The Spurs of Iron Eyes (Iron Eyes Western #3) (5 page)

Iron Eyes bent forward when
he released the knife and dropped it to the floor. Sheriff Bass
stared at the knife as it swayed back and forth between the two
mule ear boots, its blade buried an inch into the wooden
boards.

‘Y
ou stopped the bleeding, Iron Eyes,’
Bass announced, staring at the pitifully thin body of the man bent
double in agony.

Slowly, the head hidden
beneath the long black hair rose as Iron Eyes felt his wits
returning to him. For a few moments, he just sat breathing heavily
as he focused on the window before them.

‘Y
ou okay?’ Bass asked in a hushed
voice.

The head covered in limp black
tresses turned and the cold
gray pupils burned into Bass.

‘
Just
dandy, Bass. Just dandy,’ Iron Eyes replied spitting at the
floor.

‘I
still don’t understand you,’ Bass
admitted.

‘
There
ain’t nothing to understand.’

Bass shook his
head.

‘
Quit
the bull. You got yourself shot and yet you didn’t kill the stupid
kid who did it.’

‘I
told you, there was no reward money
on him.’ Iron Eyes sat fully upright and glanced down at his wound
before looking at what remained in the whiskey bottle.

‘
The
Iron Eyes who is feared throughout the West would have killed him.’
Bass raised an eyebrow and glared at the man seated next to
him.

‘
Who
says?’

‘
You
sure that you’re the famous Iron Eyes?’ Bass watched as Iron Eyes
hoisted the bottle, sucking the liquid into his dry mouth and
swallowing before lowering it once again.

‘Y
ou know of any other man tough enough
to do what I just done, Bass?’ There was a fire back in the cold
eyes. Suddenly he was beginning to sound and look like his old self
once again.

‘
Nope.
Reckon not,’ Bass shrugged.

Iron Eyes rubbed his hand
over the neck of the bottle and handed it to the lawman.

‘
Drink?’

Bass accepted the bottle
and nodded. Iron Eyes watched as the sheriff downed the remaining
few drops of the liquor before speaking again.

‘I’
ve been thinking about them two
well-heeled dudes in the saloon this afternoon.’

Bass stared hard at the
thin man who looked straight at him with piercing
accuracy.

‘
Ain’t
you had enough for one day, boy?’

Iron Eyes stood and looked
at his blood-soaked shirt before grabbing his long coat off the
bedpost and slowly putting it on over his naked torso.

‘
It’s
still early by my reckoning, Sheriff.’

Bass stepped around the bed
and looked at the pale man carefully tucking his guns into his belt
and walking toward the door.

‘
Where
in tarnation are you heading?’

‘
To
get another bottle of whiskey and take me a hard look at your
wanted posters, Bass.’

‘
Wanted posters? What for?’

‘
I
just recalled something about those two men.’

‘
What?’

‘
Their
faces are branded into my memory, Bass. They gotta be wanted for
something; I’d like to know what.’

Sheriff Bass walked in the
wake of the tall man.

‘
You
taking the saddlebags with you?’

Iron Eyes pulled the room
key from his pocket and shook his head as he slid it into the
lock.

‘
Not
this time.’

‘
What
if somebody steals your bankroll?’ Bass raised an eyebrow and gazed
hard at the sweating man.

‘
I
don’t give a damn,’ Iron Eyes grunted as he made his way stiffly
down the landing toward the stairs. ‘Besides, if anyone does I’ll
kill them.’

Bass pulled the brim of his
Stetson down over his brow and trailed the injured man. He noticed
with every step, Iron Eyes seemed to loosen up and get taller.
Flicking his long raven hair over his collar, Iron Eyes almost ran
down the stairs toward the hotel lobby.

It was a quarter before one in
the morning by the large wooden clock hanging next to the cells
inside the sheriff
’s office when Iron Eyes finally found the second of the
two posters he knew had to be amongst the dozens covered in dust on
the large desk. Bass had been dozing in his chair for nearly an
hour as the bounty hunter carefully inspected each and every one of
the wanted posters with an expertise uncommon in his chosen
profession. Lifting the half-empty bottle of whiskey to his lips he
swilled the powerful brew around his mouth before
swallowing.

The four words he always
looked for were printed boldly in black ink at the head of both
posters.

WANTED DEAD OR
ALIVE.

Studying
the words, Iron Eyes began to
remember he had seen these same images two years earlier when he
had been trailing another outlaw through town after
town.

The first outlaw was called
Frank Lewis; the second, Ben Tyler. Both wanted for murder and bank
robbery, plus a dozen other crimes.

Replacing the cork in the
bottle and sliding it into one of his deep pockets, Iron Eyes
carefully folded the posters up before moving to the door. Pausing
for a few seconds, the hunter gazed across at the snoring sheriff
before exiting the building quietly.

The long stride seemed
unaffected by his wound as he walked quickly back to the hotel.
Entering the large dimly illuminated lobby, Iron Eyes walked up to
the desk and stared down at the clerk - sleeping peacefully in a
soft, heavily padded chair behind it.

Swinging the register
around, Iron Eyes glared down at the names entered after his. There
was only one; a female.

The bounty hunter unfolded
the pair of posters and then began hitting the bell until the
sleeping man awoke.

‘
Mr.
Iron Eyes,’ the clerk mumbled as he got to his feet and rubbed the
sleep from his bloodshot eyes.

Ramming the posters under the
clerk
’s
nose, Iron Eyes growled softly, ‘You seen these two
varmints?’

The tired man shook his
head as he studied the pictures.

‘
No,
sir. Why? Are they in Rio Vista?’

If they happen along and check
in to your hotel, come and tell me straight
away.
’ Iron
Eyes pushed the posters down into his pocket and leaned on the
wooden counter. His naked chest heaved as he wondered about their
present whereabouts.

‘
Of
course, sir,’ the clerk babbled. ‘Are they dangerous?’

‘Yep.
They’re killers.’

The small clerk aimlessly
shuffled at some papers on the desk as he found his attention drawn
to the scarred body visible beneath the open trail coat.

‘
What
you damn well looking at?’ Iron Eyes snarled.

‘
Where’s your shirt, Mr. Iron Eyes?’ the small man asked,
pointing a shaking finger at the bare flesh above the grips of his
Navy Colts.

‘
It
got kinda ruined,’ Iron Eyes replied sharply, lighting yet another
cigar.

‘
Do
you require a new shirt?’

Iron Eyes sucked in the
smoke and then nodded.

‘Yep. Send it up in the morning
about seven, and I want a cooked breakfast.’

The clerk nodded as he
watched the man amble towards the staircase.

‘
Any
particular color, Mr. Iron Eyes?’

Iron Eyes cast a cold look
over his shoulder and smiled at the little figure who
trembled.

‘
A red
shirt might be kinda practical.’

‘
Why
red, Mr. Iron Eyes?’ The question had been asked with an innocence
the tall bounty hunter found amusing.

Pulling back the tail of
his long coat, Iron Eyes allowed the ugly wound to be seen by the
small meek-mannered man behind the desk.

‘
Reckon there’s a chance red will not show the bloodstains
next time somebody shoots me.’

‘
Quite,’ the clerk nodded nervously, as the bounty hunter
returned to his lonely room. Once again, the eerie ghostlike figure
had chilled his bones and created fear where none had existed
previously. The Rio Vista Hotel had paid host to thousands of
visitors over the years but none like Iron Eyes.

It was a timeworn man
wearing an old battered sombrero who whipped the mule feverishly as
it crossed the wide shallow river heading in the direction of the
lights of Rio Vista. Illuminated by moonlight, the small town of
whitewashed buildings was unmistakable as it rested on the small
mesa above the glistening fast-flowing waterway which separated
Texas from Mexico. The elderly man had ridden here many times
during his long life but never before with so much
urgency.

Even in the dead of night
Rio Vista still echoed with the sounds of its citizens and visitors
refusing to accept sleep as an alternative to having fun wherever
they could find it. The saloons never seemed to close their doors
whilst there was money to be taken from willing victims. The sounds
rang out all over the river as the mule splashed through its cool
pure water.

The old mule might have
been as stubborn as the man himself, given its reluctance to gallop
the last quarter of a mile and forcing its weary rider to dismount
and wade to dry land, but it had been galloping for hours without a
break. Even a mule knew when to quit. The cool clear water on its
bleeding hooves was something the animal would not leave
willingly.

Staggering through the
knee-high water, the old man aimed himself at the proud
chapel
’s
whitewashed tower which gleamed in the moonlight above the
river.

This was no normal rider who
fought with every ounce of his remaining strength to stay upright,
this was a man with a mission. He had been chosen by the people of
his village to seek out Father Jose. To fail was to condemn his
people to a fate far worse than death, and although he now sailed
ever closer to his own demise, he was resolute to completing his
task. The man finally managed to walk onto dry ground as pain
ripped through his thin body. Falling on one knee, he felt as if
death was clawing at his eternal soul trying to claim him before he
had completed his mission. From the depths of a place he had never
before known existed, he managed to find his feet once more, and
continue.

Somehow he managed to climb
the dry sandy slope away from the scented waters of the river and
reach the flat plain which led to the town of Rio Vista and the
chapel where he knew the priest lived in solitude. Father Jose had
been his friend for nearly half his long life, a man who it was
said, could work miracles.

That was what the people
required.

A miracle.

Gasping with exhaustion,
the elderly man began the last part of his incredible trek. It took
him another ten minutes to reach the proud building and make his
way around to its frontage where the torches burned
defiantly.

Stumbling with every other
step, he climbed up the tiled stairway towards the large wooden
doors of the chapel. The old man removed his sombrero and gripped
the large door handle and beat it noisily. The sound seemed to echo
from within the holy structure. Then his strength finally seemed to
leave him and he slumped to the ground. The
colorful tiles felt cool
against his burned face. Even as the pain tore through his fatigued
body yet again, the coolness against his skin made him thankful he
had reached his chosen destiny at last.

As he lay upon the ground, he
raised a hand and tried to knock on the doors once more, as
if
attempting to summon a greater Being to assist
him.

Then the doors parted and his
bleary vision saw the priest
’s sandals.

‘
Help
me, Father Jose,’ the weak voice begged the robed man as he knelt
down.

‘
Madre
de Dios,’ Father Jose gasped in horror when he saw his friend at
his feet.

‘
Thank
God I have made it,’ the old man sobbed.

‘
What
has happened to you, Pablo?’ Father Jose asked, as he lifted the
frail figure off the ground.

‘
My
village ...’ the old man gasped.

‘
What
about your village, Pablo?’ Father Jose put his arm around the back
of the frail soul and began to lead him into the heavily scented
chapel. The wall of burning candles caused the tired eyes of the
old man to brighten as they approached it. Suddenly he had renewed
strength flowing through his veins.