The Curse of Iron Eyes (3 page)

Nothing else
mattered.

Only pride in finishing
a job that he had started.

Most of the tracks had
been blown away, but not all. There were still enough left for the
experienced hunter to steer his pony on toward his goal.

The bounty hunter knew
that somewhere along the fifty-mile trail that had led him after
the ruthless outlaws, he must have somehow missed wherever it was
that Harve Calhoon had left the main group.

It was the first time
that anyone had managed to outwit the skilled hunter. But then, the
ride to Waco had been the first time that Iron Eyes had trailed ten
wanted men at once. He had taken on groups of four or five
gunfighters before and dispatched them easily, but the Calhoon gang
had been the biggest and most tricky prize that he had ever tried
to catch and kill.

As he rode feverishly
on, a thought kept haunting the deadly Iron Eyes; why had Harve
Calhoon cut away from the main group of outlaws at all?

And where had the
varmint gone?

Apart from Waco, there
was little else to attract a ruthless bank robber.

Or was there? Perhaps
Calhoon knew something about this barren territory that he had yet
to learn.

The trail was
mercilessly hot the further south that Iron Eyes rode. Yet nothing
could stop him now. He was angry and wanted the last of the once
notorious Calhoon gang dead.

There was no other
way.

Harve Calhoon had
disappeared, but Iron Eyes knew that there was nowhere for the
outlaw to hide once he located the exact spot where he had cut away
from his nine fellow-outlaws.

The bounty hunter would
seek him out wherever Calhoon tried to hide.

The trail began to rise
slowly up a sandy dune.

The exhausted pony
continued being spurred hard by its master. Iron Eyes knew that he
had to continue following what remained of the trail if he were
ever to discover where Calhoon had managed to do the seemingly
impossible, and get away from the most infamous hunter of men in
the West.

It
never once crossed his mind that even if he had seen the telltale
signs in the sand which would have alerted him that one of the gang
had split away from the others, he could not have followed both
trails. He would have still tracked the larger group on to
Waco.

Iron Eyes whipped his
pony viciously with the ends of his long reins and managed to make
the hapless creature climb to the crest of the soft, sandy
dune.

The
sight that met the steel-gray-colored eyes caused Iron Eyes to haul
his reins up to his chest. He sat silently astride the lathered-up
mount and watched the approaching Apache warriors. They had
obviously spotted the dust which rose thirty feet into the air off
the hoofs of his pony, long before he had been aware of
them.

There were eight of
them and they were all painted for battle.

Iron
Eyes gritted his teeth and stood in his stirrups to give him a
better view of the land that surrounded him. It was hotter than
Hell itself on the crest of the sandy rise but the grim-faced rider
knew that it could and probably would get even hotter in only a few
minutes if he did not act swiftly.

Whatever had riled up
the Indians, it must have been bad, he concluded. They rode their
painted ponies straight at him and screamed their haunting war
cries.

He could see the sun
glinting off their rifles and war lances as the Apache hunting
party galloped closer and closer. Yet Iron Eyes held his mount in
check.

There was still not one
ounce of fear in any part of him.

For however much paint
the Apache warriors had covering their faces and bodies, they were
still only men. And there had never been a man born that frightened
Iron Eyes.

His long thin arm
reached behind him and slid out his seldom-used Winchester from the
long scabbard beneath his saddle. He tried to crank its mechanism
but it was stiff and unyielding.

Iron Eyes knew that it
was quite easy to kill riders, any riders with the aid of a
fourteen-shot repeating rifle, but not this one. He snarled and
rammed the barrel of the Winchester back into the scabbard. He knew
that it would take at least an hour to clean and oil the carbine
before it was possible to use it on the charging Indians.

At the speed that they
were approaching, he had less than two minutes. He ran the fingers
of both hands through his long limp hair and glared at them. He was
going to have to do this the hard way.

Up
close with his Navy Colts and long Bowie knife, it was going to be
yet another blood bath. But this time, it was not one of his own
making. He had no wish to kill anyone who did not have a price on
his head. Yet Iron Eyes knew that this bunch of furious Indians did
not look as though they wanted to do anything except kill
him.

There was another
choice available to the bounty hunter and yet it was one that he
refused even to acknowledge. It meant turning his already exhausted
mount and riding away.

For Iron Eyes, there
was no retreat.

There never had been
and there never would be.

He spun his mount full
circle and studied the terrain which seemed little different
whatever direction he looked in. There was little or no cover to be
had anywhere. That meant that he had to remain right where he was,
and fight.

When you fought Apaches
you had to kill them or they would most certainly kill you. Like
Iron Eyes, they never took prisoners.

His mount was nervous
as it sensed the approaching riders bearing down on them. It
gnashed at its bit and tried to turn away from the yelling warriors
who were thundering ever closer.

Suddenly, over his
shoulder, something caught his attention far behind him. Iron Eyes
swung his pony around again and stared hard off into the distance
along the trail that he had just ridden along.

He could see the dust
rising into the dry air from the hoofs of a rider who was following
him.

A rider who was at
least an hour or so behind him.

‘
Somebody’s
following us, horse!’ the bounty hunter growled curiously. ‘But
who? Don’t that idiot know that only death rides on my
trail?’

The sound of rifle
shots came from the approaching Apaches behind him. Iron Eyes
snarled and spun his pony around once more, then he felt the sudden
impact beneath his saddle. The pony shuddered. Blood spurted out
from two wounds in its chest.

Then the mount gave out
a deafening whine.

More shots burned
through the dry hot air.

Iron
Eyes glanced up and saw the plumes of gun smoke coming from a few
of the leading Apaches’ rifles. A bullet passed through his hair
and nicked the lobe of his left ear.

Then more shots tore
into the animal as its startled master fought with the reins in a
vain attempt to keep the creature on its feet.

His mount staggered and
then toppled forward on to its head and neck.

Iron Eyes hit the
ground hard.

The man who had long
been thought of as a living ghost had hit the ground hard when his
injured pony had collapsed beneath him. Iron Eyes hurt real bad,
but he knew that there was no time left to dwell upon anything
except the thundering Apache mounts behind him. He rolled over in
the burning-hot sand and saw that the eight chanting warriors were
closing in with every heartbeat but the pathetic noise of his pony
drew his attention from their rifle fire. The bounty hunter looked
back at the injured pony beside him and pulled both guns from his
belt. Without a second thought, he pushed one of the weapons
against the temple of the shaking animal and fired.

The pony slumped into
the soft sand.

Dragging himself up on to one knee, Iron Eyes knew that at
least the animal’s suffering was over. His own fate was less
predictable.

Arrows
landed several yards ahead of him as yet more rifle bullets tore
through the hot air. He felt them passing all around him. Then he
raised his Navy Colts.

The eight Apaches had
made good time.

They were now bearing
down on him at incredible speed. He cocked the hammers of both
pistols and trained them on his attackers.

Then Iron Eyes
waited.

He had nerves of
steel.

There was not one bead
of sweat on him as his cold eyes focused down the barrels of his
primed handguns. He knew that to fire too soon was to waste
valuable ammunition. He had to wait until they were in the range of
his deadly weaponry as their rifle bullets rained in at him.

It took courage but he
had plenty of that.

He began to wonder; why
were they so all-fired up?

The question kept
hammering into his mind.

Yet if there were
people whom he liked to kill almost as much as wanted outlaws, it
was Apaches.

The Indians were
looking for a fight and he was going to grant their dying wish.
They had started the trouble, but Iron Eyes was determined that it
would be he who finished it.

Their bullets ripped
through the loose tails of his long trail coat, but Iron Eyes
remained as still as a statue. Their arrows got closer and closer
to where he knelt, but he did not blink.

When he could see the
whites of their eyes, he knew it was time. They were within the
range of his trusty matched Navy Colts.

With an expertise and
speed that few men could equal, Iron Eyes squeezed his triggers
with his index fingers and haul the hammers back with his
thumbs.

Shot after shot came
spewing from the barrels of his lethal Navy Colts at the native
horsemen who bore down on him. Bullets and arrows rained at Iron
Eyes but still he did not flinch.

One by
one the Apache braves were torn from the backs of their painted
ponies. One by one they felt the deadly lead of Iron Eyes’
accuracy.

The bounty hunter
quickly rose to his feet when he felt both his guns were empty.
Knowing that there was no time to reload them, Iron Eyes dropped
them on to the sand at his feet. He hauled the long Bowie knife
from his right boot and ran at the last two screaming riders.

Before
the first warrior could train his long rifle at Iron Eyes, it was
hauled from his grasp. The bounty hunter leapt up on to the back of
the Indian’s pony. It reared up, sending both men crashing into the
sand. Iron Eyes felt the fist of the winded brave catch him on his
jaw, but it did not stop him. The knife was thrust into the belly
of the Indian.

It claimed its victim
instantly.

Iron
Eyes gritted his teeth and then grabbed at the mane of the startled
pony and stopped it from galloping after all the other horses. It
took every ounce of his strength but he held the pony in check as
his keen eyes watched the last of the warriors turning his own
mount to face him.

They were twenty yards
apart and Iron Eyes was using the skittish animal as a shield.

For a
brief moment both men looked straight into each other’s souls. They
paused and each sought a weakness in his enemy.

The Apache screamed a
spine-chilling war cry and kicked his mount into action once more.
With every stride, the warrior fired his Winchester at the pony and
the man who stood behind it. Bullets tore into the painted horse
and it reared up. It then collapsed, leaving the bounty hunter
exposed.

He watched the Indian
galloping straight at him.

As the
pony reached him, Iron Eyes sidestepped the unshod hoofs and threw
himself up and over the back of the painted pony.

Iron Eyes grappled with
the ferocity of a mountain lion on the back of the pony. Then he
felt the blanket slip off the back of the startled animal. The two
men hit the ground at exactly the same time.

The
rifle went hurtling out of the warrior’s hand as the Apache grabbed
at the right wrist of Iron Eyes. The long blade of the Bowie knife
glinted in the blazing sunlight. Both men wrestled across the sand,
neither of them willing to release his grip on the
other.

A
naked knee rammed into the belly of the bounty hunter. Iron Eyes
felt his ribs buckle before he fell off the snarling Indian and
rolled on to his back.

The brave still held on
firmly to the wrist of Iron Eyes and tried to kick his enemy
senseless. Yet the moccasin was no match for the hefty mule-ear
boot. Iron Eyes drew up both his knees and kicked out as hard as he
was able.

The Apache went flying
backwards, yet before Iron Eyes could get up off the ground, the
Indian had recovered and thrown himself back on top of him.

Iron Eyes lunged out
but felt the strong fingers grab his wrist once again. A punch
smashed into the face of the winded hunter of men before he could
block it. Somehow Iron Eyes managed to shake his knife-hand free
and lashed out with its deadly blade. He saw the Indian wince as
its razor-sharp edge glanced across the naked chest of the painted
warrior.

Iron
Eyes pushed his opponent away for a brief moment and then saw the
bleeding Indian dragging his own knife from its leather sheath and
stagger back to his feet. They were only a matter of yards away
from one another, staring into each other’s eyes.

Both knew as they
gripped their knives in their bloodstained hands that within a few
moments, one of them was going to die. But it was a good day to
fight and a good day to die.

They charged towards
one another.

The knives flashed in
the sunlight. Each man cut and thrust with nothing on his mind
except the ultimate destruction of his equally determined
opponent.