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  Iron Eyes was hunting bounty again, this time chasing wanted outlaw Joe Brewster across a pitiless desert. And Brewster held all the cards. Iron Eyes had been badly wounded in an earlier confrontation with the Brewster brothers, and now he’d lost his horse. But there wasn’t any quit in Iron Eyes, so he sucked it up and kept going … until he found an oasis in a valley. There he discovered something else, too—that the families are living there were under threat of death by Don Miguel Sanchez and his army of vaqueros.

  Iron Eyes faced a choice. To continue his pursuit of Brewster and leave the folks who nursed him back to health to fend for themselves … or to take on their fight and make bloody war on the Mexican gunnies?

  IRON EYES 11: IRON EYES MAKES WAR

  By Rory Black

  First published by Robert Hale Limited in 2009

  Copyright © 2009, 2021 by Rory Black

  First Electronic Edition: March 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Dedicated with love to Alexia Rose, my first grandchild.

  Prologue

  THE THREE RUTHLESS outlaws had stayed outside the boundaries of San Remas for more than two hours since arriving in Johnson County. Each of the Brewster brothers had remained silent for most of the time they had rested their mounts upon the wooded hillside above the small prosperous town. Their high vantage point gave them uninterrupted views across most of the wide landscape set below them. They could see the cattle out on the lush, fertile range to the east of the town and the trail which led through Deadman’s Gulch towards the distant border with Mexico. The sun was now setting and the brothers began to ready themselves.

  Each of them threw his saddle on to the back of his well-watered mount, then secured the cinch straps. The eyes of the younger brothers Clem and Joe were never far from their older, more seasoned sibling. Frank Brewster stepped into his stirrup, hauled himself atop his horse and glanced at his small but loyal gang. He swung his grey round and faced his brothers. He watched as they mounted and gathered up their reins.

  ‘Remember, boys,’ he began, ‘Me and Clem go into the bank and Joe clears the street.’

  Clem cleared his throat. ‘What if we gets split up, Frank?’

  Frank lowered his head and looked at his saddle horn. ‘If’n we do get separated we all meet up in Rio Valdo at the Longhorn. We has us a good time and then we head south down into Mexico. You can buy a whole lot more down there with silver dollars or greenbacks.’

  The younger brothers smiled. His words had given them confidence and it showed. They waited for Frank to spur his mount into a trot, then followed him out of the brush and down the steep hillside towards the unsuspecting town. The Brewsters were new to bank robberies, yet they had taken to it well. This would be only the fifth time they had attempted to separate a bank from its money but the project held no fear for any of them. The previous four bank robberies had gone well, without any mistakes, but it had earned each of them a price on his head. A price which had caught the attention of many bounty hunters, including the most deadly hunter of men in the West. Although the Brewsters did not know it, Iron Eyes was already on their trail.

  The riders rode into the town with casual ease. They remained a few yards apart as they proceeded along the narrow main street towards the redbrick structure set midway along the two hundred yard stretch. The word ‘bank’ lured them like moths to a flame.

  There was barely an hour’s daylight left. More than enough for the outlaws to do their worst. Twenty or so mounts were tied up along the street. Frank looked to Joe and nodded. Joe knew what that signal meant. He never entered the banks. His was a more specialized job. A more dangerous job. Probably far more dangerous than robbing the bank with cocked guns in hands. He had to remain mounted and clear the streets. He would wait for his two partners in crime to enter the bank, then ensure that all the townspeople’s horses were run off. He also had to fire his guns up and down the street when his brothers came out of the bank, to ensure that they could make a clean escape from the town.

  The horsemen drew rein directly opposite the bank, beneath the canopy of a proud tree. Clem dismounted first and firmly knotted his reins around a hitching pole. He loosened his bandanna so that he could easily raise it to cover the lower part of his face. Frank Brewster glanced up and down the street. It was far busier than he had expected. Men, women and children were going about their late afternoon rituals but these meant nothing to the hardened outlaw. He dropped from his saddle, tied his reins and then turned to face the bank.

  ‘C’mon, Clem,’ Frank drawled. ‘Let’s get this done.’

  Both men pulled their empty saddlebags from behind their saddle cantles. They walked with cold purpose towards the red-brick building as their brother rode back down the street to cut the reins of every horse within view.

  It took less than ten minutes to achieve their goal after Joe had started to fire his guns and clear the streets of anyone who might prove problematic.

  Frank and Clem came rushing from the bank with their heavily laden bags over their shoulders. Frank drew one of his guns and added to the confusion by shooting blindly at store fronts. Without a second thought he aimed and fired at a woman and child. Both fell limply on the boardwalk.

  Clem pulled both his own and his brother’s reins free from the hitching pole as Frank fired the last of his bullets into the glass pane of the bank’s door. With the stench of gun smoke hanging in the air the outlaws continued to empty their guns at anyone on the street. They did not care who or what they killed in order to escape with their loot.

  The sound of glass shattering and people screaming resounded as all three horsemen spurred and thundered out of the town. A town that was red with the blood of innocents.

  Dust rose into the darkening sky as another rider reached the top of the hillside where the three brothers had waited for so long. Iron Eyes stopped his pony and looked down at the scene far below him.

  He could just make out the fleeing trio of riders, who were galloping south. The bounty hunter steadied his mount and listened to the pitiful wailing far below him within the streets of San Remas.

  Iron Eyes spurred and aimed the pony at the town. He would soon discover for himself what new atrocities the ruthless men he hunted had just perpetrated.

  Chapter One

  RIO VALDO WAS a sleepy town balanced on the very edge of humanity. It had once been part of pre-revolution Mexico but over die ensuing generations had somehow found itself on the other side of the unmarked border. Now claimed to be part of the Lone Star State it even had a sheriff who wore a Stetson. Yet the majority of those who lived in or around the remote settlement still favored sombreros. A few Texan rituals had taken root but the overall flavor of Rio Valdo remained Latin in origin. As the sun dipped beyond the distant mountains a red glow erupted across the cloudless heavens.

  It was as though the very sky was on fire. It should have been regarded as an omen. An omen of impending bloodshed.

  For with the dying embers of the fiery sunset on his
back the lone rider drew closer to the town to which he had tracked his prey. As the spectral horseman reached the first of the settlements buildings he could see the eyes of those who feared him. They were many.

  There was no mistaking the man atop the disheveled Indian pony who steered his mount towards the mixture of whitewashed adobes and more recently constructed red-brick buildings. His was a description which nobody ever forgot. Some thought that the stories of the bounty hunter were exaggerations. Those who had set eyes upon him knew that they were in fact the truth. If pain had a face it was his. A lifetime of hunting creatures of all kinds had left their scars upon not only his body but his face as well. Every battle he had fought was carved into the twisted flesh of his face. The residents of the remote town fled as he rode into the outskirts of Rio Valdo. The deeply religious and superstitious had set eyes upon death in human form. If there had been a church it would have been filled to overflowing with the terrified.

  Yet Iron Eyes knew what he was. He was simply a hunter.

  He was considered by the Apaches to be a ghost. A man who could never be killed because he no longer lived. The majority of white men whom he had encountered thought he had to be an Indian. Their logic was that only an Indian could track his prey so ruthlessly. Only an Indian would take so much pleasure in capturing and killing those with bounty on their heads. Another reason that white folks considered him not to be one of them was his mane of long black hair, which had never come close to a barber’s scissors. His scarred face had never required shaving in all his long days.

  Iron Eyes knew only one thing for certain. He was unwelcome wherever he went. He was hated and feared with equal venom by nearly everyone. But most of those who feared him were wanted, dead or alive.

  They had the greatest reason to be afraid. For once he had your wanted poster in his deep trail coat pockets, he would never quit his hunt until you were dead and he had claimed the bounty.

  Even though Iron Eyes had never been to Rio Valdo before, his name was being spoken by all those who saw his brutalized features as he spurred his pony deep into the town. One voice became a hundred. They were all chanting the unholy name of Iron Eyes. The crimson rays of the setting sun reflected off the windows of the buildings as he approached. It made the bounty hunter look as though he were the Devil himself, set amid mythical flames.

  Women hauled their young off the streets. Grown men felt their hearts quicken as the emaciated horseman studied them all with interest. For Iron Eyes had the scent of his prey in his flared nostrils. He was on the look-out for three wanted outlaws who were worth more than five thousand dollars. Men in sombreros on the boardwalks crossed themselves in silent gratitude to their Maker as he passed them.

  Halfway along the crooked main street Iron Eyes drew rein.

  His head moved as his eyes darted around the quiet town at those who fearfully watched him from the blackest of shadows. He then looked up at the newly painted facade atop the porch overhang directly before him. The dying sun danced across its still fresh paintwork.

  It had only one word upon it.

  ‘Sheriff!’ Iron Eyes read aloud.

  He saw a lamp being lit inside the office through its solitary window. He nodded to himself, threw his long right leg over the neck of his tired pony and slid to the ground. He led the animal to the full trough outside the office and tied his reins firmly to a wooden upright. The pony began to drink. It was the first time it had tasted water in nearly twenty miles of hard riding.

  Iron Eyes stepped up on to the boardwalk and turned to face the street. Lights were being lit all along the main thoroughfare as cantinas, cafes and saloons acknowledged the coming of yet another night. His thin left hand slid down into a pocket of his battered and torn jacket and retrieved a slim cigar. He placed it between his teeth.

  Then behind him he heard the sound of a match being ignited by a thumbnail.

  The tall bounty hunter turned quickly and stared into the darkness at the seated figure. The flame lit up the face of the man, who appeared to be at least sixty with a proud, grey, handlebar moustache. It was the first face he had encountered in Rio Valdo which showed no fear.

  ‘Light?’ the man asked.

  Iron Eyes did not reply. He walked the two steps to the man and leaned over. He sucked in the flame and then allowed the smoke to dwell for a while in his lungs.

  ‘Much obliged.’ Iron Eyes said as he straightened up.

  The man produced a corncob pipe and gripped its stem between what was left of his teeth. He touched the flame to the bowl and then tossed the match away.

  ‘You Iron Eyes?’ the old man asked through a cloud of smoke.

  The bounty hunter narrowed his eyes and then leaned against the red-brick wall. He continued to watch the man, who puffed on the aromatic pipe.

  ‘You’re mighty smart for an old-timer.’

  ‘Not really,’ the man disagreed. ‘I heard about you a whole heap of times from folks on both sides of the law. Never thought them stories about you could be true but, setting eyes on you as close as this, I reckon they are.’

  Iron Eyes inhaled the smoke of his cigar deeply. ‘I figure that I must kinda stand out from the average varmint.’

  ‘Yep!’ the man agreed. ‘Never thought anyone could be as ugly as them tales said you was. Damned if’n you ain’t even uglier.’

  Iron Eyes nodded.

  ‘You ain’t afraid of me then?’

  The man laughed. ‘Nope.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I’m the sheriff!’ the man pulled his coat apart to reveal the tin star pinned to his vest. ‘You ain’t gonna get ornery with the law. I’m the critter who has to dish out the reward money when you bring in your kill. Right?’

  ‘You damn smart,’ Iron Eyes looked at the door. ‘Who you got in there, Sheriff? I seen the lamp light up as I hauled rein.’

  ‘Just my deputy.’

  ‘Is he any good?’

  ‘Makes the worst coffee this side of the Rio Grande but he keeps the office clean,’ The man grinned.

  Iron Eyes tilted his head and blew a line of smoke at the ground. ‘You know my handle, what’s your name?’

  ‘Drew Colby.’

  The tall man walked to the very edge of the boardwalk. He rested a shoulder on the nearest upright and stared through the cigar smoke out at the street and the people who were keeping well clear of him.

  ‘You had three riders come into town in the last day or so, Sheriff Colby?’

  ‘Yep!’ The man eased himself up from the hardback chair and moved to the side of the figure who was at least a foot taller than he was. He looked up at the features which grew even more horrific as the very last of the sun’s crimson rays shed an ominous gleam directly into the scarred face. ‘They wanted dead or alive?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I figured as much.’ Sheriff Drew Colby nodded. ‘You don’t chase outlaws who ain’t, I hear.’

  ‘You hear right. I don’t cotton to prisoners.’

  Colby laughed. He had never met anyone as blunt about his work as the bounty hunter obviously was.

  ‘Reckon there ain’t no point in me trying to tell you not to go shooting them Navy Colts in town, is there?’ The lawman sighed as he tapped his pipe against the upright.

  ‘Not hardly.’ Iron Eyes rubbed his neck and shook his long limp hair like a hound dog trying to shake rain from its back. ‘I don’t see their horses anywhere along the street.’

  The sheriff pointed to the far end of town. A lantern was just being lit outside the livery stable.

  ‘They rode to the livery when they arrived. Their horses must still be up there.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’ Iron Eyes asked.

  Again Colby pointed. This time to the nearest of the saloons.

  ‘The Longhorn saloon. I seen them head in there about two or three hours back, Iron Eyes, I ain’t seen them come out.’

  ‘Got girls in there?’

  ‘Yep.’ Colby smiled. ‘Pretty Mexic
an girls. The kind that makes a man wish he was twenty years younger.’

  The statement meant nothing to the tall bounty hunter. He just nodded and stared at the building as though memorizing its every plank of wood. Iron Eyes sucked the last of the smoke from his cigar, then tossed the last half-inch away. He pulled the crumpled posters from his pocket and handed them to the lawman.

  ‘This’ll tell you all about the critters I’m gunnin’ for.’

  Sheriff Colby turned and walked to the office door. He opened it and moved to the lamp on his desk. He did not see the shocked expression etched on the face of his young deputy as Iron Eyes followed the lawman into the light. Colby tilted the Wanted posters until the amber lamplight was upon them. He read and then looked at the tall man beside him. The bounty hunter was like a carved wooden statue. There was hardly any expression on the twisted face. Only the eyes moved as they surveyed everything, looking for potential danger.

  ‘The Brewster brothers?’ Colby questioned. ‘Is that who them critters were?’

  Iron Eyes nodded, ‘Clem, Frank and Joe.’

  ‘They held up a few banks up north, huh?’ Colby commented. ‘Is that why you’re after them?’

  ‘They killed a few folks over in San Remas as well,’ Iron Eyes added. ‘I don’t cotton to grown men who kill females for the fun of it.’

  ‘What kinda females we talking about?’

  ‘It don’t matter none.’ Iron Eyes pulled the guns which he had tucked into his pants belt and checked them. Only when satisfied that they were fully loaded did he return them to his belt.

  ‘It’s bin a while since I seen me a pair of Navy Colts, boy.’ the sheriff said. ‘Most men use .45s. How come you use .36s?’

  ‘They’re light.’ Iron Eyes was about to turn away when he caught sight of the dumbfounded deputy’s reflection in the window. He glanced at the youth who could not have been more than sixteen. ‘I ain’t seen a deputy look so young before, Sheriff.’