Beware the Guns of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  Killing meant nothing to Iron Eyes, but until now he had restricted his lethal hunting skills to animals and any Indians that attacked him. Survival meant you either killed or ended up dead yourself.

  There was no alternative.

  In the world where he was heading, just like the one behind his wide shoulders, there were unwritten rules which nobody was allowed to forsake.

  Soon Iron Eyes would discover this deadly fact.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The heat mercilessly continued to burn down upon the rough ground between the settlement and the tree-covered hills. Iron Eyes ran his long bony fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and then snarled like a wild beast at the savage sun which relentlessly tormented his flesh.

  Just like the timber wolves that had raised him, Iron Eyes was not used to the feeling of unrelenting heat. It might have sapped his strength if not for the thought that kept him heading straight toward Silver Creek.

  Iron Eyes could almost taste the whiskey he craved as well as the powerful cigars. Just the thought of those two items kept his boots moving along the trail road.

  He stared across the rolling hills to the small settlement he could see through the rising heat haze, as beads of sweat dripped from the strands of hair which hung over his face. His imaginative mind considered the people he would discover in the small town on this visit. The notion appealed to him.

  Daylight would bring far more folks on to its streets, he told himself.

  His previous visits had been uneventful and the high-shouldered youth imagined wrongly that this time would be the same. Iron Eyes had only bumped into a few of the town’s menfolk as he traded his furs and bought whiskey and smokes. Most of its citizens had been safely tucked into their beds on those occasions.

  This time he dared to visit during daylight.

  Naïvely he continued walking.

  Iron Eyes had ventured from the forest only a handful of times before to trade animal furs to Kermit Lang, the proprietor of the hardware store, for whiskey and cigars. The forest did not have anything like the taste of either and each time he visited, he wanted more.

  At first Iron Eyes had not understood what the people were saying but he was a quick learner and soon picked up enough of their words to get by, thanks to help of the stout blacksmith Bo Hartson. Hartson had taken an interest in the young hunter and shared his interest in whiskey.

  Iron Eyes did not realize it, but he had an uncanny ability to decipher most spoken languages and become fluent in them very quickly.

  The blacksmith was curious about his young pupil and coached Iron Eyes every time he visited the livery. Hartson knew that he would learn more about the unusual Iron Eyes the more he taught him to speak English. Just like the younger man, he was a curious character.

  As his long thin legs drew him closer to the town, Iron Eyes looked down at the three furs dangling from his belt and nodded to himself.

  They would bring him enough whiskey and cigars to keep him happy for a while, he thought. As he got even closer he noticed something happening within the unmarked boundaries of the settlement.

  His curiosity was wetted.

  What was going on? His curious mind wondered.

  The commotion reminded Iron Eyes of the warriors back in the forest when he had outwitted them and stolen their latest kill. Yet this was no bunch of warriors ranting angrily, this was excited white men cheering about something that Iron Eyes did not understand.

  He increased his pace.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The naïve Iron Eyes had never witnessed anything quite like it before and was drawn like a moth to a naked flame into Silver Creek. His calculating eyes darted around the strangely busy thoroughfare to ensure that this was not a trap to capture his hide. Not one of the inhabitants of the remote settlement was looking at the young hunter, though. They all seemed to be gathered at the far end of the long street. There was something far more interesting there. At least they thought it was far more interesting.

  Iron Eyes continued walking into Silver Creek. With each step he tightened his eyes in a bid to see whatever it was that was causing all the excitement.

  Then he saw it.

  But what he saw made no sense to him. He still could not comprehend what it was he was actually witnessing. A roped off section of the main street was the focus of their cheering and booing. Two very large lumberjacks were stripped to the waist and slugging it out for all they were worth. With each blow the crowd clapped and cheered.

  Blood covered both of the men as they pounded at one another with bare fists. Iron Eyes had seen stags rutting and bears ripping one another to shreds, but he had never seen grown men getting physically violent for no apparent reason before.

  Two well-built examples of logging men were battling it out as a group of others gathered around the ropes. By the size of the crowd, the tall hunter imagined that nearly all of the town’s inhabitants were surrounding the roped-off area watching the fight.

  Some were cheering and others were just screaming in anger as they waved handfuls of bank notes at the two bruised and bloodied battlers.

  Was this some ritual? The young hunter wondered. Why would anyone risk being crippled – or worse – in this way? So many questions flashed through his mind, yet not one logical answer presented itself.

  Iron Eyes stepped up on to a sidewalk beside the tall livery stable, ambled along its length and rested a shoulder against one of its open barn doors. The fight continued and grew no less bloody.

  He was mesmerised by the spectacle, even though he had no idea what was happening. Not a single member of the townsfolk noticed the stranger with the mane of long black hair who was observing the brutal contest. Droplets of blood flew skyward as a flurry of punches from one of the fighters found its target.

  It was as if the entire population of Silver Creek was in the street watching the fight. Buckets of water were thrown over the two exhausted fighters to revive them and then the battle continued.

  Iron Eyes rubbed his bony fingers along his jawline. He had seen the Indians of the forest doing many strange things during his life but nothing like this. This was beyond his ability to make sense of.

  Was this one of the white men’s customs?

  Before he had time to absorb the thought, he heard something behind him moving from the dark interior of the livery toward his wide back. He was not alarmed for he had heard the footsteps before on his previous visits. The sound of heavy boots behind the youngster drew Iron Eyes’ attention. He glanced over his shoulder at the sweat-soaked figure of Bo Hartson as he moved out into the sunlight.

  Iron Eyes gave a sharp nod of his head in silent greeting.

  ‘Howdy, Iron Eyes,’ the burly blacksmith grunted with amusement as he sucked on the stem of his spent pipe and nodded back at Iron Eyes. Bo Hartson rested his hairy shoulders against the barn door and then struck a match and cupped its flame above the pipe bowl. ‘Reckon I spooked you, huh?’

  ‘Spooked me?’ Iron Eyes repeated the unfamiliar words as he returned the gleaming knife back into its leather sheath.

  ‘I scared you,’ Hartson added and tossed his match at the sand. ‘I spooked you.’

  Iron Eyes nodded.

  ‘You spooked me, Bo,’ he agreed.

  ‘What you doing in Silver Creek?’ the blacksmith asked through a cloud of pipe smoke. ‘Don’t tell me you run out of whiskey already.’

  The young misfit nodded.

  ‘And cigars all gone,’ Iron Eyes sighed as he turned his head and peered through the long strands on his hair at the street fight fifty yards from where he was standing. ‘I come to trade.’

  Hartson smiled as his teeth gripped the pipe stem.

  ‘This has gotta be the first time you showed up here in the daytime, ain’t it?’ he noted as he silently studied the pitifully lean youngster that he felt sorry for. ‘You usually come here after sundown.’

  Iron Eyes nodded and then pointed at the fight.

  ‘What is thi
s?’ he wondered as the two men started to use more than just their fists. ‘Why do men fight like that and why are all the other folks shouting? This is very strange and I do not understand.’

  The blacksmith rested his hands on his hips thoughtfully.

  ‘Ain’t you ever seen a prize fight before, boy?’ Hartson asked his young companion. ‘Them loggers are fighting to make money.’

  ‘Why?’ Iron Eyes frowned as he watched the crowd getting even more animated the longer the fight progressed.

  ‘Money, Iron Eyes,’ the blacksmith attempted to explain. ‘Them numbskulls are fighting for money. The winner will get fifty bucks.’

  ‘They get dollars to do that?’ Iron Eyes could not hide his surprise. He ran his bony fingers through his lengthy hair and dragged it off his face. ‘That don’t make any sense, Bo. Do they have to kill to get dollars?’

  The blacksmith roared with laughter and patted his hips with his massive hands. He turned his lean friend until they were staring into one another’s eyes.

  ‘Nope, they don’t have to kill,’ Hartson answered and then had a second thought. ‘But it does happen every now and then in some of the prize fights. The last big fight lasted eighty-three rounds and one of the idiots died. Them boys are so proud they just ain’t got the brains to get themselves knocked out.’

  ‘Eighty-three rounds,’ Iron Eyes repeated and then looked away from the blacksmith. ‘Is that a long time?’

  ‘A mighty long time, boy,’ Hartson tapped Iron Eyes’ shoulder to draw his attention. ‘Are you thirsty? I mean real thirsty for something a damn sight stronger than water. Are you?’

  The youngster grinned and nodded.

  ‘Yep,’ the young hunter replied.

  The larger man winked and jerked his head. ‘Come and help me polish off a bottle of rye. There ain’t no business to be had when they got the street roped off.’

  ‘What is rye?’ Iron Eyes asked innocently. ‘Is it whiskey?’

  ‘It sure is, boy,’ Hartson turned and headed back into the shade of the livery stable. ‘Best whiskey in Silver Creek. Come and help me empty the bottle.’

  Iron Eyes hesitated and gripped the furs hanging from his belt.

  ‘But I have to trade furs for dollars,’ he said.

  The muscular Hartson sat down next to his forge and gestured at the young hunter to join him. He patted an upturned barrel with his large hand.

  ‘All the stores are locked up until the fight ends,’ he informed his friend. ‘You ain’t gonna sell them furs for hours yet, so get your bony ass over here and sit down. We got some supping to do.’

  Iron Eyes nodded, then walked to the forge and sat down on the upturned barrel next to his jovial pal. He watched as Hartson reached into a dark space beneath the glowing coals of the forge and pulled out a full bottle of whiskey and showed it to his companion.

  ‘Ain’t that a pretty sight, Iron Eyes?’ the large man said before pulling its cork from the bottle neck with his teeth and spitting it on to the coals.

  ‘Very pretty,’ the hunter agreed as he caught the scent of the powerful liquor in his flared nostrils. ‘Smells good.’

  Hartson aimed a large finger at a shelf where two tin cups rested amid soot and dust. ‘Get them mugs, boy. We got us some serious drinking to do.’

  Iron Eyes did not need to be told twice. He quickly got to his feet and grabbed the tin cups and shook the dust from them. He held them and watched as the liveryman filled both tin vessels with the amber liquor. The fumes filled both their nostrils.

  ‘Smells good,’ Iron Eyes drooled.

  ‘It sure does,’ Hartson took one of the cups and nodded to the young man to sit back down next to him. ‘Drink up, sonny. We got us a lot of dust to wash down our throats.’

  Iron Eyes lifted the cup to his lips and took a big swallow. The fiery liquor burned a trail down into his gullet and caused Iron Eyes to sigh heavily as the fumes filled his head.

  ‘Good whiskey,’ he smiled.

  The blacksmith lifted his cup and took a swallow himself of the amber nectar. As its fumes rose up from his ample belly, a satisfied smile traced Hartson’s face.

  ‘Damn,’ he agreed. ‘That is good rye. I bet this brew ain’t rotgut. This stuff tastes genuine.’

  Iron Eyes did not understand anything the man in the long leather apron was saying, but nodded in agreement anyway. He took another gulp of the liquor in his cup and gave out a huge sigh.

  Bo Hartson finished his ration and then refilled both the tin cups. He watched as the youngster eagerly drank the powerful liquor and thought how he had first encountered the strange youngster one dark night only weeks before.

  He had been just finishing tending to the horses in the livery when he caught sight of the youngster looking like a frightened mountain cat caught in torchlight. At first Iron Eyes had done what all scared creatures do and moved into the shadows as if to hide, yet the youngster’s curiosity had soon overwhelmed his caution.

  Hartson had been surprised by the sight of the tall figure, who eventually summoned enough courage to enter the vast interior of the livery. The blacksmith knew immediately that there was something unusual about Iron Eyes.

  For one thing, Iron Eyes could not speak any known language that Hartson understood. The words the youngster uttered sounded a lot like one of the thousands of Indian dialects. Yet it was obvious that although Iron Eyes had heard others speak, he himself had never spoken.

  The big man had felt sorry for the youngster.

  Iron Eyes found it easier to make noises. He simply grunted and pointed at anything and everything that caught his interest. The large livery stable owner had patiently managed to teach the gaunt, emaciated youngster a few words so that they could communicate.

  With each occasional visit, Hartson had taught him more and more words. Iron Eyes seemed to have only two interests in what the blacksmith laughingly called civilization.

  Whiskey and cigars.

  There seemed to be nothing else that Iron Eyes desired in Silver Creek. Hartson was taken by the way the youngster, compared to others of his age, did not appear to want the things most youngsters wanted. There was not an envious bone in his young body. As long as he could get hold of cigars and hard liquor, he was satisfied.

  Luckily for his mentor, Iron Eyes had been a fast learner and had an incredible memory. When Hartson had asked what his name was he blurted out something which Hartson imagined was what the Indians in the forests must have called him.

  ‘Indians call me Ayan-Ees,’ Iron Eyes had said and then added. ‘I think it mean the evil one.’

  The blacksmith had interpreted the name as Iron Eyes and from that moment on, that was what the youngster would answer when asked his name. The name would remain with him for the rest of his life.

  Hartson refilled their tin cups again. He was amazed how quickly his young pupil grasped English and how his use of the language improved with every meeting.

  Iron Eyes sipped his whiskey while Hartson looked at him with curiosity. The blacksmith had a thousand questions for the youngster but knew that he would have to wait until Iron Eyes was capable of answering.

  As Hartson sipped his whiskey, he realized that Iron Eyes appeared to have never encountered people before, yet that seemed impossible to the blacksmith. How could anyone grow to well over six feet in height without ever having met other folks?

  Yet that was the only conclusion Hartson could come to as they drank beside the warm forge. It was as if Iron Eyes had come from another world where there were no folks like the large blacksmith and his fellow townsfolk.

  Iron Eyes had mentioned Indians, but he had said that they hunted him the way he hunted animals. They feared him for some unknown reason, which the blacksmith could only guess at.

  Hartson concluded that everything he took as being normal was utterly alien to Iron Eyes. He was like a surprised animal with every new object he encountered. Hartson simply could not fathom who or what his drinking companion actually wa
s. He wondered how on earth Iron Eyes could have possibly grown to manhood alone in the forest.

  He knew that most of the townsfolk would not survive a week in there, but this young man seemed to have beaten the odds and done exactly that.

  Hartson leaned forward and poured more whiskey into Iron Eyes’ cup. Then he recalled the various tribes of Indians which had once plagued Silver Creek for several years. He wondered if they were still in the forest and, if so, how had Iron Eyes managed to avoid them for so long.

  ‘Tell me something, boy,’ the large man started.

  The bullet-coloured eyes, which he would one day become famous for, darted at the blacksmith. Iron Eyes watched and listened to the first person he had ever met who had never attempted to harm him.

  Hartson did not know it, but Iron Eyes considered his drinking companion to be his only friend.

  Having managed to get the youngster’s full attention, Hartson pressed on with his questioning and hoped that Iron Eyes’ limited knowledge of his new language would be able to understand him.

  ‘Have you always lived in them woods, boy?’ he began.

  Iron Eyes nodded as he lifted the cup to his lips and took a mouthful of whiskey. His eyes were fixed on the blacksmith as the burly man continued.

  ‘Tell me something,’ Hartson started. ‘Are you an Injun?’

  Suddenly Iron Eyes expression changed. It was as though he had been insulted or physically hurt and took the blacksmith by surprise.

  There was a fire in the eyes of the young hunter. Iron Eyes looked far angrier than the older man had anticipated and started to make a chilling noise. It was a guttural growl like a ravenous timber wolf. Hartson leaned back on his makeshift seat and started to tremble with fear as the growl grew louder.

  Hartson felt his heart quicken as Iron Eyes glared at him with unblinking eyes. They burned through the blacksmith as the young hunter continued to growl as though he were about to leap straight at him. Drool dripped from his razor sharp teeth and Iron Eyes began to pant like a rabid wolf.