would gallop away from its new
master, taking his saddle and bags with it.

He
opened one of the saddlebags’ flaps and pulled out a bag of golden
eagles. He then dropped the fist-sized bag into one of his deep
trail-coat pockets.

Iron
Eyes stepped up on to the boardwalk and gazed over the swing doors
at the gathering inside. An annoying tinny piano was being played
in a corner whilst a dozen men were scattered around
the large interior drinking and gambling. A few
bar girls were still trying to encourage the less than sober men to
buy them drinks.

He
rested his left hand on top of one of the swing-doors and pushed
it. He walked into the room and heard a stunned hush suddenly
envelop the entire area. Even the man at the piano stopped playing
halfway through a tune.

Iron Eyes walked slowly
across the room towards the bar from where hundreds of bottles and
glasses lured him on.

Iron Eyes knew that
every one of the people inside the Wayward Gun were watching
him.

But he did not care one
bit. All he wanted to do was drink his fill of whiskey.

He ran the fingers of
both hands through his limp, long, black hair and then stopped when
he reached the bar. He rested one boot on the brass rail next to a
spittoon and stared at the solitary bartender.

The man reluctantly
approached the bounty hunter.

‘
A bottle of
whiskey,’ Iron Eyes whispered.

‘
We don’t serve
redskins in here. Get going,’ the bartender said
bluntly.

Iron
Eyes lowered his head until his chin touched his bloodstained shirt
collar. He took a deep breath, then, faster than the blink of an
eye, grabbed the man’s head with both hands and dragged him up over
the bar counter.

Iron
Eyes was furious. ‘I ain’t an Indian, you dumb bastard. Now get me
a bottle of whiskey or I’ll surely kill you.’

The startled man had
never been so frightened before. He had looked into the eyes of the
most dangerous bounty hunter in the West and survived.

He knew that Iron Eyes
was not bluffing.

‘
OK, mister,’
the bartender stuttered. ‘It’s ya hair. I ain’t never seen a white
man with such long black hair before. I’m sorry. Let me go and I’ll
get you your whiskey.’

Iron Eyes released his
grip. The man felt his shoes hitting the floor again.

‘
Any particular
brand of whiskey?’

‘
Good whiskey!’
Iron Eyes slammed down a few coins and the bartender cautiously
picked them up.

The
bounty hunter used the reflection in the long mirror behind the bar
to study the faces of the saloon’s bemused patrons. Every one of
them was staring at him with wide-eyed respect and
terror.

Then Iron Eyes caught
sight of his own image in the mirror as the bottle of whiskey was
placed before him. It had been a long time since he had seen his
own reflection and he was not pleased at the sight.

‘
Will this do,
mister?’ the bartender sheepishly asked.

Iron
Eyes nodded. ‘Yep. That’ll do.’

The bartender began to
wipe the wet counter with a cloth that had been draped over his
shoulder. He kept looking at his tall customer. He had never seen a
living man with such horrific injuries before. In fact, he had
never seen a corpse with such injuries either.

‘
Are you OK,
mister?’ he eventually managed to ask.

Iron
Eyes pulled the cork from the bottleneck with his teeth and spat it
into the spittoon at his feet. He lifted the bottle to his lips and
took a long hard swallow.

It was good liquor.

‘
Do I look OK?’
Iron Eyes asked when he once again caught sight of his own image in
the mirror.

‘
No, sir. You
don’t.’

‘
I’ve had me a
real bad day.’ The bounty hunter shrugged as he poured more of the
fiery liquid into his mouth.

‘
You had an
accident?’ the bartender asked as he moved closer with his
cloth.

‘
An accident?’
Iron Eyes almost smiled. T reckon that’s a darn good way of putting
it,
amigo.
I’ve had
me a day full of accidents. Real bad ones.’

The
bartender moved closer. ‘Do you need to see a doctor? We got one
down the street. Reasonable rates.’

Iron
Eyes swallowed more of the whiskey and then looked at the amber
liquid in the clear bottle. He had consumed a third of the contents
and knew that he could finish it off without its having any effect
on him. For he had never once been able to get drunk and he had
spent years trying real hard.

“
You got any
rooms for rent here?’ Iron Eyes asked.

‘
We got one free
room upstairs at the back of the building,’ the bartender answered.
‘Big Jack Brady has taken up the rest of them for his
boys.’

‘
Big Jack
Brady?’ Iron Eyes repeated the name. He knew of the outlaw from his
Wanted posters. He was worth $1,000 dead or alive.

The
man behind the bar noticed the reaction in the bounty hunter’s
scarred face.

‘
You know
him?’

‘
Only by
reputation.’ Iron Eyes took another sip of the whiskey and stared
more closely at the saloon’s layout. ‘So Big Jack and his boys have
rooms here, huh?’

‘
Yep. And a new
one turned up today,’ the bartender eagerly informed
him.

‘
Harve Calhoon?’
the bounty hunter glanced at the man, who nodded.

‘
Yep. That was
his name OK.’

Iron
Eyes rubbed his chin. ‘Don’t the law mind so many outlaws hanging
around Calico?’

‘
There ain’t no
law in the badlands, mister,’ the bartender laughed. ‘You sure got
a keen sense of humor.’

‘
Yep. I sure
have.’ Iron Eyes nodded as the words sank into his tired brain. So
this was the badlands. He had heard rumors of this place but until
now had thought that they were just that. Mere rumors.

No
wonder he had not seen a sheriff’s office.

That would be the last
thing the inhabitants of Calico would either need or want.

Iron Eyes rested the
bottle on the counter and studied his appearance in the mirror
again. What was left of his clothing barely covered his lean body.
Everything he wore was either covered in blood or full of bullet
holes. Or both.

‘
You got a store
in this damn town that sells trail clothes,
amigo?’
he asked.

‘
Yep. Won’t be
open until the morning, though,’ the bartender replied. ‘I can get
you anything you want.’

‘
That’s soon
enough for me.’ Iron Eyes pulled out a golden eagle from the bag in
his pocket, rested it on the bar counter in front of the bartender,
then stared at him. ‘You go to that store in the morning and buy me
some trail gear.’

‘
Same as you got
on?’

‘
Yep. Shirt,
pants and trail coat.’ Iron Eyes nodded.

The bartender accepted
the coin and tucked it into his vest pocket.

‘
Do you still
want the room?’

Iron Eyes nodded.

The man plucked a key
off the shelf behind him and handed it to the bounty hunter.

‘
Room
twelve.’

Iron
Eyes reached across the counter, pulled a cigar from the man’s
shirt pocket and placed it between his teeth.

The bartender struck a
match and lit the end of the cigar for Iron Eyes.

‘
Send another
bottle up with a box of cigars,’ Iron Eyes said as his lungs filled
with the acrid smoke.

‘
What about the
doctor?’

‘
The whiskey and
cigars will do for now,
amigo.’

The bartender nodded as
his eyes watched the bounty hunter strolling across the quiet room
towards the staircase with the bottle in his hand.