Iron Eyes, no. 1 (12 page)

The tall gaunt
man stood in the main street carefully tying the reins to his
lathered-up sorrel to the twisted hitching rail outside the large
saloon.

This was only
one of many saloons that littered the handful of streets that made
up the growing town of Tombstone. Here in the wilderness of
Arizona, towns came and went with alarming speed but Tombstone had
somehow managed to survive for nearly five summers, the haunt of
numerous gunfighters and loose women and hundreds of creatures
harder to pigeon hole.

The icy
gun-metal eyes stared up at the roughly painted sign which read Big
Horn Saloon. The tall man moved to the rear of his horse and
checked his two Navy Colts. They were primed and ready as he slid
them back into the belt that surrounded his painfully lean middle.
This was a trail that the bounty hunter hoped had finally come to
an end. It had been a long, tiresome hunt that had started down in
the southernmost regions of Texas when he had seen the Wanted
poster tacked to the worm-eaten board outside the sheriff’s office.
The photograph was of a man who looked as if he had been lynched
before the picture had been snapped. The name had read: ‘Frank
Carter. Wanted Dead or Alive. $3,000 Reward.’

That was all it
took to fire up the interest of the ruthless Iron Eyes. He had
started his trek up through Texas and then across New Mexico before
arriving in Arizona. It had been a long, arid land for the most
part that offered little to the average man. Yet here there were
people choosing to stay amongst the high cactus and numerous
scorpions as well as all the other deadly creatures that ruled the
uncompromising land. Here there were many ways to die, far worse
than being shot. This was a place where every grain of sand held
the potential of shielding something deadlier than bullets. Yet
here there were towns that survived and prospered.

The death-like
figure of Iron Eyes had little in common with these or any other
sorts of people for he was cast from a different mould. Clad in a
long coat with deep pockets that he kept filled with bullets for
his pistols and rifle, he had ridden on and on, never sleeping
unless it was in a hotel bed as he feared the snakes and creatures
that dominated the landscape. His long, lifeless black hair
flapping as he thundered across the hostile terrain, Iron Eyes had
sought out and found Tombstone after visiting over a dozen towns on
his quest to collect the reward. In each town he had been given
instructions as to how to get safely to the next. All who
encountered him never told him a lie and he knew that fear loosened
many a tongue. Four hundred miles and two dead horses later, he had
arrived in the infamous Tombstone.

What he had so
far witnessed of Tombstone had not impressed him. It was the same
sort of town that he had visited many times during his life. After
a while when the scent of the prey fills not only the hunter’s
nostrils but his very soul, the towns all start to look exactly
alike.

Iron Eyes had
noted all the key points of Tombstone with his usual accuracy. He
had decided which of the hotels he would use and where the
sheriff’s office was. Those two factors were all that made any
sense to the deadly man: somewhere to take his victim in order to
claim the bounty and a place to sleep.

There were many
who had watched as he had ridden the half-dead horse over the thick
sagebrush toward the town. Many who had wondered who the lone rider
was. Upon seeing the face of the deadly bounty hunter none came
close to him.

He had a face
that refused to grow whiskers like most men of his breed, yet he
did not look either to be an Indian or a white. Iron Eyes seemed to
fit into the category of unique. When he had dug his spurs into the
scarred flesh of the sorrel as he rode down the long street, people
just vanished from sight.

Iron Eyes had
always had that effect upon the people who cast him a second look.
He was dangerous, and every single sweat pore of his body seemed to
ooze out a silent warning to those who came close enough to smell
it. He slid the Winchester out from its holster beneath the saddle
and proceeded to load it as his narrow screwed-up eyes darted
around every pane of glass within distance.

When satisfied,
he stepped up onto the sidewalk and walked into the dim saloon. The
long bar seemed quieter than it ought to be considering at least
two dozen men and at least seven females were gathered inside. Iron
Eyes stopped within three feet of the swing doors holding the rifle
in his bony left hand. For a long while he simply stood with his
head lowered so that his chin rested upon his breast bone. The cold
grey eyes moved around the faces of each and every person in the
Big Horn whilst his ears listened to every sound.

The saloon
customers knew why he was there and what he was there for; it was
written on him like the carvings on a gravestone. He had a way of
discharging terror by simply being alive. It mattered little to
Iron Eyes how long the crowd remained silent as it put the odds in
his favour.

The long legs
wearing the mule-ear boots strode towards the bar and the pyramid
of small glass tumblers that were guaranteed to allow a maximum of
three fingers of liquor and not a drop more into their crystal
cavities.

‘
Drink, stranger?’ the bar keep asked nervously as the crowd
moved further away.

The bounty
hunter laid the carbine onto the damp surface of the bar and
nodded. ‘Rye.’

Without
blinking, Iron Eyes rested his right boot onto the brass rail next
to the shiny spittoon and gazed into the long mirror behind the
array of whiskey and brandy bottles. The only face that he did not
look at in the glass reflection was his own.

That he left to
others with more curiosity than sense. He had seen the look that
masked these folks’ faces before many times in the past. It was
always the same, the look of terror. The look of total horror. A
vain man might have been upset by that expression of fear which
always greeted him, but not Iron Eyes. He had no self-esteem or
vanity. He had only the years of death that had ridden on his
shoulder as he progressed from hunting animals to hunting men. He
had lost count of how many souls he had sent to their Maker, but
every single face of every single victim was branded into his
memory.

The barman
placed the glass of rye before him and stepped back as if expecting
to be hit, or worse. Iron Eyes tossed a silver dollar onto the bar
and smiled as he lifted the glass to his mouth and sipped the
throat-burning liquid. Then he saw the face reflected in the long
mirror before him. It was the same face that was on the Wanted
poster within his deep coat pocket. It was the face of Frank Carter
hiding in the shadows behind a small card table. The tall bounty
hunter finished his rye and then placed the empty glass down onto
the wet, wooden top of the bar.

‘
Same again, mister?’ the nervous bartender asked.

A split second
later, Iron Eyes had drawn both his Navy Colts and swung around on
his heels to face the cornered outlaw. Every person in the saloon
fled to the rear of the long room, as if that gave them safety from
being hit by any stray lead that might start flying.

Frank Carter
had been starting to move, as if he were attempting to make a quick
exit whilst the tall bounty-hunter’s back was turned, yet now he
just froze. Carter’s face went pale as he regained his balance and
slowly stood upright.

Sweat rolled
down his face as he realized he was holding his pistol in his
hand.

‘
You after me, stranger?’ Carter croaked drily.

Iron Eyes’
teeth seemed small and dagger-like as, grimly, he moved away from
the bar towards the panting man. ‘I ain’t got you yet, but soon
you’ll be mine, Carter.’

Frank Carter
felt his gun shaking in his nervous hand as he wondered whether or
not it would be a wise move to try and shoot his way out of this
situation. ‘I ain’t Carter.’

‘
You are.’ Iron Eyes’ thumbs pulled back the triggers until
they locked, and continued his slow methodical approach.

Carter tried to
escape from the corner of the saloon where he seemed penned in by
small round tables. There was no escape from the man with death in
each of his steel-coloured pupils.

‘
Quit running, Carter,’ Iron Eyes commanded the man, as he
found himself in the corner next to a window and the peeling swing
doors. ‘There ain’t no escape from justice.’

‘
Justice?’ Frank Carter suddenly managed to find the nerve he
had thought had deserted him and quickly raised his .45 and fired.
The bullet went into the huge coat yet the tall man did not miss a
step as he closed in on his prey.

The look of
astonishment on Carter’s tortured face was all the ghost-like
creature required.

Faster than the
blink of an eye, the two matched Navy Colts were raised and the
triggers squeezed in unison. The outlaw felt the force of the
impact as the two shots hit him square and sent him reeling out of
the swing doors into the bright street.

Iron Eyes
followed the bleeding man out of the saloon as his loose coat
flapped in the warm breeze. Being as pitifully thin as he was had
saved him from taking the bullet from Carter’s weapon in his
middle. The bounty hunter kicked the outlaw’s dropped pistol aside
with his heavy boot as he moved toward the wounded man.

Frank Carter
stumbled as blood poured from the two neat bullet holes in the
centre of his shirt and fell onto the boardwalk. The tall
ghost-like figure that followed him was silent and determined as
his thumbs cocked the hammers again on his guns. Carter was still
clinging desperately to what life was left in his rancid body as he
focused into the barrels and then up into the thin face beneath the
long, limp black hair that swayed in the afternoon breeze. The
steel-cold eyes stared at the victim as a sadistic grin etched its
way across the face that would have suited a corpse far better than
the bounty hunter. Pleas for mercy went unheard by the painfully
thin man .who stood aiming his trusty weapons down at Carter. The
face seemed to actually enjoy the torture that was being inflicted
upon the bleeding outlaw.

‘
Who are you?’ Carter’s voice asked, as it choked on the blood
that was filling his throat.

‘
They call me Iron Eyes,’ the gaunt creature snarled in a low
almost toneless voice. ‘The poster said “Dead or Alive”, Carter. I
always prefer the first choice.’

As Frank Carter
made one last attempt to rise from his position, two deafening
shots blasted from the Navy Colts and ripped what was left of his
body apart. Without a second’s hesitation the Colts were replaced
in the two-inch thick leather belt around Iron Eyes’ middle as the
tall man leaned over and grabbed Carter’s bloodstained shirt
collar.

It was a
startled deputy sheriff who stood clutching his scattergun as he
watched the terrifying sight that approached him. The lawman stood
frozen outside the small, sod, sheriff’s office watching as the
bounty hunter dragged his prey towards him.

This was no
normal man who dropped the still warm body at his feet, thought the
terrified deputy sheriff Jim George had seen a lot of gunfighters
and vermin in his days as a lawman, but the sight of the tall,
emaciated appearance before him chilled his mature bones to their
marrow. He had an idea who this killing machine might be but was
not keen to ask the killer awkward questions. George had lived a
lot longer than most sheriffs by being shrewd enough to know when
to keep his lip buttoned.

‘
Frank Carter,’ Iron Eyes said in a low, menacing voice, as he
pulled out the creased Wanted poster from his bullet-filled coat
pocket. ‘I claim the reward.’

The sheriff
accepted the stained poster and shook it so that it unfolded. ‘I’ll
have to wire your claim. It might take a while before I get
authorization to get the bank to pay you.’

‘
I got plenty of time.’ Iron Eyes gave a sideways glance at the
telegraph office that was halfway down the street, then nodded and
turned and started to walk towards the hotel. The lawman felt a
sudden rush of relief surging through his veins as his eyes trailed
the long-legged man.

Only when Iron
Eyes had entered the interior of the hotel did the sheriff start to
breathe normally once more.

The bounty
hunter moved towards the hotel desk at a pace that was deliberate
and almost silent. He moved like a mountain cat with a grace that
belied his sheer inhumanity towards anything or anyone else. Iron
Eyes rested his thin hands upon the desk and waited for the shaking
clerk to look up at him. Finally the small timid man gathered
enough nerve together to cast his eyes up into the dark, dirty
face. It was a cruel face that stared back at him. A face with
scars and penetrating eyes the colour of bullets. The long black
hair hung limply like strands of lifeless weeds and masked part of
the expressionless face.

‘
Room.’

The clerk
nodded frantically as he dug out the register from a pile of paper
behind him before placing it before the quiet man. It was a burning
stare that met the sight of the register and then picked up the
long nibbed pen out of the inkwell.

For a second
the bounty hunter just held the pen in his right hand as the ink
dripped onto the wooden desk. Then as quickly as he was able to
draw his weapons, Iron Eyes smashed the sharp pen down into the
hand of the clerk. A mixture of blood and ink seeped from the hand
as the clerk doubled up in agony.

‘
Just give me a key,’ Iron Eyes demanded as the clerk pulled
his hand to chest and nervously did as he was
instructed.