The Fury of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western #4)

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The infamous bounty hunter known as Iron Eyes finally manages
to catch up with outlaw Dan Creedy. With his usual deadly resolve,
Iron Eyes would have dispatched Creedy and claimed the reward. Yet
this time it was different for, at last, he had met a man who was
almost his equal. The seriously wounded Iron Eyes rides off towards
the forest, but he has no idea Creedy's three outlaw brothers are
now hunting him. For the first time in his life, it is Iron Eyes
who is the prey . . .

THE FURY OF IRON
EYES

IRON EYES 4

By Rory Black

First Published by Robert Hale
Limited in 2001

Copyright
©
2001 by Rory Black

Published by Piccadilly
Publishing at Smashwords: November 2013

Names, characters and
incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely
coincidental.

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of this author.

Cover © 2013 by Westworld
Designs

This is a Piccadilly
Publishing Book

Published by Arrangement with
the Author.

Since the first man walked
upon the land which has come to be known as America, there have
been legends. Tales of men blessed or perhaps cursed by the Great
Spirit.

One such legend still
thrives throughout the cultures of the people known as Native
Americans. But even long ago, when a thousand tribes were scattered
across the land that stretches from sea to shining sea, this legend
was said to be true.

For there are those who are
said to be able to change into creatures of the plains and forest
as well as the sky. Men who somehow can transform their entire
being into that of an eagle or a bear, a buffalo or a
deer.

Some, it is claimed, can
actually become wolves.

Whatever the truth of these
stories, it must be said that even today, in various corners of the
land that once entirely belonged to the various tribes of Indian,
this belief is still harbored by even the most intelligent of
souls.

What would the infamous
bounty hunter, known only as Iron Eyes, make of a young Cheyenne
hunter who claimed that he was one of that rare breed who could
turn themselves into a wolf?

Perhaps if Iron Eyes had
not been terribly injured when he encountered the handsome Indian,
he might have dismissed the claim as nothing more than a brash
boast from the lips of a youth trying to impress an
elder.

But there was something
about the little hunter that made the infamous Iron Eyes consider
the claim seriously. Something that made him feel that this was not
idle boasting but perhaps, the truth.

There were and still are many
legends in the vast land known as America.
Tales that span the entire continent.
To dismiss any of them out of hand, might seem sensible to the well
educated amongst us, but to those who are actually intelligent, it
might just be wise to consider them seriously for more than a
fleeting moment.

Iron Eyes instinctively
knew that the little hunter, called Silent Wolf, was unlike any
other person he had ever encountered during his many bloodstained
years.

Perhaps the handsome little
hunter
could
actually change himself into a wolf. Iron Eyes knew that
only time would tell.

Night had come swiftly to
the small, acrid-smelling town of Bonny, Northern Texas. Yet even
as darkness overwhelmed the dry, weathered structures, it grew no
cooler than it had been when the merciless sun blazed down from the
cloudless sky.

The stench of a dozen
outhouses hung on the evening air as the gaunt rider aimed his
lathered-up mount at the array of wooden buildings. A blind man
could have found this town by following his nose, but this rider
was not blind. His bullet-colored eyes had followed the tracks in
the almost virginal sand by day and night to this place, because
his prey was here, and he was and always had been above all things,
a hunter.

Coyotes bayed across the
barren range, as if trying to see which could make the loudest
noise to greet the large, orange moon that rose above the desolate
landscape. But the rider did not seem to hear the wild, doglike
creatures as he dug his razor-sharp spurs into the sides of his
exhausted horse. For this rider, there was only one thing which
mattered: that was cornering the man he sought, and then killing
him.

As the smell grew stronger
in the flared nostrils of the silent man, he reined in and stood in
his stirrups, watching the sleepy town a mere mile
ahead.

The light from a solitary
saloon was all the illumination within the boundaries of Bonny, but
it was enough. It bathed the single street between the wooden
buildings in an almost amber light as it spewed from the open
saloon doorway. The sound of a tinny piano drifted on the warm air
into the ears of the bounty hunter as he rested his pitifully thin
frame back down on to the saddle. Even in the moonlight, the face
of the rider seemed to hail from another world: a world where
skeletons must live to take the lives of men. His face was scarred
by many years and many battles. His matted long hair hung limply to
his shoulders and napped like the wings of a bat whenever a breeze
dared to touch it. Slowly, his long fingers dragged a thin black
cigar from one of his deep jacket pockets before placing it between
his small sharp teeth.

Striking a match, Iron Eyes
lifted the flame to the end of the cigar and dragged the strong
smoke into his lungs, holding it there long enough for it to take
effect. He had not eaten anything in two days as he had followed
the trail left by the man he hunted, yet felt no hunger pangs in
his emaciated frame.

Other men ate two, three or
even four times a day, but not Iron Eyes. He had lived too long out
in the wilderness of this great land and ate like all hunters: only
when he had trapped and killed his prey.

There was an excitement
inside the man as he inhaled the smoke of his cigar and studied the
distant town. Iron Eyes had always grown excited as he closed in on
his prey and readied himself for the kill. It had started long ago
when he had hunted only animals and even now, as he tracked men for
the price on their heads, the thrill was still there.

Many thought the strange,
tall bounty hunter was devoid of any emotion whatsoever, but it was
not true. Iron Eyes could not have lived so long without the sheer
passion that drove him on and on in his pursuit of those wanted
dead or alive.

As he checked the pair of
Navy Colts and satisfied himself they were in full working order,
he sucked in the smoke of his cigar as if it alone were capable of
nourishing him.

Pushing the long, blue
barrels of his weapons into his belt so that their grips poked out
above his belt buckle, Iron Eyes jabbed his vicious spurs into the
horse and allowed it to continue on towards Bonny.

There were those who
thought the deadly bounty hunter was an Indian due to his mane of
limp black hair, and the fact that his scarred face never seemed
capable of growing whiskers upon it like most pale-skinned men.
There were others who had survived being up close to the tall, thin
man who always wore a long weathered dust jacket with deep,
bullet-filled pockets, who knew this creature hailed from no known
tribe of Indian.

And there were a few who
thought Iron Eyes was simply a living ghost that somehow refused to
die. Whatever the truth, the cold eyes of the sinister rider had
frozen the blood of many a foe, before his deadly accurate pistols
had dispatched them to a more peaceful place.

Perhaps he was an Indian
from some unknown tribe which had long ceased to exist. Perhaps he
was an avenging specter from some unholy place who came to claim
souls for the Devil himself.

Whatever Iron Eyes was, he
was unique. Most thanked the Lord for that small mercy. One Iron
Eyes was more than enough for any world.

The night sky and the large
moon suited the bounty hunter as he chewed on the end of his cigar.
He liked to strike when it was dark: when civilized folks had long
retired to their beds and found a dream or two to ease them away
from the reality which dominated their waking hours. For the wanted
men he sought tended to drink, and womanized during the hours of
darkness when decent souls slept. This alone made locating them far
easier to a man who was always ready to dispatch his own brand of
justice.

As Iron Eyes entered the
small one-street town, he noted the couple of horses tied up near
the saloon. There were no other horses anywhere else in Bonny.
Glancing at the ground from his high perch, his keen eyesight
recognized the hoof prints he had followed for so long. Even in the
moonlight, his vision was still as honed as it had always
been.

Iron Eyes teased the reins
of the tired mount and closed in on the saloon, which still
harbored people unwilling to leave one day and exchange it for
another. The sound of men and females within the saloon drifted out
into the street, along with the bad piano playing.

He had never been to Bonny
before, but knew it was probably the same as the hundreds of other
towns he had ridden into over the years, tracking down the vermin
it seemed the law could not find.

Halting the horse at the
hitching rail, Iron Eyes sat looking up and down the street until
he was satisfied it was empty. It did not take him long to
recognize the horse he knew belonged to the outlaw he sought.
Finishing his cigar, he tossed it away and readied himself for what
he knew lay ahead in the minutes which would follow. Lifting his
long, right leg over the neck of his mount, Iron Eyes slid to the
ground.

Tying his reins to the
wooden upright outside the saloon, the bounty hunter looked across
at the outlaw’s horse, which still had steam rising from it. Taking
twelve paces to the tethered horse of the man he had hunted for so
many weeks, Iron Eyes ran a hand along its neck.