Read The Fury of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western #4) Online
Authors: Rory Black
Tags: #bounty hunter, #pulp fiction, #wild west, #old west, #western fiction, #piccadilly publishing, #rory black, #iron eyes
‘
Have you ever managed to
get this team up to a gallop, Mr. Fergis?’
‘
Nope. But then, I ain’t
ever had call to try. What you getting at, Major?’ Bull Fergis
asked.
‘
When I give the word, I
want you miners to whip your teams of oxen up into a frenzy,’
Roberts responded. ‘I want them scared and ready to run. I want you
to drive these beasts like you have never done before.’
‘
Why?’ Fergis’s voice had
lost much of its power.
‘
Because we’re going to
attempt to ride straight through that wall of fire, Mr. Fergis.’
Thomas Roberts touched the brim of his hat before returning his
attention to the flames.
‘
But that’s suicidal,’
Fergis gasped.
‘Staying here is suicidal, Mr.
Fergis.
How
long do you imagine those Cheyenne braves are going to wait before
they attack?’
Fergis gave a huge sigh.
‘O
kay.
You’re in command. I think it’s plumb
loco
but I guess we ain’t got us a heap of
choices.’
‘
Correct,’ Thomas Roberts
agreed.
‘
You figure we can get
through that fire, sir?’ Walker asked nervously.
‘
Hopefully.’ Roberts lifted
his canteen to his mouth and drank heartily as if for the last
time. In his heart, he knew it might just be his final
drink.
It took only a few minutes
for the burly sergeant to ride around the hundred mounted troopers
and tell them what they were going to have to do. Each man had
enough time to wet their whistles and dowse their horses’ heads
from their canteens.
Then they saw Major Thomas
Roberts lifting his white gauntlet in the
air as he readied his mount for
action.
It might have been the
drumming of the Cheyenne that echoed around the ten wagons and the
hundred waiting riders. It could have also been the combined
beating of one hundred and sixty hearts that filled their ears.
Whatever it was, it seemed as if every man under the command of the
straight-backed officer could hear something as they
waited.
As the defiant flames
licked at the dark sky, each man watched the white gauntlet as it
hovered above the officer’s head. Then Major Roberts brought it
down and spurred his horse.
It was like the start of a
chariot race from ancient times as the entire troop of cavalry
drove their mounts after their leader. The miners cracked their
bull-whips frantically above the horns of their teams of oxen and
got their vehicles moving once again.
They had not gone more than
a hundred yards when the sound of arrows leaving bows filled the
night air.
As the riders and wagons
tore across the lush valley ground through the tall, swaying grass
towards the wall of fire, they saw the flaming arrows falling into
their midst.
Now they were the target
for the flame-tipped Cheyenne arrows — a target which the expert
marksmen had little trouble locating.
Major Roberts heard the
pitiful screams behind his mount as he galloped toward the flames
ahead. There was no time to pause and look back. No time to fret
about those who followed his charging horse. All he could do was
continue leading the way towards the fire that blocked their
escape. He knew that to hesitate for even a second could mean
disaster.
Another wave of arrows took
to the air. Then another.
Roberts slapped his reins
from one side of his horse’s neck to the other, lowering his head
until the brim of his hat obscured the terrifying inferno
ahead.
He was asking his faithful
mount to do something no horse would ever willingly do, unless
forced. He was asking it to ride straight into a wall of fire — the
one thing that brought terror to all of God’s creatures. Yet there
was no alternative. The safety of the prairie lay beyond the flames
and he had to try and lead the way to that objective.
Yet Roberts knew in his
heart that even the bravest of mounts would more than likely refuse
to cross that barricade of blazing kindling, and throw its master
into or over the terrifying obstacle.
But he had to try. He had
to attempt the impossible and lead his followers through it and
hopefully on to safety.
Then a hundred fire arrows
landed directly in the path of his racing horse. To the officer’s
amazement and gratitude the gallant horse obeyed its master and
rode straight over them and crashed into the blazing
wall.
Roberts felt his uniform
burning as he
thundered on. Looking over his shoulder, the major saw
Sergeant Walker racing through the gap he had left in the burning
obstruction. Within seconds he heard the sound of heavy wagons
driving through the small gap he had created in the barricade.
Twisting around in his saddle, the officer watched as his troopers
followed.
None of his caravan of
followers slowed up their pace until they had finally reached the
dusty prairie, and could no longer hear the sound of Cheyenne
braves’ screams ringing in their ears.
Roberts stared at what was
left of his command and knew he had lost many of them to the
accurate bowmanship of the Indians. The wagons that had managed to
escape showed all the signs of being in a battle. Half the oxen
teams were skewered with arrows and the canvas tops had burned off
the metal loops.
Sergeant Walker dismounted
and started counting the troopers.
‘
Seventy three, John,’
Major Roberts said as he slid from his saddle and sat on the hard
ground holding his reins in shaking hands.
‘
Only seventy-three of our
boys made it, sir?’ Walker gasped as he stopped beside his
exhausted superior.
Roberts nodded
solemnly.
There were no more words
from either man. There was nothing either could say.
The pair of very different
hunters who ascended stealthily through the thousands of straight
trees could not be heard by neither man nor beast. Theirs was a
skill honed through necessity to a razor-sharp edge. Iron Eyes knew
he was about to do what he did best, and take the life of the
vermin that had attempted to kill him and Silent Wolf.
The young Cheyenne had
never hunted anything except game before, yet he too felt something
stirring deep within him as he trailed the taller
figure.
Someone had tried to kill
them and without the intervention of Iron Eyes, might have
succeeded. Silent Wolf owed the bounty hunter his life, and to a
Cheyenne, it was a debt he knew that he was duty-bound to
honor.
A hundred questions filtered
through
the
youth’s mind as they continued climbing upward. To Iron Eyes,
however, there were no questions. For this was what he had become:
either the dispenser of justice or the victim of its lethal
vengeance.
Somewhere up there in the
forest of countless trees, there were men who had tried to kill
either his companion or himself. Iron Eyes knew that it must be he
who was the target. He had killed so many Wanted men during his
life as a bounty hunter. Each victim had either a father, brother
or son who could and would seek retribution given half a
chance.
The bullets were meant for
him. Only him. Iron Eyes was certain of that one simple fact. The
Indian who moved alongside him had no enemies. He was still pure
like the forest which surrounded them. His soul had not yet been
tainted by the evil of the outside world.
As the bounty hunter screwed up
his eyes
and
clutched one of his prized Navy Colts in his bony hand, he knew
this was a mission he should be venturing into alone.
Glancing back into the face
of the handsome brave who moved like himself, unheard by anyone or
anything, Iron Eyes wondered whether it was true that Silent Wolf
could actually turn into a wolf. The weary bounty hunter knew it
was impossible for a man to change form, but there was something
about the Indian that was special.
Then Iron Eyes’ thoughts
sharpened once again on to the job in hand. Whoever had opened up
on the pair high up in the clearing, wanted only his blood. Iron
Eyes gritted his razor-sharp teeth and knew that whatever lay ahead
of them, they would meet it together.
However much Iron Eyes
wanted to meet his fate alone, Silent Wolf was too naive to realize
that the gaunt figure in the long coat beside him needed no
help.
Death
had ridden on the skeletal figure’s
shoulder for his entire life. It was the only companion Iron Eyes
knew would never desert him; it would always be there, waiting for
the moment when it was his time to meet the Grim Reaper. Death was
the only thing Iron Eyes had ever been able to rely
upon.
The three Creedy brothers
had reached the clearing from which they had seen the two riders
flee. Bob Creedy vainly searched for signs that their bullets had
found their marks on the hard ground, as his brothers sat atop
their mounts clutching their pistols.
‘
Any blood, Bob?’ Frankie
asked his older brother.
‘
Nope,’ Bob Creedy replied,
as his keen hearing told him that there were others moving around
in the darkness of the heavily-wooded area that surrounded them.
‘You hear that?’
Treat chewed on the butt of an
unlit cigar and looked around the clearing
nervously. ‘Yeah, I heard something,’
he replied.
Bob indicated that they
should dismount. His brothers did so hurriedly and led their mounts
towards some shadows.
‘
How many?’ Frankie asked,
as he tied the reins of their three horses to a stout tree trunk
and knelt beside his crouching brothers.
‘
Hush up,’ Treat
demanded.
Bob raised a finger to his
lips and strained to listen to the faint movements he knew were
heading in their direction. He was no hunter like others who roamed
this forest. He, like all the Creedys, was a killer and a
thief.
‘
Over there!’Treat
pointed.
Bob nodded. ‘Aim true,
boys. I figure we just found old Iron Eyes.’
They raised their weaponry
and aimed in the direction of the sound, which was coming closer.
They did not have to wait very long.
Bob Creedy was first to spot
the glinting rifle barrel as the light of the
large moon overhead bounced off
it. Without a second’s hesitation he raised both his guns and fired
across the clearing at the waiting figures.
Treat Creedy squeezed his
trigger with an almost reluctant pain etched on his face. He had
never been the best of shots and he knew it. Even aiming with the
greatest of care, his bullets could go anywhere.
It was the young Frankie
Creedy who allowed his weapons to do their worst, as always. It was
said that he could shoot the wings off a bumblebee at fifty paces.
As he emptied his guns in the direction Bob was firing, he cursed
continually. Of all the outlaw brothers, Frankie loved killing
men.
The Creedys paused for a
moment to allow the gunsmoke to drift off the high mountain
clearing. They speedily reloaded their weapons and waited until
they could see their targets once more.
Suddenly a screaming figure
broke through the heavy brush opposite them and charged across the
clearing. They
could see the long, black hair flapping on their attacker’s
shoulders as the figure began cocking and firing his repeating
rifle.
‘
Iron Eyes!’ Treat Creedy
exclaimed as he stared wide-eyed at the man who was racing straight
at them.
Bullets bounced off the
tree trunks around the kneeling brothers as they were startled into
firing again. Frankie managed to hit the yelling man in the leg as
he leapt on to them.
As Bob Creedy forced the
figure off Frankie with every ounce of his strength, he saw another
man charging them. He too had a mane of long, black
hair.
The smoke from the man’s
rifle seemed to create a fog within the clearing. A fog none of
their eyes could penetrate.
Smashing the barrel of his
pistol across the head of the man who was wrestling with his
brothers, Bob felt the heat of hot lead as it tore through his
sleeve.
Raising his guns in the
rough direction he had last seen the second man, he fired. Before
Bob could cock his hammers and squeeze his triggers again, the
dark-haired man hit him square on.
Bob Creedy felt as if all
the air had been kicked out of his body. Falling backward with the
sturdy figure on top of him, he hit the ground.
Even in the smoke-filled
clearing he could see the face above him. This was not Iron Eyes,
he thought. Grabbing hold of the rifle barrel he fought the man for
his very life on the cold soil. This was an Indian.
Seeing a knife appear in
the brave’s other hand, Bob Creedy grabbed at it whilst his
brothers tried desperately to pull the strong Cheyenne off
him.
The blade drew closer to
Bob’s face as the single-minded warrior bore down on him. A bullet
then exploded above them both and the Indian’s head shattered
apart.
Blood and gore splattered over
Bob
Creedy
as the dead Cheyenne fell limply on to his prostrate form.
Struggling free of the heavy weighty Bob looked into the face of
Frankie who was smiling as he blew down the barrel of his
pistol.
‘
I got the bastard, Bob.’
Frankie began to laugh in a way which chilled even his brothers’
blood.
Wiping the remnants of the
Indian brave’s brains off his face, Bob Creedy began to rise to his
feet. He was only halfway up when his eyes widened at the sight
behind both his brothers.
This Cheyenne brave was
neither screaming nor firing a rifle as he approached. This Indian
was carrying a long war lance as he ran at them.
‘
Frankie! Treat! Behind
you!’ Bob Creedy yelled as the running man got closer.
Before the two brothers could
turn, the warrior reached them. His lance went straight into the
middle of Treat’s back and tore its way out of the front of
his
shirt.
Frankie began to raise his guns, but felt his jaw cracking as the
Cheyenne brave smashed the back of his left hand into
it.
Bob Creedy picked up his
pistols off the ground and pulled back both gun hammers faster than
he had ever done before. He pulled the triggers without even
aiming, but his bullets found their target and he watched the
warrior spinning on his heels before collapsing into the dense
brush.
‘
Treat,’ Bob said as he
grabbed the shoulders of his stunned brother, who was somehow still
on his feet with the long, lethal lance skewered through
him.
Treat Creedy licked his
lips silently before looking at the face of his older
brother.
‘
This don’t feel good,
Bob,’ Treat said as blood trickled from his mouth and dripped onto
his bandanna.
‘It don’t look too handsome
either, Treat,’ Bob said as his eyes frantically tried to work out
if the war lance might have missed all the vital organs. The
blood-covered metal
point of the lance had gone through Treat’s shoulder blade and
protruded a few inches below his right collarbone. It had missed
the heart, but Bob knew that it must have gone through the middle
of Treat’s right lung.
‘
Which one’s Iron Eyes,
Bob?’ Treat asked as blood flowed from his mouth, and he stumbled
into the arms of his brothers.
‘
None of them,’ Bob
replied. ‘They’re just redskins. Iron Eyes ain’t nowhere to be
seen.’
‘
Injuns?’ Treat shook his
head sorrowfully. He had hoped one of the bodies lying at their
feet would have been the bounty hunter who had killed Dan back in
the stinking town of Bonny. That would have at least been something
to take to his grave. The satisfaction that they had managed to
reap vengeance.
‘
Yep. Just some of them
Cheyenne critters the old sheriff told us about,’ Bob
added.
Treat smiled. It was a
gruesome sight to see a mouthful of teeth stained with so much
blood and lung tissue.
‘
I got myself killed by a
stinking Cheyenne. That ain’t even funny, Bob.’
‘
You ain’t dead yet,
Treat,’ Bob insisted. ‘All we gotta do is pull out that
lance.’
‘
It’ll leave a mighty big
hole, Bob.’ Treat spat out a huge blood clot as he arched in
pain.
‘
I’ll plug up the hole,
Treat. However big it is,’ the eldest Creedy vowed. ‘You ain’t
gonna die up here on this damn mountain.’
‘
How do you feel? Does it
hurt?’ Frankie asked as he supported Treat whilst Bob checked the
wound carefully.
‘
I’m kinda short of breath,
boys.’ Blood dripped from Treat Creedy’s mouth with every word. ‘I
feel like I’m drowning.’
Bob Creedy would do
anything to try and save his brother’s life, yet he knew that Treat
was drowning.
Drowning in his own
blood.