The Spirit of Iron Eyes (6 page)

If there was a next move.

Iron Eyes was beginning to wonder if this
was how it was going to end. Was this his last stand? His personal
Alamo?

Then suddenly the shooting eased up and
eventually stopped.

Iron Eyes rose on to all fours and pushed
his long dust-caked hair off his face. A sudden pain traced through
his skull as he felt the bloody graze on his scalp with his thin
fingers.

He stared at his hand and the blood which
covered it.

Iron Eyes knew that he was bleeding again
but that was nothing new for the gaunt man. He had lost more blood
over the years than probably now flowed through his veins, because
of the wounds his enemies had inflicted upon him.

He rubbed the blood on to his torn and
tattered shirt and sighed heavily.

Iron Eyes leaned over the edge of the high
rocks and fired his guns at the figures far below him. Even in the
haunting red light of the setting sun, he could still see them. He
watched with no emotion as another handful of the more determined
Indians were hit by his deadly accuracy.

Their lifeless bodies crashed down over the
jagged rocks.

Iron Eyes studied the remainder of the tribe
taking cover far below the cave. He had spotted Diamond Back Jones
in his outlaw clothing moving with the rest of the heavily armed
braves behind the rocks and sparse brush. But they were out of
range of his Navy Colts.

‘
Damn
you, Diamond Back!’ he cursed angrily as he thought about the
bounty on the outlaw’s head. Dead or alive, $1,000. It was a reward
that might never be collected the way things were going.

More bullets hit the roof of the cave above
him as the Apache retaliated to his killing even more of their
number. But this time Iron Eyes did not flinch as red-hot tapers of
lethal lead passed within inches of him.

Blood trickled down the limp strands of hair
that hung in front of his narrowed eyes. He could feel his scalp
throbbing as the graze continued to bleed.

The bounty hunter knew that
this was not his sort of fight and that the Indians had the
advantage. They had rifles which had far greater range than his
pistols. Iron Eyes was used to fighting men up close. He liked to
see the whites of his enemies
’ eyes before he killed them.

With the fading light, he was
now even more vulnerable. They were calling the shots and all he
could do was take everything they dished out
and try to survive.

Iron Eyes did not like it.

He was the hunter! Not them!

How could he have gotten himself into this
situation? His head ached as it tried to work out what exactly had
happened to turn the tables on him.

But no matter how much he tried, he could
not work it out.

Iron Eyes piled every bullet he
could find in the long coat
’s deep pockets beside him and carefully reloaded
the Navy Colts. He had roughly eighty rounds left from the two
boxes he had emptied out on the prairie.

It seemed that there were probably as many
if not more Apache left below him.

Iron Eyes was slowly beginning to realize
that he could no longer afford to miss. He had lost that luxury.
Every single bullet had to count or he would be reduced to trying
to fend them off with the Bowie knife in his boot.

Did he have enough rounds to get them
all?

The thought haunted him.

The sun was sinking lower and lower and yet
every minute seemed like an eternity. As more rifle bullets
continued to splinter off the soft golden rock surface around him,
he wondered what would happen when all his bullets were gone.

He had always been the hunter.

Now it was he who was trapped like one of
the animals or outlaws he had chased over the years.

Iron Eyes did not like the
feeling because he
knew that it was always the hunter who had the advantage.
The hunter knew when he was going to strike. How he was going to
outwit his prey.

Iron Eyes removed the crude stopper from the
Indian water bag and lifted it to his cracked lips. He swallowed
the still-cool liquid, then sighed heavily.

His attention was drawn into the cave. It
seemed to stretch off into the distance but he could not be sure of
anything in the darkness.

The way my
luck
’s been
goin’ today, I reckon that there must be a bear or puma in them
shadows,’ Iron Eyes mumbled to himself as more shots rang out from
below him.

A million pieces of rock showered over him
again as the rifle bullets hit the roof of the cave directly above
his head.

Iron Eyes flinched again as the small stones
cascaded on to his bleeding scalp.

‘
No
wonder I hate Apaches!’ he spat.

Yet no matter how angry he found himself
becoming, he knew he had to remain calm. He could not afford to
waste any of his bullets with so many men seeking to kill him.

He placed one of his guns beside the bullets
and cocked the hammer of the other, then edged his way back to the
lip of the cave. He squinted down and aimed carefully at the braves
who were ascending the rocks.

He squeezed the trigger.

The
deafening noise bounced off the damp
walls that surrounded him, but he did not notice. His entire
attention was on his chosen target.

Another of the Indians was dead. He repeated
the action again and again until the warriors were either dead or
had retreated out of range of his Navy Colt.

He moved back into the relative safety of
the cave and tried to think. It was almost impossible as his head
pounded like a million war drums. He knew that he ought to have a
plan by now, but there was nothing in his mind except the instinct
to survive.

Iron Eyes dragged his coat towards him,
reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a handful of cigars.
They were all broken but could still be smoked.

His eyes drifted up and looked at the sun
again. It was now sinking beneath the distant horizon.

He struck a match with his
thumbnail and touched the end of the cigar between his
teeth.
Smoldering leaf fell on to his legs as he puffed on the
putrid smoke.

Would these Apaches stop once the sun had
set?

He opened the
gun
’s
chamber and allowed the hot casings to fall on to the cave floor as
he plucked another six bullets off the pile beside him.

One by one he slid the bullets
into the narrow holes before closing the chamber again and locking
it. He cocked the hammer and sucked hard on
the cigar as the sun finally
disappeared.

Darkness seemed to sweep over him like a
blanket.

Marshal Tom Quaid had wasted no time in
riding out after the outlaw Diamond Back Jones and the bounty
hunter who already seemed to have managed to kill more men in one
day than his notorious prey had done in the previous few years.
Quaid had purchased a fresh mount in the sun-bleached town and
driven the chestnut mare far harder than he had ever driven any
horse before. Quaid had tied the bridle of his black gelding to his
saddle cantle and led the horse across the arid prairie until his
fresh mount was totally exhausted.

Only when Tom Quaid was convinced that his
new mount could no longer maintain the speed he had demanded of it,
did he dismount and transfer his saddle and trail bags to the black
gelding. He left the lathered-up chestnut and rode on.

The black gelding had managed
to keep pace with the chestnut mare easily, having no saddle or
trail tack on its back. Now it was also being forced to race across
the hard ground beneath the bright
moon as its master tried to gain on the
two men who were ahead of him. The marshal knew that using two
mounts instead of one had enabled him to reduce the distance
between them by several hours.

It was not the first time he had used this
trick to gain on his prey. But there had never been so much urgency
in his desire to catch up with anyone before.

He wanted Diamond Back Jones.

There was nothing that could stop him.

After more than two hours of
forcing the long-legged gelding to continue its reckless pace,
Quaid eventually drew in his reins, stood in his stirrups and gazed
ahead across the moonlit prairie. He had managed to get all the
information concerning Diamond Back Jones that he required back at
Dry Gulch. Even the town
’s most drunken of men realized that the veteran
lawman was more than capable of using the matched Remington pistols
he sported.

They had told him everything that he had
wanted to know about the elusive outlaw and the strange bounty
hunter who was chasing him.

But there had been no mention that the trail
both riders had taken led deep into Apache territory. It seemed to
the lawman that the citizens of Dry Gulch had conveniently
forgotten that small detail.

Marshal Quaid dismounted from
the tired mount. He removed one of the four canteens from
the saddle horn and
then slowly unscrewed its stopper.

The sound of gunfire out in the distance had
led him to this place. But with the setting of the merciless sun,
the shooting had suddenly stopped. Quaid knew that meant that the
men firing their rifles had to be Indians. Most probably one of the
numerous Apache tribes which reigned supreme in this desolate
land.

He dropped his Stetson on to
the ground before the black gelding and poured half the
canteen
’s
contents into the upturned hat. He then sipped at the water, never
once taking his eyes off the distant rocky ridges which were now
illuminated by the bright moon.

Quaid knew that the shooting had come from
somewhere directly ahead of him. He had aimed his mount straight at
the sound of the shooting until it had ceased more than an hour
earlier. He glanced down at the ground and could still see the two
sets of hoof tracks less than a few feet away from his mount. Even
in the moonlight, the trail was clear.

His eyes drifted back up to the distant
ridge. It was deathly silent out there now but Quaid knew that
meant nothing.

Every instinct told him that he was now
venturing into unknown territory. He had never had any dealings
with Indians during his long career as a law officer but he knew
that there was no alternative for him.

He had to keep following the trail.

He wanted Jones.

Jones was an Apache.

To get him, he had to continue onwards.

The water tasted bitter to the dry-mouthed
marshal but he carried on drinking until his thirst was quenched.
He returned the stopper to the neck of the canteen and secured it
before hanging it back on the saddle horn.

The sound of many rifles had rung out across
the arid land earlier. So many rifles that Quaid began to wonder
exactly how many Apaches there were out there. Twenty? Fifty? A
hundred or more?

Even a half-dozen of them would be more than
most men could cope with. A cold shiver traced down his spine.

A million thoughts crept through his mind.
Who were the Apache firing at? Was Iron Eyes their target? If so,
how was it that the shooting had carried on for so long?

It seemed strange to the lawman that any one
man could maintain a battle with so many Indians for such a long
time.

Who was this Iron Eyes character anyway?

Whoever he was, he seemed to have a knack of
surviving against all odds.

Quaid removed his bandanna from his neck and
wiped the mixture of sweat and dust from his face. He was troubled
by the way things were going.

Vengeance had driven him for so
long that he had become almost impervious to anything else
except
the
man he wanted to capture and kill. Quaid knew that he had allowed
the green-eyed demon of hatred to drive him into a situation that
he was ill-equipped to handle.

Now it was no longer the hunter and the
hunted.

Now the Apache nation was in the
stewpot.

Diamond Back Jones had managed
to stay ahead of his pursuers long enough to return to his people.
Tom Quaid knew that his marshal
’s star meant even less to Indians than it
had to the people back in Dry Gulch.

This was not going to be easy.

He had faced gangs of killers before but
never a whole tribe of angry Indians. And Apaches were more
ruthless than most of their brothers further north.

How did you fight the Apache?

It had sounded as if the bounty hunter was
doing a good job of it before sunset. Maybe the darkness held the
key, Quaid thought.

The marshal lifted his hat off the ground
and shook it before carefully returning to his white-haired head.
He inhaled, grabbed hold of the saddle horn and mounted.

To have any chance of getting Jones away
from his fellow Apaches, the marshal wondered if he ought to try
and reach them before dawn.

If there was a single chance of
capturing the man who had murdered his daughters, it was during
the
hours of
darkness. Yet the brilliant moon was almost as bright as the
noonday sun.

Quaid felt another shiver trace his
spine.

He had heard tales that the Apache would not
fight during the night. The shooting had certainly stopped as soon
as the sun had set, but perhaps there had been another reason for
that.

Quaid rubbed his jawline.

Perhaps the reason for the end of the
shooting was that the Apache had finally managed to kill the bounty
hunter known as Iron Eyes.