The Spurs of Iron Eyes (Iron Eyes Western #3) (4 page)

Iron Eyes reached beneath one
of his saddlebag flaps and pulled out a mixture of coins, some
silver and some gold. Looking up at the barkeep he tossed three
golden eagle coins onto the bar and grunted,
‘Yep, and drinks for everybody
else too, mister.’

It was a ploy, but Iron Eyes
knew it was a smart one. Free drinks always loosened tongues. He
wanted to watch these people without being watched too intently
himself. The room seemed to come alive with excitement at the
relief of knowing the living
specter was not after their blood. Taking the
bottle from the barman and pouring a glass of the amber nectar,
Iron Eyes swiftly swallowed the drink. Before managing to move away
from the bar to find a quiet table, a voice rang out over the sound
of the people. The words cut through the air like a
knife.

‘
Turn
around and face me, Iron Eyes.’

Iron Eyes looked up into
the long mirror hanging behind the array of glasses and bottles.
The face was like so many faces he had seen over the years, an
angry, and tortured face snarling for vengeance for something Iron
eyes had done to a loved one.

‘
Turn
around, you snake,’ the voice screamed at Iron Eyes’
spine.

Iron Eyes shook his head as he
watched the figure
’s reflection.

‘I
don’t know you, do I?’

‘
Turn
and face me, you yellow bastard,’ the voice commanded once
more.

There seemed to be an empty
void in the centre of the saloon as the people spread to either
side of the pair. The bounty hunter eased himself away from the bar
and rested his wrists on its wet wooden rim as he narrowed his eyes
and glared at the mirror. There had been so many photographic
images on so many wanted posters over the years. This youngster
could have been kin to any of them.

‘I
ain’t hankering to kill you, boy,’
Iron Eyes growled earnestly above the sound of nervous people
trying to put as much distance between these two figures as the
saloon’s dimensions allowed. From the corner of his left eye, the
tall skeletal figure spied several customers climbing up the stairs
to where rooms were rented for ten minutes at a stretch.

‘
You
always need a reward to kill, Iron Eyes?’ the youth
taunted.

‘
I
don’t kill for pleasure,’ Iron Eyes replied. ‘Never have, never
will.’

‘
When
I kill you, the world will laugh out loud.’

The tall, grim-faced man
slowly turned to face the shouting voice. What he saw through his
long limp black hair gave him cause to feel uneasy. It was a kid of
maybe sixteen or possibly less, a freckled-faced youth.

‘
Go
away, son. I ain’t for killing babies.’

‘
I
ain’t going no place. Not until I kill you.’ The voice was
confident but foolish.

‘It
ain’t gonna happen that way,’ Iron
Eyes warned, as he saw a hand resting upon the top of the swing
doors. It was the hand of Sheriff Bass.

‘
You
just a tad scared? Was you scared when you bushwhacked my brother
in San Remo?’

Iron Eyes
’ brain raced as he tried to
recall who he had killed in San Remo. Then a name filtered into his
memory and then over his cracked lips.

‘
Sam
Harper.’

The kid began nodding as he
rested his small hand upon the grip of his gun and stepped
closer.

‘
Sam
was no outlaw. You still killed him, though.’

‘
He
had a bounty, son.’ Iron Eyes gritted his teeth on the cigar and
sucked in its smoke as he stared hard at the distraught figure
before him.

‘
You
ain’t human,’ the boy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

‘
You’re right, boy. I ain’t even close to being human,’ Iron
Eyes grunted.

The swing doors opened and
the sheriff stepped into the light of the saloon before pausing, a
rifle cradled in his arms.

‘
Johnny.’

The youngster cast a look
at the elderly man and then spat at the sawdust angrily as he
continued inching forward.

‘
Back
off, Johnny. This ain’t a man you can lick.’ The sheriff’s voice
was raised but to no avail. The kid kept on moving in on the tall
bounty hunter.

‘
Iron
Eyes is gonna die tonight.’ The boy was shaking as he moved and
spoke. Now he could not do anything but continue. It had gone too
far.

Bass took another step and
turned his attention to the motionless bounty hunter.

‘
Iron
Eyes?’ The name hung like a question on the smoke which drifted
from the cigar gripped in the frozen face.

Iron Eyes straightened up and
raised both his hands to hip level as he glared into the face of
the
kid who
got closer with every heartbeat.

‘
No.’
The word bounced off the walls of the saloon.

Suddenly the youth began
dragging his pistol from its holster as he yelled out in a pain
only those who have had grief touch their souls could
understand.

Iron Eyes
’ hands turned inward as he
pulled the Navy Colts from his belt and swung their lethal barrels
out.

As the boy
’s gun fired, the two Navy
Colts spat out their anger in two blinding flashes.

The gunsmoke choked the air
as Bass gripped his rifle in shock at the speed the weaponry had
been drawn and used. The sheriff stayed glued to the spot as the
air slowly cleared, allowing him to see the result of the showdown.
Before his eyes could see, his ears heard the shrieking coming from
the lad he knew as Johnny Harper. Waiting until he was certain it
was safe, Sheriff Bass hovered, looking from one side to the
next.

To his right, Iron Eyes
stood silently, sliding the guns back into his belt. To his left,
Bass saw the figure of the youngster on his knees holding his wrist
as blood dripped onto the sawdust-covered floor.

Moving closer to the
expressionless figure, the sheriff snarled up into the scarred face
hidden
behind the matted hair and acrid cigar smoke.

‘You
had to shoot him, didn’t ya?’ Bass
snorted.

Iron Eyes pulled the cigar from
his mouth and focused on his victim over the
lawman
’s
head.

‘
Look
harder, Bass.’

Bass stood confused as the
tall man turned back to the bar and poured himself another whiskey.
Stepping up to the sobbing youngster, Bass began to feel sick as
his eyes noted the index finger on the floor beside the pistol amid
the pool of fresh blood.

Straightening up, Bass called
to the customers,
‘Take Johnny to the doc’s place.’

Iron Eyes downed another
couple of glasses of his whiskey before moving away from the bar
and out onto the boardwalk in the fresh air. He waited for a few
moments whilst the familiar footsteps of the sheriff followed him
out into the darkness and began trailing him up the street. Pausing
when he was directly opposite the hotel, Iron Eyes adjusted the
hefty bags on his shoulder as the law officer drew level with
him.

‘
I
don’t get it. Explain,’ Bass snapped.

‘I
shot off his trigger finger. What’s
to explain, Bass?’

Why do that?
’

Iron Eyes stepped down onto
the dusty street and moved slowly with the older man at his
side.

‘
His
brother was vermin, Bass. I killed him for the bounty and it’s as
simple as that. The kid ain’t got no bounty on his head so I did
him a favor.’

‘
Shooting off his trigger finger is a favor?’ Bass stepped
up onto the boardwalk outside the hotel and sighed heavily as the
thin man moved beside him still sucking on the weed and spitting
out tobacco leaf.

‘
Now
he’ll either have to learn to shoot with his left hand, or maybe
he’ll stay honest.’ Iron Eyes watched as the handful of men led
Johnny Harper out of the saloon and off into the night seeking a
doctor.

‘
He
fired first. I saw that, Iron Eyes.’ Bass nodded as he
spoke.

Iron Eyes grinned as he
stepped into the light of the hotel and strode away towards the
wide staircase.

It was only as Sheriff Bass
was about to head off towards his office, that he saw something
catching the lamplight at his feet. Kneeling, the lawman touched
one of the many spots of scarlet which traced across the hotel
foyer, and rubbed it between his fingers. It was blood.

It was Iron
Eyes
’
blood.

Sheriff Bass stood out in the
street staring at the trail of blood left in Iron
Eyes
’ wake
for ten minutes before crossing the foyer past the clerk and
ascending the staircase. With each step up the threadbare
carpeting, small dots of fresh blood sparkled in the light of the
oil lamps guiding his route. Bass could not conceive why the tall
stranger Iron Eyes would allow himself to be wounded without
dispatching the perpetrator to Boot Hill. The weary sheriff closed
in on the door with the faded number 45 painted on its cracked
surface and knocked.

‘
Who
is it?’ the voice asked through the door.

‘
It’s
Bass.’

It ain
’t locked,’ Iron Eyes shouted
loudly.

Bass turned the handle and
entered the dark room lit by a single lamp with its wick
turned
down
to its lowest notch. At first the lawman’s eyes did not see the man
he sought, but as he swung his head around towards the window, he
spied the silhouette seated on the edge of the bed, his head
slumped over his knees. Cautiously, Bass walked across the room
towards the figure. As Bass reached the side of the bed, he noticed
Iron Eyes was stripped to the waist facing the lantern. With the
long black hair hanging limply to his knees, it was difficult to
see the face most men would ride a thousand miles to
avoid.

‘
Mind
if I turn the wick up a tad, Iron Eyes?’ Bass said, stepping over
the man’s mule-ear boots and twisting the brass screw on the side
of the oil lamp. The room quickly brightened up.

The sight which was
suddenly bathed in light shocked the lawman as he turned to face
the silent bounty hunter. Iron Eyes had taken off his shirt for a
reason: the bullet wound had torn the flesh away from between his
two lower right ribs. It was a mean injury. Blood ran down from the
gash freely as Iron Eyes stared down at the wound.

‘
Damn,’ Bass gasped, as he sat down next to the silent man
and inspected the gunshot injury.

‘
It’s
just a graze, Bass,’ Iron Eyes sighed. ‘I’ve had worse.’

‘
I’ll
get the doc.’

‘
No
need for a quack. Get what’s left of the whiskey.’ Iron Eyes nodded
in the direction of the window where the bottle rested; an inch of
amber liquor glistened in the lamplight.

Bass reached across and
handed the bottle to Iron Eyes who pulled out the cork with his
teeth and spat it away.

‘
What
you gonna do?’ Bass asked, as he saw the pain carve its way through
the bounty hunter’s grim features.

‘
Do me
another favor, Bass?’ Iron Eyes stared hard at the sheriff as sweat
poured off his face.

‘
Name
it, boy’ The sheriff swallowed hard as his eyes were drawn to the
blood running freely from the man’s side onto the
bedding.

‘
Get
my knife and get it hot over the lamp glass.’

‘
Where
is your knife, Iron Eyes?’ Bass looked around the scene, unable to
locate anything resembling a knife.

‘
My
right boot leg,’ Iron Eyes replied as he held onto the bottle
trying to will the pain away.

Sheriff Bass leaned over
and saw the well secreted handle of the Bowie knife resting in the
tall mule ear boot and retrieved it.

‘
What
you intending to do, boy?’

‘
Just
heat up that blade for a few minutes, Bass.’ Iron Eyes snorted as
he carefully poured a few drops of the whiskey over his bleeding
wound before arching in pain. A thousand swords could not have
caused more agonizing torture, he thought.

Bass removed the glass off
the lamp globe and ran the blade of the deadly knife in the licking
flame until he could see it was hot.

‘
It’s
good and hot.’

‘
Hot
as the Devil’s spit?’

‘
Reckon so.’

Iron Eyes held out his thin
arm and took the knife from the sheriff and quickly placed its long
blade across the wound. The skin sizzled and smoke rose into both
their nostrils. Burning flesh blistered long after the blade had
been removed from the gaping gash.