The Fury of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western #4) Read online

  ‘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.

  Chapter Ten

  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.

  ‘Well?’ Fergis growled with his clenched fists resting on his hips.

  ‘The daylight is almost gone, Mr. Fergis. So far it seems that we have not been spotted,’ Roberts sighed.

  ‘We ought to cut out of here by now,’ Bull Fergis said as he leaned down until their noses were almost touching. ‘I’ve spoken to all my men and they want to get out of here. To hell with the gold.’

  Major Roberts nodded. ‘I agree, but there is something you forget.’

  Fergis’s face went blank as he straightened up trying to think of what the army officer meant.

  Thomas Roberts rose to his feet and looked across at his men waiting in their shallow ditches. Slowly he turned and stared down into the harsh features of the gold miner.

  ‘You boys have your orders and I’ve got mine. If I disobey mine I’ll be kicked out of the army, and if you break your contract with the mining company, you and your men will probably be sued.’

  Bull Fergis scratched at his long beard. ‘But we was lied to by the agent, Major.’

  ‘I was told the truth,’ Roberts said. ‘The trouble is, I was given no alternative than to lead this insane mission. If I take you boys back to Fort Bruce, they’ll nail my hide to the wall.’

  ‘So you’ll risk keeping us all here just to save your damn career?’ Fergis snarled loudly.

  Major Roberts noticed the faces of his young troopers looking in his direction. Their trust was being betrayed by his own selfishness. They deserved better than to be waiting for certain death, he thought. Yet this was the fate he was preparing them for.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Mr. Fergis. Let us try and get out of here before sunset.’

  Fergis snorted and nodded violently. ‘You figure we’ve got time?’

  ‘If you get your oxen hitched up to your wagons as fast as possible, there is a chance we can slip back out of here before the Cheyenne spot us,’ Major Roberts said as he tried to remain calm.

  The large shadow of Sergeant Walker covered both men as he walked up to them. As their faces looked up into his, they both noticed the pained expression carved in his features.

  ‘What is it, John?’ Roberts asked fearfully.

  The big sergeant aimed the barrel of his Springfield rifle up at the hills to their right and then waved it like a fan. Both the gold miner and the officer went silent as they saw the plumes of smoke rising from at leas
t five points along the forested hills.

  ‘Reckon they’ve spotted us, sir.’

  ‘What are we gonna do, Major?’ Fergis raged.

  Roberts kicked at the ground and then turned away. He had no answers to give either man.

  Chapter Eleven

  He could have been no more than sixteen summers old, yet had a nobility far beyond his years. There was a beauty in the clean features of the youthful rider that transcended race. His skin was no darker than the average tanned cowboy out on the Texas range, yet his braided hair laced with two eagle feathers and immaculate beaded-buckskin clothing made it obvious, even from a distance, that this was a Cheyenne brave.

  Astride a highly decorated gelded grey pony, the youthful rider had silently been moving up through the mountainous forest trails for several days. The peaceful reservation of the Southern Cheyenne held no challenges for his kind to prove themselves as in earlier times.

  The rituals of days gone by had died with the last of the Indian wars, and were no longer demanded by the tribal elders. Now, young bucks did not have to have the talons of an eagle skewered through their chest and be hung by rawhide ropes until the Great Spirit pronounced them warriors. They no longer had to seek out and take the heart of their enemies to prove their manhood.

  For braves such as the one who rose up through the tall straight trees in search of game, the old days were but a memory he had heard others talk about around the campfires.

  They had called him Silent Wolf. As he had grown into his early manhood, the name seemed more and more accurate. The Cheyenne brave had few equals when it came to hunting, and the elders wondered whether he was capable of changing into a real wolf when he was out in the hills and mountains searching for fresh game.

  Surely, they mused, only a real ‘silent wolf could have managed to hunt so successfully. Many other braves wanted to ride with the young Cheyenne when he went hunting, but Silent Wolf always rode alone.

  Even at his tender age, Silent Wolf had become almost legendary amongst his own people. For in the folklore of the Cheyenne, as well as other tribes of the plains, it was said that certain Indians possessed the ability to change into animals whenever they wished. It was a gift, bestowed by the Great Spirit.

  Whatever the truth of it, Silent Wolf was different to the majority of his people. He kept himself to himself and preferred to ride alone through the majestic forests whenever possible.

  As the grey pony reached the summit of the tall trail, the Indian dragged at the animal’s mane. The mount stopped and its master stared wide-eyed at the sight before him. Silent Wolf had ridden this route countless times before seeking deer and other game, but his keen eyes had never witnessed anything like the horrific vision before him in the dying rays of the sun.

  For a brief moment, the young Cheyenne had thought he was looking at one of his own people lying on the ground, at the feet of the tall, nervous horse. Silent Wolf squinted in the half-light down at the wrists of the fallen rider. They were still wrapped in the reins, keeping the animal from fleeing. The warrior knew that must have been why the mount had not deserted its master.

  Perhaps it was the long, black hair which cascaded over the collar of his stained coat which had made Silent Wolf think he was looking at the body of one of his fellow Cheyenne. It had only taken a few moments for the young rider to realize that whoever this was lying on the ground, he was not an Indian.

  Throwing a leg over the neck of his grey pony, Silent Wolf slid to the ground and began advancing towards the motionless figure.

  With each step he took, Silent Wolf felt his heart beating faster. As he stood a few feet from the stretched-out figure, he noticed the terrible wound which appeared to go from the front of the man’s skull to the crown. Silent Wolf had never seen such a wound, not such an example of the white man’s medicine. The stitches still held Iron Eyes’ scalp together, but were seeping blood.

  The Indian drew his long knife from his belt and held it tightly as he knelt down beside the crumpled body. With his free hand he touched Iron Eyes. There was no reaction.

  Silent Wolf had met few white men during his life, but none of them had looked anything like Iron Eyes. The mane of black hair confused the Cheyenne as he moved around the figure trying to work out whether he was still alive.

  He had no knowledge of white men having hair as long as his own. As he turned the face away from the ground, Silent Wolf studied the scarred features.

  The face looked like none he had ever seen before. It did not look like that of any Indian he had heard of, and yet it did not look like a white man’s either. Neither did it look like the face of someone of mixed race.

  What had he discovered? What breed of man was this lying on the ground beside him?

  Silent Wolf was curious yet nervous. He, like the rest of his people, had a thousand legends, and the warrior’s brain raced as he wondered if this strange manifestation fitted any of the tales he had been told.

  Then Iron Eyes grunted. The young Cheyenne recoiled backwards in shock as he realized who or whatever this man was, he was still alive. It seemed impossible to the skilled Indian hunter that anyone in such condition could be anything but dead, yet the man was now groaning.

  Silent Wolf jumped to his feet and stared hard at Iron Eyes, as the bounty hunter rolled over on to his side and finally opened his eyes.

  The two men looked fixedly at one another. The sky had gone red above them as the sun set, and filled the small clearing in a haunting crimson light.

  Neither seemed very sure of what they were looking at.

  Chapter Twelve

  Darkness had come only a few minutes after the three riders had reached the forest and entered following the trail left by Iron Eyes’ horse. There was a chilling terror in this place which over-whelmed the three Creedys.

  They halted their mounts and waited for a sign. There was none. Bob Creedy seemed first to be able to see what surrounded them and dismounted. Faint echoes of a large moon somehow managed to penetrate the canopy of branches above them and filtered into the forest interior. Its eerie light chilled their bones.

  ‘What you doing, Bob?’ Treat Creedy asked his brother as the older man walked slowly around their horses, studying the ground.

  ‘Looking for tracks,’ Bob replied.

  ‘It’s kinda dark to see any tracks, Bob,’ Frankie snapped angrily as he watched the shimmering moonlight creating horrific images all around them — images he knew were simply tricks of the poor light, yet made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

  ‘I can see good enough,’ Bob replied as he knelt down on the moist ground. ‘Iron Eyes headed up that way.’

  Treat and Frankie stared in the direction their older brother was pointing, at the trail which rose up through the tall, black tree trunks.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Treat asked as he watched Bob stepping into his stirrup and mounting his horse.

  Gathering his reins in his hands, Bob nodded and gently spurred his horse. As he slowly allowed the creature to walk up the narrow trail he called back, ‘You coming?’

  The two riders spurred their own horses and followed.

  Iron Eyes sat curiously in the dirt watching the young Cheyenne brave. Silent Wolf watched him with equal intensity. Even after the sunlight had made way for the bright moon, the two hunters just watched one another from a safe distance in the mountain-top clearing.

  They seemed in awe of each other. The young warrior had never seen anyone so badly injured before. Someone obviously at his lowest ebb, yet defiantly clinging to life. For his part, Iron Eyes had never been so close to an Indian who looked so positively regal before.

  Both could not believe what they were looking at. Silent Wolf wondered if this strange creature was perhaps a demon who had taken human form, for Iron Eyes appeared unlike any man the young Indian had ever seen before.

  Iron Eyes was still unsure whether or not his pounding brain was simply playing tricks on him. He had heard tell of men who ha
d suffered head injuries and spent the rest of their days seeing things which were not really there. The bounty hunter wondered if he, too, had succumbed to insanity, or perhaps was merely dreaming.

  The bright moon bathed the seated warrior in a glowing light that certainly did not seem real, Iron Eyes thought. For more than ten minutes Silent Wolf had not moved a muscle as he sat cross-legged beside his pony looking at him.

  Finally, Iron Eyes cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘Are you really there?’

  Silent Wolf said nothing for a few seconds, then nodded.

  ‘You understand my lingo,’ Silent Wolf muttered in a low voice which testified to the fact that although still young, he had left his boyhood behind him.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Me find you.’

  ‘I figured that much.’ Iron Eyes touched his scalp and for the first time since being shot by Dan Creedy, felt agonizing pain racing over his stitched wound. Wincing, the bounty hunter suddenly realized that this was not a dream, but real. The small spots of blood on his fingertips bore testament to that.

  ‘You hurt bad,’ Silent Wolf said pointing his knife at his own head. ‘Man should die with such wound. Why you not die?’

  Iron Eyes began to clamber to his feet. ‘Maybe I’m just stubborn.’

  ‘Me no understand,’ Silent Wolf said as he watched the tall, thin figure of the strange man before him.

  Iron Eyes steadied himself as he looked at the handsome Cheyenne.

  ‘I’m too bad to die. When you’re dead you either have to go to heaven or hell. I reckon neither place wants me.’

  Silent Wolf nodded as if agreeing with the statement.

  ‘What tribe you belong?’

  Iron Eyes removed the canteen from his saddle and unscrewed the stopper as he pondered the question. It was one he had asked himself many times during his life. Raising the canteen to his dry lips and drinking the cold water, he wondered what the answer was. For all his days, he had never seemed to fit in with any of the numerous people that filled the west. If he had ever had parents, he could not recall them. His first memories were of his hunting in a forest. He had always been alone. He had always killed one creature or another.