The Curse of Iron Eyes (5 page)

Iron Eyes gritted his
teeth and then looked down at his still-bleeding wounds. He knew
that he would have either to find a doctor in this wilderness or
try to sew up the knife wounds himself. He had a long needle and
ball of catgut somewhere in one of the satchels of his bags, which
he used to repair his saddle and tack with.

Then his mind drifted
to the Bowie knife in his boot. He knew that if he made a campfire
and heated up its blade, he could burn all the injuries into
submission.

But there was no time
right now. It had taken him far longer than he had expected to
remove his saddle and bags from his dead mount and transfer it to
the skittish Indian pony.

Holding tightly on to his reins, he spurred the pony and rode
up to the top of the high sand dune. He stopped his mount and
stared down at the trail that led from Waco. Iron Eyes squinted
into the sun and knew that his pursuer had gained a lot of ground
on him.

The rider was now
close. Too damn close.

‘
Who is he?’ he
drawled angrily to himself. ‘And what the hell is he following me
for?’

The
sun glinted off the unmistakable metal-tipped barrel of a rifle
jutting from beneath the saddle of the powerful mount as it charged
ever closer towards the bounty hunter’s high vantage point atop the
dune. It was a big rifle.

‘
What’s he got
there, an elephant gun?’ Iron Eyes mumbled under his breath as he
vainly tried to make out the man’s features. Whoever he was, he did
not recognize either him or his mount.

A
thousand thoughts drifted through Iron Eye’s mind. Could this be
Harve Calhoon? Could he have somehow managed to turn the tables on
him? Turned the hunter into the hunted? Maybe it was some innocent
drifter who happened to be riding the same trail as himself. Was
that possible?

Suddenly, as Iron Eyes ran the fingers of his left hand
through his long matted hair, he saw the rider leaning down,
hauling the strange weapon from its scabbard. Before Iron Eyes had
time to lower his arm he saw the plume of gunsmoke spew from the
distant barrel and then heard the deafening sound echo all around
him as a bullet tore into the sand at his pony’s unshod
hoofs.

‘
Buffalo gun!
The bastard’s got a buffalo gun!’ Iron Eyes shouted at the heavens
as it became obvious that whoever the rider was, the varmint wanted
him dead.

Iron Eyes knew that the
rider was now probably less than fifteen minutes behind him. He had
no intention of facing anyone until he had time to tend his wounds.
His bony hands hauled his reins to his right.

Then
he saw the faint remnants of tracks left by Harve Calhoon’s horse’s
hoofs in the sand beyond the bodies.

Another blast filled his ears as he felt the heat of the
large-caliber bullet pass within inches of his already nervous
mount. Iron Eyes spurred the pony hard.

The horse did not
require a reminder from the jagged edges of his sharp spurs. It
thundered through the scattered bodies of the Apache warriors and
across the sand. He rode the pony for all it was worth.

Now, below the crest of
the dune, Iron Eyes had a little time before the unknown rider with
the buffalo gun could fire at him again. The dune provided him with
cover until the rider rode up and on to it.

He had maybe ten
minutes before the man reached the top of the high sandy rise and
was able to take aim once more.

Iron
Eyes urged the pony on and on. He had to try and get out of range
of the weapon which, he knew, was capable of bringing down a
fully-grown buffalo at over a mile’s distance.

Once the rider stopped
his mount and was able to take careful aim Iron Eyes knew that he
and his pony would be goners. The mysterious horseman had come
close enough to his chosen target when riding at full gallop, there
was no way he would miss once he had time to stop his horse.

The
mount obeyed its new master and galloped towards the distant
canyon. Iron Eyes stood in his stirrups and felt the pace of the
pony quicken beneath him.

His
keen eyes squinted into the shimmering heat haze at what was left
of Calhoon’s trail, but it was the man behind him who kept
returning to his thoughts now.

Who was he? Iron Eyes
asked himself as he balanced in his stirrups and allowed the pony
beneath him its head.

But men like the
infamous Iron Eyes had a thousand enemies whom they had never seen
or even heard of. It came with the occupation for which he had
become legendary at doing so well. Every one of the wanted men whom
he had killed to claim the bounty on their heads had either a
father, brother or cousin who sought revenge if they were
capable.

There
were thousands of outlaws’ kinfolk out there who wanted to see the
head of Iron Eyes on a pike.

As he galloped on Iron
Eyes had no idea that he was heading straight into the jaws of a
place that was probably more dangerous than any wanted outlaw or
Indian whom he had ever encountered.

Iron
Eyes was galloping into Devil’s Pass.

Big
Jack Brady was indeed just that. Big by any definition of the word
that anyone could think of. Standing over six feet seven inches in
height and weighing nearly three hundred pounds, the outlaw had met
few men who dared to challenge him. Those who had were all dead,
either by his skilled use of the guns he wore strapped to his broad
hips, or by the dozen men who trailed in his large
shadow.

For more than forty
years the huge outlaw had roamed steadily south from the Canadian
logging camps high in the tree-covered mountains that had spawned
him, until he had discovered the lands once partitioned off as the
Indian territories.

But
the various tribes that had been forced off their own land and
brought hundreds of miles to this inhospitable terrain soon
evaporated when men like Big Jack muscled their way in. The tribes
that remained in the designated territory were the more hardy
people such as the Apache and Comanche who were used to living on
even the most arid of lands. Yet even they kept their distance from
the growing outlaw population.

At first the Indians
had welcomed the outlaws, but soon they discovered that their
guests had only one intention, and that was to take complete
control of the entire territory.

Situated on the western side of Devil’s Pass, the territory
soon became known simply as the Badlands. It proved to be a safe
haven for the outlaws who, like Big Jack Brady, roamed the West
robbing and killing. For the law never entered the Badlands. It was
still officially regarded as Indian land on the maps and documents
back East and therefore not subject to the laws that ruled the rest
of the states. As long as the Indians remained within its
boundaries and behaved themselves, the government wanted nothing to
do with the place. Anyone who ventured across its borders did so at
their own risk.

Money still flowed in
regularly from the Federal Reserve to the half-dozen Indian agents
who had remained long after their charges had left. For the
unscrupulous agents were paid in gold to buy food for the thousands
of Indians in their care. Having never informed the powers back
East that things had changed and that they had few if any Indians
to look after, the agents had grown wealthy.

A town
had sprung up in the very center of the Badlands and although it
did not appear on any official maps, it was quite prosperous and
popular with the outlaws who found sanctuary there.

Calico had everything
that other similar-sized towns outside the notorious Badlands had,
but it had more. More of everything. More saloons. More brothels.
More gambling-houses. The only thing that it had less of than the
towns outside the Badlands, was law.

Even
though a crude form of self-government existed in Calico to keep
the thieves from stealing the gold fillings out of each other’s
mouths, it was not based on any known legal system. It was the law
of the gun that ruled.

It was lynch law.

The strongest became
even stronger.

Big Jack Brady had
managed to carve himself out a tidy slice of Calico since his
arrival with his henchmen. Few dared to argue with the burly man.
Those who had been in Calico since it had first grown out of the
dry sand resented him, but as long as he did not try to take what
was theirs they tolerated his presence.

Another reason why few
law-abiding people had ever heard of Calico was simple. There were
only two ways into the wild town.

One
route came down from the north across almost uninhabited land, long
vacated by half a dozen tribes, and the only other way to reach it
was via a trail deep within the fearsome Devil’s Pass.

To the thousands of
outlaws and people who had made Calico their home it seemed that
they had found paradise.

But they had no idea
that one man in their midst had a plan that would soon put every
one of them in jeopardy.

Big Jack Brady had a
plan that was daring and almost as big as he was himself. If it
worked he would become the most powerful individual in Calico, if
it went wrong, it could bring the wrath of an entire nation down on
them.

Yet men like Brady
cared little for the worries of others; he thought of only himself.
If Calico was destroyed by his actions, he would simply continue
riding south, taking his followers, in search of another place to
plunder.

Big Jack Brady had
played seven hands of five-card-stud and not seen enough picture
cards to make three of a kind. Yet he had won all seven hands due
to the fact that his opponents knew better than to try and bluff
such a huge awesome figure. Of all the saloons in Calico, the
Wayward Gun was one that suited Brady and his henchmen, for it
served good liquor and was filled with spineless customers. For men
used to pushing their considerable weight around, it was perfect.
They had taken rooms above the large sawdust-covered drinking and
gambling area. The Wayward Gun was a place where a man could
indulge in every known vice and that also suited Big Jack and his
followers.

His
hooded eyes glanced up from the card-table at the dust-caked man
entering through the swing-doors. No amount of trail grime could
disguise the figure of Harve Calhoon to those who knew him
though.

‘
Harve Calhoon!’
Big Jack smiled, tossed his cards on to the pile of gaming-chips
and rose from his chair. ‘So you finally managed to get
here.’

Calhoon dusted off his
Stetson against his leg and grinned at the towering figure who
walked towards him, his entire entourage behind him. He knew that
Big Jack was a man that you could never afford to trust, but he
also paid well. The giant gunman was also someone who had a flair
for devising the most outrageous robberies and bringing in experts
to help him execute them. Only one thing had brought Calhoon to the
Badlands and that was curiosity.

‘
Your plan
sounded too interesting to ignore, Big Jack,’ he said, rubbing the
dust from his features. ‘I just had to ride here to find out
more.’

Brady banged the bar
counter with a fist that was twice the size of any other within the
building, or the town for that matter.

‘
A bottle of rye
and two clean glasses, barkeep,’ Big Jack demanded
loudly.

The bottle came
quickly, as did the two thimble glasses.

Big
Jack scooped them up and then led Calhoon to a quiet corner in the
saloon. They sat down whilst all of Brady’s men stood guard around
the table.

‘
So ya
interested, huh?’ the giant man asked as he tossed the cork away
and poured two full measures of the whiskey into the pair of
glasses.

‘
Sure am. Sounds
a mighty fine deal.’ Calhoon nodded before tossing the drink down
his parched throat. ‘I figure that it must be an awful long way
off, though, to pay the kinda money that you mentioned in your
wire.’

‘
Nearer than you
think, Harve.’ Big Jack chuckled.

Harve
Calhoon knew better than to put anything beyond this large man’s
capabilities. Even robbing the very town that he was holed up
in.

‘
You ain’t
thinking of robbing someone in Calico, are you?’

‘
Nope.’ Brady
grinned. ‘But close, Harve. Damn close.’

Now
Calhoon’s curiosity was truly fired up.

‘
What is this
job?’

‘
Ya understand
the reason that I singled you out from the rest of your gang?’ Big
Jack Brady downed his drink and then poured two more.

‘
I reckon so,
Big Jack.’ Calhoon was an expert with dynamite and any other known
explosive. He knew that whatever this job was it involved blowing
something up. But what?

‘
Where are the
rest of your gang?’ Brady looked up at the swing-doors of the
Wayward Gun as if expecting to see Calhoon’s brother and men
walking in after him.

‘
They rode on to
Waco and I cut through Devil’s Pass.’

The
large man poured even more whiskey. ‘Good. I only needed you
anyway, Harve.’

Calhoon lifted the
glass and studied it for a few seconds before gazing into the eyes
of the man before him. They were cold, calculating eyes.

‘
I’m here and
waiting to be told some details, Big Jack. I had me a damn tough
ride just getting here.’

Big
Jack nodded. ‘You must be eager, Harve. You see, I needed an expert
and you’re it. The rest of your boys would be useless on this
job.’