by Rory Black
The harder she stared at the marks in the soft sand behind the large wheel of the stationary stagecoach, the clearer it became. Sally began to nod. Slowly at first and then faster as her agile brain figured it out.
It did not take the feisty girl long to work out exactly what had occurred at the back of her arrow-peppered stagecoach.
Her expression altered from one of concern to one of furious anger. Sally shook her mane of wavy hair in utter disbelief that it seemed her beloved Iron Eyes had once again fled like a jack-rabbit from her.
The deep tracks in the sand told her that Iron Eyes had walked from the coach and released his palomino from where his young companion had tethered it. It was a tight gap between the massive rocks and the stagecoach but the infamous bounty hunter was easily skinny enough to achieve it.
Sally squinted at the sand and muttered angrily.
She could tell that the bounty hunter had then mounted his trusty horse and ridden away. She ran along the narrow gorge and into the blistering sunshine. The sand beneath the merciless rays of the fiery orb was baking hot.
Sally retraced her steps back to where the sand was cooler and stared at the hoof tracks, which headed across a dune before disappearing from view.
She slid the barrel of her rifle through the rope cord holding her britches up and shook her fists at the blue cloudless sky.
Then her face screwed up as she glared at the stagecoach again. Sally knew that she might be wrong and someone else could have stolen the palomino, but the faster her heart pounded inside what was left of her tattered shirt, she doubted it.
Sally marched back toward the stationary vehicle and struggled passed its large rear wheel. Sally had to suck in her trim belly in order to achieve this and was only able to breathe normally once she had cleared it. Then as she went to reach up to grab the carriage door handle she heard the sound of cloth tearing.
Her eyes stared at her shirt.
Most of it was hanging on the metal wheel rim where it had become snagged. A rage exploded inside the half-naked female as she pulled the door open.
Just as the tracks had already told her, Iron Eyes was gone. She shook her head in a mixture of relief that her beloved man was well again and fury that for some reason, he had deserted her without explanation.
‘You skinny swine,’ Sally grunted as she hauled herself off the sand and squeezed her sweat-covered torso into the body of the coach. She plonked down on one of the seats and stared at the opposite bench. ‘One minute you’re looking worse than a dead skunk and smelling even worser, and then you sneak out and high tail it.’
She looked down at her well-developed bosom and shook her head as she lifted the cushioned seat and pulled out a new shirt. As she dressed, she mumbled at her absent companion.
‘Why do you keep running off like this?’ she questioned as she strained to pull both sides of the shirt together over her heaving breasts. ‘I ain’t exactly ugly. Not ugly like you are anyway. I got all the things that proves I’m a woman. I got me pretty hair and big chests.’
She managed to do up most of her shirt’s buttons when two went flying across the interior of the stagecoach hitting the opposite wall.
‘Damn it all,’ she cursed again.
‘I know what it is,’ Sally said as she wriggled out through the stagecoach door and started to climb upward. ‘It’s coz I shot you, ain’t it? You ain’t never forgive me for shooting you when we first met.’
Sally crawled to the front of the vehicle and swung her hips over the baggage rails. Her rump landed on the well-sprung board as she gathered her long reins together and released the brake.
‘Shoot someone once and they hold it against you for the longest time,’ Sally sighed before pulling her Winchester free of her rope belt and placing it beside her.
With the confidence few ever attain, Sally expertly got her team to slowly back up. The stagecoach began to inch its way out of the rocky gorge toward the white dunes.
She poked her pipe into the corner of her mouth and chewed on its stem as she carefully guided the lengthy vehicle back to where she could turn it to follow the man she truly believed she was betrothed to.
The vicious sun started to gradually spread across the stagecoach roof as it emerged from the gorge. Sally slowly eased the long leathers to her right. The vehicle began to turn as its perky driver carefully steered it out on to the hot sand.
Her foot pressed down on the brake pole as she got her team in line. She then released the brake and got the six black horses moving forward.
‘When I catch up with your sorrowful hide I’m gonna shoot you again, Iron Eyes,’ Sally chuckled as her teeth gripped her pipe. ‘And I ain’t gonna tell you where I hid your bounty money either. I’ll teach you to run away from me after I tried to save your damn life. Some critters are never grateful.’
The stagecoach moved between the dunes as Sally kept a watchful eye on the hoof tracks left by the powerful palomino stallion.
As the horses increased their pace, the hairs on the nape of her neck started to tingle. Sally squinted against the blinding sun as she looked around her.
Then she saw it.
From somewhere off in the distance Sally caught sight of the one thing that reminded her that she was not alone in the arid desert.
Smoke signals rose into the blue heavens.
‘Damn,’ Sally gulped before lashing the reins. ‘I’d plumb forgotten about them varmints.’
CHAPTER SIX
The white plumes of smoke rose up from the scarlet mesas as the bounty hunter slowed his golden mount and then stopped the snorting animal. Iron Eyes pushed his tangled mane of black hair off his face and stared at the series of white smoke. He gritted his teeth and continued to watch them as his hand fumbled in his inside pocket. His bony hand withdrew a long thin cigar and placed it between his razor-sharp teeth. He bit the tip off the cigar and then spat it at the sand.
There was a blank look carved into his mutilated face as he struck a match with his thumbnail and lifted it to the cigar. He filled his lungs with its acrid smoke and then tossed the match over his shoulder.
‘How in tarnation did Squirrel manage to get us here?’ he wondered before pulling the cigar from his mouth and exhaling a line of smoke into the air. ‘That little gal sure dropped us into a mess of trouble and no mistake.’
His haunting eyes looked all around him and then he dragged his reins hard to his left and spurred. The magnificent horse galloped up a steep dune and then felt its reins being hauled back. The stallion stopped as its infamous master sat motionless upon the ornate Mexican saddle.
The bounty hunter might have been a statue. The only movement was the smoke that drifted from his gritted teeth as his eyes darted around the desolate ocean of sand.
Every fibre in his emaciated body told him that there were Indians somewhere in the desert. Yet no matter how hard his eyes strained, he could not see any of them.
Iron Eyes raised a hand and pulled the cigar from his mouth and considered the position he had found himself in. He had never travelled a land like this before. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
His hooded eyes darted to where he could see the signal smoke drifting up through the blue sky. A cold shiver traced down his backbone as his skeletal hand checked the savage wound that had caused him to lose so much blood and to sleep for over a day as his body fought to recover.
He was as weak as a kitten and knew it.
There was something very strange about this place, he thought as he rested on his magnificent saddle. This was not a place he would have knowingly entered as Squirrel Sally had.
His long bony fingers pulled his trail coat away from his blood-stained flesh as he studied the wound through the massive tear in his shirt. It had stopped bleeding by itself, which confused him.
Maybe he had run out of blood.
Iron Eyes thought about the smoke. Normally he could read signal smoke but he did not recognize the pattern of the large white pl
umes as they rose heavenward.
‘Must be a tribe I ain’t ever run into before,’ he said as his thin left arm reached back and dragged out one of the whiskey bottles he had stolen from Sally’s stagecoach earlier that morning. As he pulled the cork and lifted the clear glass vessel to his scarred lips, he wondered who these unseen Indians were.
It could not be Apaches, he thought as the fiery liquor burned a path down his throat. He had encountered most of the various Apache tribes over the years. They would never waste time making smoke when they could be firing their rifles and bows at him.
Most Apaches would attack their prey and overwhelm them with arrows and bullets. They would never hide from view. He scratched his hairless chin thoughtfully.
‘Who the hell are they?’ he rasped before lifting the bottle to his lips again and taking a long swallow. The whiskey warmed his innards as its fumes cleared his still throbbing mind.
Iron Eyes had never shied away from battling any of the various Indians he had encountered, but it had always been a fair fight although not one he was ever happy entering into.
As far as he was concerned, killing anyone, especially Indians was not a profitable thing to do. Wanted outlaws with prices on their heads gave him a good return on the bullets he filled them with.
Killing anyone else was simply unprofitable.
Yet it seemed that so far every single time he had been faced with Indians, whatever tribe they belonged to, a raging battle had ensued.
He rested the bottle on the elaborate silver saddle horn and stared out at the dunes. He had never seen so much sand in one place before and that was beginning to trouble the ruthless bounty hunter.
Dunes that resembled giant ocean waves could allow an army battalion to hide behind them. He tossed the cigar at the sand and then took one final swig from the bottle before replacing its cork and returning it to the satchel behind his cantle.
Just as the emaciated bounty hunter dropped the whiskey bottle, he heard a sound off in the distance. Iron Eyes’ senses were alerted. For the first time since regaining consciousness, he realized that there were others in this parched landscape apart from himself. The smoke signals were far off, but the sound was much closer.
Too close for comfort.
His bony fingers pushed his limp mane of black hair off his horrific face and tilted his head to listen more keenly. It might not have been obvious to most men who heard the faint throbbing noise, but Iron Eyes knew exactly what he was listening to.
During his eventful life, he had heard the noise many times in many different places. From dense forests to barren deserts. Iron Eyes noticed the ears of his high-shouldered palomino prick up as it too heard the sound.
The bounty hunter swallowed hard and held the stallion in check as it strained against its reins. He could hear the haunting warning that all tribes shared when they were preparing to strike. It was the distinctive beat of drums.
The skeletal horseman knew that where there were drums, there were usually a lot of pretty ornery Indians. The thought did not sit well with the still-weary bounty hunter. Pain from the wound in his side still troubled him. He knew that he was in no condition to fight anyone, least of all Indians with a grievance.
Iron Eyes gathered up his reins and turned his mount full circle. As the muscular mount rotated on the soft sand, the bounty hunter’s keen eyes vainly searched the mountains of sand for a mere glimpse of his tormentors.
Wherever the Indians were was a mystery to the gaunt horseman. Then he saw another smoke signal directly opposite the first.
Iron Eyes stood in his stirrups and balanced.
His eyes darted between the signals.
Although he was unable to read what the smoke was saying, he knew from experience that it must have something to do with his and Sally’s intrusion into their land.
Ever since countless white settlers had started to swarm across the plains and one treaty after another had been broken, the scattered tribes had become justifiably hostile to anyone entering what territory they still regarded as their own.
The bounty hunter was about to spur and put distance between the ominous drums and his prized palomino when another thought dawned on him.
Iron Eyes recalled the small female he had left in the narrow rocky gorge. When he had sneaked out of the stagecoach and ridden away on his powerful horse, he had not realized that the land was infested with Indians.
Then he recalled brushing passed objects embedded in the side of the stagecoaches bodywork. He had not given them a second thought until now. Now he believed that they must have been arrows.
He sighed heavily and tapped his large razor sharp spurs into the flanks of the palomino. The animal started to walk as its master brooded on the fact that Sally might have been under attack whilst he had been unconscious.
‘Maybe that was why she had driven her stage into that gorge,’ Iron Eyes muttered to himself. ‘She must have bin hiding from the Injuns.’
The notion gnawed at his guts.
‘Squirrel might not have bin sleeping when I lit out,’ he mused. ‘The little critter might have bin wounded or even worse. She could have bin dead.’
Although he would never admit it to either the cantankerous Sally or even to himself, he cared for the feisty female who had dogged his trail for over a year. He had grown used to her and it troubled him that she might be in peril.
‘Damn it.’ Iron Eyes dragged his long leathers up to his chest and halted the stallion. He then swung the horse around and looked at the deep impression his horse’s hoofs had left in the otherwise virgin dunes.
His bony hands clutched his reins as he shook his head in a bid to clear his mind. The heartless spawn of Satan was not quite as heartless as most thought he was.
‘That painful little Squirrel might be a burr in my rump, but I can’t leave her to fend off a bunch of scalp-hunters on her lonesome,’ he growled angrily as he steadied the horse beneath his saddle. ‘Besides, with her mane of yellow hair, she’s a mighty valuable thing in these parts and most Injuns wouldn’t be able to resist getting their hands on her. She’d command a darn good price south of the border.’
Iron Eyes thrust his spurs hard into the flesh of the stallion and thundered down the sandy slope in a desperate attempt to reach Sally before his worst fears became a reality. With narrowed eyes and gritted teeth he ignored his own pain and drove the palomino on.
With every long stride of his horse, the sound of drums seemed to get louder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The three horsemen had crossed the unmarked boundary into the devilish terrain hours earlier and steadfastly followed the deep wheel grooves that cut through the sand between the crimson rocks flanking them. The churned-up sand between the wheel marks were proof that they were on the right course and that was good enough for the wanted rustlers. Having obtained fresh mounts in Diablo Creek, the three Holt brothers had started hunting the legendary bounty hunter after they had filled their bellies with cheap whiskey.
The trail was an easy one to follow so that was what they did. They had heard the horrific tales about Iron Eyes, but did not realize that the prairie and desert beyond held far more danger than that posed by the bounty hunter.
Exactly like the naïve female before them, they were totally unaware of the fearsome reputation of the prairie they had willingly entered. The deep grooves that had cut a distinctive furrow in the sand that even the most inexperienced of riders could follow lured the Holt brothers like flies to an outhouse.
Countless painted warriors moved like fearless mountain goats across the treacherous red rocks above them, noting every stride of their mounts as they moved through the sagebrush in pursuit of their goal.
Delmer led from the front as was his habit. His siblings dutifully followed as he rode deeper and deeper into the uncharted prairie between the scarlet mesas. Had they paused for a moment and allowed the echoing of their horses hoofs to fade, they might have heard the chilling drums that greeted the
arrival of so many uninvited intruders into the hostile terrain.
Spurred on by bellies full of Diablo Creek’s best hard liquor and a sense of revenge that defied every scrap of common sense they had once prided themselves with, the drunken outlaws headed on into the scarlet-flanked desert canyon. The three horsemen had only one collective thought between them. They had vowed that they would catch up with the notorious Iron Eyes and kill him for filling their kid brother full of lead.
Their fresh mounts had made good time since they had unwittingly entered the unknown land of jagged spires and unearthly mountain peaks.
Delmer Holt disregarded his brothers’ protests.
He had already savoured the taste of blood and wanted more. He had killed his share of unwitting folks during his years as a cattle and horse rustler, but killing the elderly lawman had been different.
A sense of power had washed over him.
As he kept spurring his mount on into the parched and perilous land, he started to think that nothing could stop him from achieving his goal.
Delmer regarded Iron Eyes as already dead. He had marked the infamous bounty hunter for slaughter and in his depraved mind that could be the only conclusion.
Like so many others before him, Delmer considered Iron Eyes to be the same as all the other bounty hunters who roamed the West in search of men who, like his brothers and himself, were wanted dead or alive.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Iron Eyes was unlike any of the men who shared his lethal profession. The gaunt horseman shared little with other men and so far had proven impossible to kill.
Perhaps the stories about the skeletal creature were all true and he was, as the Apaches had branded him, a dead man too stubborn to return to the bowels of Hell. Whatever the truth might have been, Iron Eyes was indeed a far more dangerous adversary than the eldest of the Holt brothers had ever imagined.