The Spirit of Iron Eyes (4 page)

The critically wounded pony was still
kicking aimlessly at the hot air as blood poured from the three
neat bullet holes in its side.

There was no emotion in the gaunt features
of the fearless Iron Eyes. He swiftly reloaded his guns again and
resumed firing at the yelling Apaches.

Bullets
tore into the padded leather
saddle behind the head of the cornered man. Every impact made the
pony whinny as it vainly tried to get off the blood-soaked
sand.

Iron Eyes had already managed to shoot more
than a dozen of the avenging Indians, but he knew that there were
still roughly ninety more heading straight at him. An arrow landed
less than three inches from his groin between his painfully thin
legs but he still did not seem to take any notice. He continued
squeezing the triggers of his guns and watching his accurate
bullets knocking the horsemen off the backs of their mounts.

But there was no emotion on his face.

No hint of what the trapped man was thinking
as he blasted his foes with the Navy Colts. He was killing because
men were trying to kill him. It was as simple as that.

Again, his guns were empty.

Iron Eyes fingers searched his deep jacket
pockets for more ammunition.

‘
Damn!’ Iron Eyes cursed.

He was running low on the precious
.36-calibre bullets. He rolled over to the saddle-bags. The aroma
of whiskey from the crushed bottles filled the hot prairie air.
Iron Eyes dragged the top satchel off the bleeding horse and tore
its buckle from the leather body of the bags. Two cardboard boxes
of bullets fell on to the damp liquor-soaked sand.

Feverishly the bounty hunter
pulled the cardboard
lids off the boxes and emptied their contents into
his pockets. Suddenly an another arrow came out of the gun smoke
filled air and hit the pony in the neck.

A spurt of steaming blood arced into the
air. There was a gushing sound as air escaped from the deep
wound.

Iron Eyes cocked his hammers
and pushed his tall frame up as close to the dead animal as he
could. The Apache were starting to circle the bounty
hunter
’s
dead horse. Dust rose off the unshod hoofs and mixed with the gun
smoke that hung on the hot prairie air.

Within seconds Iron Eyes could not see them
and they could not see him.

For the first time since the painted
warriors had given chase, Iron Eyes felt that he might just have a
chance of surviving their relentless attack.

The dust from the ninety or more horses was
blinding. The Apache braves continued to fire their bows and rifles
but their target could no longer be seen.

He ignored the relentless
volleys of bullets and arrows that came at him from all directions
and raised himself up off the sodden sand. The
animal
’s
blood covered most of his coat and right trouser leg but he neither
noticed nor cared. He threw his lean frame over the
saddle.

Iron Eyes landed on his boots and blasted
both his pistols before stooping and running under the smoke and
dust. He paused and listened to snorting Apache mounts approaching
him from his left.

He ducked even lower and stared into the
choking dust.

His keen eyesight could make
out dozens of horses
’ legs as their masters twisted and turned them in vain
attempts to locate their elusive prey.

Rifle shots cut through the smoke and dust
from the Apache rifles above his head. Red-hot tapers of lead
traced through the air but Iron Eyes did not move a muscle.

Again he moved like a mountain lion closer
to the scores of bareback riders who were continually circling the
area.

Unseen and unheard, Iron Eyes paused briefly
and cocked the hammers of his guns once more. Again he fired up
into the swirling smoke and heard the muffled cries as his bullets
found their invisible targets.

He rested on one knee. His dust-caked eyes
tried to find a solitary rider, apart from the bulk of the
screaming braves, whom he could surprise.

Iron Eyes knew that he needed a horse, and
was determined to get one.

Suddenly the legs of a pinto
came into view from his left. He could see its
master
’s
moccasins hanging at the side of the pony. The eerie sound of
arrows being unleashed from a bow whispered above the bounty hunter
as he edged closer towards the pony’s legs. Iron Eyes slid both
guns into his deep pockets and then pulled his Bowie knife from the
neck of his boot.

Again he moved closer until he
was right under
the snorting pinto’s neck. He reached up and caught hold of
the rope that was looped through its mouth.

Iron Eyes released his grip on
the crude bridle and then swung around through the choking smoke
and dust to face the Indian bowman. With the speed and agility of a
puma, the tall ghostlike figure reached up and pulled the Apache
towards him. The long lethal blade of the knife was thrust into the
Indian
’s
chest as he was dragged off the pony.

Before the lifeless body crashed to the
ground, Iron Eyes had grabbed the mane of the pony and thrown
himself on to the back of the confused animal.

Iron Eyes turned the pony and was suddenly
confronted by a half-dozen Apache riders.

Even through the thick dust, the bounty
hunter could see the stunned expressions etched into their painted
faces. He drove his spurs into the pinto and charged straight at
them. He lashed the deadly blade to one side and then the other as
he forced his mount to ride straight through their ranks.

Blood dripped off the Bowie
knife
’s
gleaming blade as Indians fell all around the determined
horseman.

When at last he had carved his way into the
clear, Iron Eyes drove the Apache pony on towards the sandy
ridge.

The
pinto pony thundered across the flat
ground as it felt its new master’s long, sharp spurs driving into
its flesh. Yet no matter how fast it galloped, it could not escape
the ruthless pain that Iron Eyes continued to inflict upon
it.

Diamond Back Jones dragged his reins to his
chest and shouted at the rest of the Indians through the clouds of
swirling dust.

‘
Stop
shooting, my brothers. Listen!’

The sound of the fleeing bounty
hunter
’s
mount filled all their ears as the Apache braves stopped their
ponies next to the outlaw and their chief.

Slowly the dust drifted away from what
remained of the painted warriors. The bodies of their less
fortunate brothers soon became hideously evident on the
blood-covered sand.

It was Conchowata who was first to spot
their fleeing foe racing across the arid prairie atop the fresh
mount. He raised his rifle and pointed at him through the dust.

‘
There!’ Conchowata cried out. ‘Iron Eyes has
escaped!’

‘
Let’s
get him!’ Diamond Back yelled out.

The Apache braves kicked the sides of their
mounts and drove on after the dust of the bounty hunter.

Iron Eyes had managed to put a quarter of a
mile between himself and the Apaches when he heard the screams
starting once again behind him.

His eyes narrowed as he stared
at the sand-
colored rocks before him. They were at least fifty feet
high and seemed to go on forever in both directions. As he drove
the terrified pony towards the ridge, he began to see the cave
half-way up more clearly.

Iron Eyes gritted his teeth and
clung to the crude reins, a single strip of rope which was looped
around the pony
’s head and through its open mouth.

‘
C’mon, horse!’ the bounty hunter yelled at the small pinto.
The terrified animal responded and increased its pace. Faster and
faster the pony raced across the prairie until Iron Eyes began to
realize that there was no safe trail through the high wall of
sand-colored rocks.

Looking over his shoulder, he could see that
the Apaches were not going to quit. They wanted his scalp on a war
lance. He looked up at the blazing sun and knew that there was less
than an hour of daylight left before darkness came.

He spurred again.

Could he survive for another hour?

The thought haunted him. He had never before
faced so many enemies at once. But it was not the sheer volume of
Apache braves which troubled the bounty hunter, it was whether he
had enough ammunition to hold them off until sunset.

The Apaches whom he had met in the past
would not usually fight during the hours of darkness for fear of
upsetting their gods. He wondered if these Apaches were the same.
Would sunset bring him salvation?

Somehow, he doubted it.

When Iron Eyes reached the foot
of the ridge he pulled back on the rope and the
mount
’s mane
and stopped the terrified animal. He threw his right leg over its
neck and slid on to the sand.

He glanced up at the cave and then back at
the eighty or so Indians who were still baying for his blood.
Gripping the saddle horn with his left hand, Iron Eyes steadied
himself and tried to get his breath back. He watched the charging
Apaches coming through the heat haze.

‘
Damn
Apaches! Ain’t they ever gonna quit?’ He tried to spit but there
was no moisture left in his entire body. For the first time he
noticed the large half-full water bag hanging around the pony’s
neck. Iron Eyes used his knife to cut the rawhide strap and rested
the bag on his broad bony left shoulder.

Its cool contents soothed his throat as his
cold eyes darted between the approaching warriors and the high
sandy ridge.

‘
Looks
like I ain’t got no place to go except up,’ Iron Eyes drawled.
‘This is turning out to be one real bad day.’

The sound of rifles being fired started
again. The tall man snarled at the unholy vision which was heading
through the swirling hot air towards him. He had managed to defy
the odds so far but now there was nowhere left to ride.

Iron Eyes knew that the pinto was now
useless.

He pushed the pony away and
watched as it ran off across the prairie. It had served its purpose
and
was now
grateful to be away from the vicious spurs of the merciless bounty
hunter.

Iron Eyes turned and looked at the ridge of
solid rock that loomed over him. He knew that it would not be easy
reaching the cave, but there was no alternative. It was either
climb or die and Iron Eyes was not ready to die just yet.

If this was to be his last stand, he was
going to try and take as many Apache with him as possible. He had
no intention of going to hell on his own.

The tall figure ran to the foot
of the
rock
face and started to climb.

Even trail dust could not
disguise the fact that the elegant rider astride the black gelding
was a man with whom it did not pay to toy. He looked every part a
gunfighter and yet the marshal
’s star pinned to his silk vest told a very
different story. This was an old-fashioned lawman, the sort that
had mostly gone the way of the buffalo over the past couple of
decades. Marshal Tom Quaid had been able to smell Dry Gulch more
than an hour before his keen eyes had seen the whitewashed
buildings shimmering in the heat haze.

He had steered his horse well since leaving
Texas and never faltered in his relentless pursuit of the outlaw
known as Diamond Back Jones. He knew that his star meant nothing
here in the territories and he should have long since ended his
chase, but Quaid was not a man to allow the mere limitations of the
law prevent him from executing the warrant in his vest pocket.

Whatever it took, he was determined to get
his man.

He wanted Diamond Back Jones either alive or
dead. It made no difference, although there was a demon inside him
that could think of nothing but killing the ruthless outlaw.

If it had been any other outlaw he would
have observed the borders and admitted defeat. But this time it was
different. This time it was personal.

For the first time since he had
become a United States marshal, he had allowed his heart to
overrule his
fifty-three-year-old head. Ignored the twenty-eight years
experience of upholding the law and allowed his fury to guide
him.

This time he had hit the trail alone because
he wanted no witnesses and no one along who might just point out
when he overstepped the mark.

Quaid would be judge, jury and executioner
if need be. If he did break any of his precious laws, it would be
he alone who would have to live with the consequences.

He had left Texas more than a month earlier
and trailed the infamous outlaw further and further west until he
realized that Diamond Back Jones was probably leading him into a
trap. For he knew that this unforgiving landscape was home to the
brutal Jones. Here the hunted would have the advantage. Yet Quaid
did not worry over such things.

Tom Quaid was of the old school of
lawmen.

He lived by his gun skills
because there had
been a time when that had been the only way you could
protect the innocent from the lawless vermin who roamed this big
land.

It took a certain sort of man to live life
on the knife-edge of almost daily danger. To face death and not be
afraid. But Tom Quaid was that sort of man. A rare breed that never
flinched away from trouble. A man who could never be bluffed.