The Fury of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western #4) (6 page)

Iron Eyes felt the cool
forest soothing his skin as he guided the lathered-up horse between
the tall, straight pine trees. It had taken him a long time to
reach this forest and he still had no idea why he was in this
place.

But wherever this
pine-scented haven was, it was better than anywhere else Iron Eyes
had been in a long while. The air tasted good here. Sweeter than
the air out in the blinding sun-scorched prairie. Iron Eyes touched
his scalp and tried to force his fingernails into the stitches. He
could still not feel anything along the top of his head, yet the
drumming inside his skull persisted.

Would the pain ever stop? The
throbbing noise inside his head was like a hundred war drums
continually pounding. He inhaled the cool, fragrant air
into his narrow
nostrils and felt better than he had since the deadly encounter
with Dan Creedy. Iron Eyes had been like a wounded animal seeking a
place to heal itself since the fight back in the saloon at Bonny.
As he inhaled the cool air into his lungs, he knew this forest held
the answers he sought.

As the snorting mount
stepped into an ice-cold stream, Iron Eyes allowed the exhausted
animal to stop, lower its head and drink. The bounty hunter stared
around the gloomy forest interior, trying to decide on a route
which would allow him to relax in his saddle. There were many
choices, but one caught his keen eyes. The shafts of sunlight
seemed to point at a trail which gradually rose through the
countless straight trees to a higher place. Iron Eyes knew that was
where he would head.

It had been so many years since
he had entered such a place as this cool, fresh forest. The last
time was so far back in his grim past that he could not
recall it in any
detail. All he knew for sure was when he had last lived in such a
place, there had been no human blood on his hands.

Back then Iron Eyes had
hunted creatures. Only creatures. Long before he had changed into
the ruthless manhunter who was feared throughout the
west.

His keen ears heard the
rustling of animals as they moved unseen through the tall
vegetation. Birds sang out cheerfully from almost every tree branch
around him, as if greeting the ominous visitor to their home. There
was plenty of game in this forest, he thought, as he spied a deer
running through a clearing not more than twenty feet from his
horse.

Iron Eyes ran his long,
thin fingers across his brow as if trying to purge his head of the
pain that continually reminded him of his wound. The war drums
started again as the veins on his temple began
throbbing.

For a moment he had thought
the
sounds
were coming from some unseen Indians readying themselves for war,
but then realized it was all in his head. Iron Eyes rose in his
saddle and slowly dismounted. His mule-ear boots became cool as the
icy water passed continuously over them on its way to another
place. Holding on to his saddle fender as if unsure of his ability
to balance, Iron Eyes leaned over and scooped some of the clear
liquid up in the palm of his hand and tasted it.

It was good. It tasted the
way water was meant to taste. Pure. This was not the muddy well
water served up in the towns he had ridden through for half his
life, but was cold and refreshing.

Removing his canteen from the
saddle horn, Iron Eyes unscrewed its stopper and poured out the
contents before lowering it into the water and allowing the flowing
water to fill it. When it was filled, he raised it to his lips and
began drinking. He did not stop until he had consumed the entire
contents. He was still giddy, but now
felt the pain inside his skull easing
as if cleansed by a magical potion.

Iron Eyes lowered the
canteen into the stream again and refilled it. Then he firmly
secured its stopper. He felt the cold liquid moving down through
his body. It felt good. For the first time since the elderly doctor
had sewn his head back together the pain was noticeably
easing.

Iron Eyes hung the canteen
back on the saddle horn and stepped into his stirrup before hauling
his long, lean frame back into the saddle. He allowed the horse to
continue drinking its fill until it raised its head. Then he tapped
his spurs into the flesh of the animal once again. The mount began
to walk.

Aiming at the long shafts
of sun, Iron Eyes rode on up the trail. This time he would allow
the tired horse to find its own pace. He was no longer in a
hurry.

For the first time since he had
started hunting men instead of animals, Iron Eyes actually felt at
peace. There was no longer any reason to rush. This was
a place where
reward money was of no value and a man lived or died by his skill
at hunting. Once he had regained all his senses, Iron Eyes told
himself that he would rekindle all his old skills.

He could taste the
succulent flavors of fresh game as his memory reminded him of the
last time he had eaten something he had caught.

As the long legs of his
mount slowly navigated along the cool mountain trail, the bounty
hunter wrapped his leather reins around his wrists and closed his
eyes. The horse continued walking on up the trail with its master
slumped in his saddle.

For the first time in
countless days, Iron Eyes allowed himself to sleep.

The sun was low in the sky
when the three Creedy brothers thundered into the small town of
Bonny. They had purchased fresh mounts before leaving Tequila
Flats, and ridden them into the ground to reach Bonny as quickly as
possible. The dust seemed to linger in the air long after the three
riders had dragged their reins up to their chests and stopped their
exhausted mounts outside the solitary saloon.

The elderly sheriff had
watched the three horsemen dismounting outside the saloon and knew
this might be the day he had dreaded since first taking office.
This might be the day when he had to earn his meager
paycheck.

The three remaining Creedy
brothers did not stay in the saloon very long, and were soon out on
the street again glancing
around at the weathered structures, searching for
something or someone to confront. It did not take long for them to
notice the feeble law officer standing outside his
office.

The sheriff felt his heart
beginning to pound beneath his undershirt as the men started
walking directly at him. He knew these faces. They had been here
many times before with their brother Dan Creedy. He had always
known who they were and had never done anything to force their
hand.

Unlike the sheriff, these
men were neither old nor afraid. They were deadly killers like
their dead brother and the shaking lawman wanted no part of them.
They reached the porch of his office and stopped in a line before
him. Even saddle-weary, they were a formidable sight.

‘
Sheriff,’ Bob Creedy said
touching the wide brim of Stetson in greeting.

‘I wondered when you boys would
get here,’ the sheriff said in a feeble voice that told the trio he
would do nothing to prevent them going about
their business — whatever it
was.

‘
They ain’t had time to
wash Dan’s blood off the floor in the saloon, Sheriff,’ Bob Creedy
said in a tone that hovered on the very edge of fury.

‘
Most of that blood belongs
to Iron Eyes, boys,’ the sheriff informed the men.

Treat Creedy stepped
forward and stared hard into the face of the frightened
man.

‘
Iron Eyes was
wounded?’

‘
Dan almost took the
varmint’s head off his shoulders,’ the lawman nodded as he noticed
the men’s mood altering.

The three faces suddenly
began to smile.

‘
I told you that Dan
wouldn’t go down without shooting back,’ Bob Creedy told his
brothers.

‘
Where’s Iron Eyes now?’
Frankie Creedy asked.

‘
He high-tailed it out of
here a few days back,’ the sheriff replied. ‘As soon as he got his
reward money.’

‘
Blood money!’ Frankie
spat.

‘
I thought you said this
Iron Eyes critter was wounded, Sheriff?’ Treat queried. ‘How could
he leave Bonny with his head half shot off?’

‘
He was wounded, son. Never
seen a man so close to death and still able to ride.’ The lawman
felt sweat rolling down his spine as he leaned on a wooden upright
in a vain attempt to stop his entire body from shaking.

‘
Which way did he head,
Sheriff?’ Bob asked.

‘
Towards the pine forests.’
The sheriff pointed a trembling finger. ‘I figure his trail should
be easy to follow considering he’s the only rider to head out that
way in over a month of Sundays.’

‘
We’ll catch the murderer,’
Treat vowed quietly as he stared in the direction that the lawman
had gestured.

‘How come he went that way?
What’s over there?’ Frankie was curious. He had roamed this range
for several years and knew there were no towns anywhere close to
the forested hills. There was nothing out there to lure a
bounty
hunter or anyone else for that matter.

The sheriff looked at the
ground. ‘Ain’t nothing in them forests except a whole bunch of
Indians.’

The three brothers looked
at one another for a few seconds, as if trying to work out the
motives of a man they had only just become aware of as being more
than just a legend.

‘
Indians? What sort of
Indians, Sheriff?’ Bob questioned.

The sheriff swallowed hard.
‘Cheyenne. They got themselves a reservation in the mountains
someplace beyond the forest. I ain’t too sure ‘cos I ain’t never
been there. No sane man has.’

There was a silence as the
dust-caked men tried to work out why Iron Eyes had headed towards a
place which offered no profit to him.

‘
Maybe he’s trying to throw
us off his trail,’ Frankie suggested to his brothers. ‘Maybe he
figures we’ll be following him and get scared at going into
Cheyenne territory.’

‘
That could be it,’ Treat
nodded.

‘
I ain’t scared of no
redskins,’ Frankie snorted. ‘I want to get my hands on this bastard
they call Iron Eyes.’

Suddenly Treat Creedy
noticed the face of their older brother as he stood rubbing his
whiskers thoughtfully. He moved to the pale-skinned Bob’s side and
just looked at him.

‘
Where’s Dan’s body,
Sheriff?’ Bob mumbled solemnly up at the old man.

‘
Up in the undertakers,
boy.’ The sheriff pointed his finger at the wooden structure a
hundred yards away. ‘I made sure he was laid out right.’

‘
Thanks, Sheriff,’ Bob
swallowed. ‘Much obliged for your kindness.’

The three men turned and
began walking down the street towards the small building. Their
pace was slower now as they closed down the distance between
themselves and the undertakers. None of the brothers wanted to see
Dan lying lifelessly in a wooden box, but knew they had to do
so.

Until they set eyes upon the
corpse, there was still hope that it might not be
Dan who had been
gunned down by the mysterious Iron Eyes. A few seconds after
entering the building, they knew there had been no mistake. Dan was
dead. Less than a minute after walking back into the street again,
they had mounted their horses and headed out of Bonny.

The sheriff had been
correct. The trail left by Iron Eyes’ horse was easy to follow. The
three riders spurred their mounts on.

Sergeant John Walker held
on tightly to his Springfield rifle and studied the tree-covered
hills which loomed over the small encampment. He had been in many
such situations during his twenty or so years in the service of Old
Glory, but had never quite felt as helpless as he did at this very
moment.

The troopers who had been
told to dig in knew nothing of what lay out there beyond the
shimmering grass. They had no notion of the fact that they were at
least five miles within the boundaries of the Cheyenne reservation.
They sat in the holes they had been ordered to dig, clutching their
single shot rifles, trying to work out why.

The burly sergeant bit off
another mouthful of chewing tobacco and slowly began to grind it
down into a
pulp with what was left of his teeth. Every few minutes he
would spit out a lump of black saliva and then continue.

He alone among the enlisted
men knew what was out there. He alone was privileged to the
thoughts of his troubled superior, and yet he wished his mind was
as innocent as the young troopers. They did not know what horrors
might be waiting to befall them. As Walker spat again, he glanced
at the major before returning his attention to the
trees.

Major Thomas Roberts sat
beneath a proud oak and waited for inspiration; it seemed unwilling
to visit him. He knew he had drawn the short straw when sent on
this suicidal mission, yet could not think of a way out of
it.

Bull Fergis was not a happy
man as he strode through the tall grass towards the brooding
officer. There seemed no words which could be spoken that would
calm down the irate gold miner. Roberts did not attempt any as the
well-built man stopped above him.