Beware the Guns of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  The blacksmith had never been so terrified. This was the first time that he had seen his young friend completely change from a quiet youngster into something that he felt was more akin to a wild animal.

  ‘You OK, Iron Eyes?’ he stammered fearfully.

  There was no reply. Just the continuing panting and low guttural growling that sent shivers rippling through his seated body. Desperately Hartson tried to think of what he had said that might have caused Iron Eyes to become so angry. Yet no matter how hard he tried, all he could think of was what the youngster might do next.

  ‘Easy, Iron Eyes,’ he blurted. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  Iron Eyes lowered his head until his face was hidden by his mane of long thick hair. The whiskey started to splash from the tin cup in Hartson’s large hand. He wanted to turn and run but he knew that was impossible. The blacksmith realized that he would never even get to his feet before the furious youngster leapt from where he sat.

  ‘Take it easy, boy. I didn’t mean to rile you up,’ Hartson said as he felt his heart pounding frantically inside his chest. It felt as though it might burst at any moment.

  The words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Iron Eyes crouched on the barrel and stared through his limp black locks at the blacksmith.

  Then as the growling grew louder and louder, Iron Eyes pulled his bow off his shoulder and charged its taut string with an arrow.

  ‘What you gonna do, Iron Eyes?’ Hartson yelped like a wounded hound as he stared at the drawstring being pulled back by the bony hands until the flint arrowhead was touching the wooden bow shaft.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At unimaginable speed, Iron Eyes swung on his heels, released the arrow and then before the bow string had stopped vibrating, placed another arrow in its place. The slender projectile hummed like a crazed hornet as it cut through the livery stable and vanished into the shadows of an empty stall. The muscular blacksmith gasped as he heard the unmistakable sound of a rat squeal in the darkest part of the massive structure.

  Iron Eyes stood like a gaunt statue until his temper had eased and the unfortunate rodent had succumbed to death. The hunter then snorted and relaxed the bowstring before returning the fresh arrow back into its quiver. Without uttering a word, he returned the bow to his shoulder and sat down again. He picked up his tin mug and downed the remainder of its fiery contents.

  The youngster exhaled and looked back into Hartson’s still fearful face. He was silent, but breathing heavily as he held the tin mug in his bony hands.

  ‘You OK, boy?’ Hartson fearfully asked.

  Iron Eyes nodded and then warned.

  ‘Never call me an Injun, Bo,’ he quietly whispered. ‘I don’t like Injuns.’

  ‘How come?’ the blacksmith hastily refilled both their tin cups as he felt his heart start to resume its less rapid pounding.

  ‘I don’t like anyone who don’t like me,’ Iron Eyes replied coldly.

  Hartson took a gulp of whiskey, ‘What you mean?’

  The young hunter looked at his reflection in the whiskey in his cup. The blacksmith had never seen his friend so serious before. Finally Iron Eyes inhaled deeply and answered.

  ‘They try to kill Iron Eyes,’ the younger man said after taking a gulp of his whiskey. ‘They have always try to kill me. They no like me, so I do not like them.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ Hartson agreed before taking a big swallow of the amber liquor and allowing its fumes to bathe him in an ample ration of Dutch courage.

  Iron Eyes rubbed his face with the bony digits of his left hand and sighed heavily. ‘Ever since I can recall, the Injuns have hunted me. They treat me as if I were a critter.’

  ‘How come they don’t like you?’ the blacksmith asked.

  Iron Eyes shook his head. ‘I do not know. They talk about me around their campfires and say that I am a Devil. I must be destroyed before I destroy them. I do not savvy.’

  Bo Hartson rubbed the sweat off his whiskers thoughtfully and leaned closer to his friend.

  ‘It sounds to me like they fear you, Iron Eyes,’ he said wisely before adding. ‘Folks tend to try and kill things that scare them. Like swatting flies or crushing spiders underfoot. They just do it.’

  ‘Why?’ Iron Eyes wondered.

  ‘If we knew the answer to that we’d be a whole lot smarter than we are, sonny,’ the larger man grinned. ‘It’s the way folks are, no matter what colour they are.’

  Iron Eyes narrowed his eyes and looked straight at the big man sat three feet from where he rested his own much younger bones.

  ‘You think I look like an Injun?’ he asked.

  Hartson felt uncomfortable with the question and took another swallow of the fiery whiskey before answering.

  ‘Not really,’ he carefully ventured. ‘It’s just you got long black hair like most of the Injuns I’ve ever set eyes upon. Apart from that you don’t actually look like one of them at all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re way too tall for one thing,’ Hartson said.

  Iron Eyes frowned. ‘So I look like a white man?’

  The blacksmith rubbed his neck. ‘Hell, you don’t actually look like any white man that I’ve ever set eyes upon, boy. You don’t act like one either.’

  Iron Eyes finished his whiskey and held out his cup again as he tried to work out what the blacksmith had meant. His lack of understanding angered the pitifully thin youngster.

  ‘So I do not look like a white man and I do not look like Injun?’ he muttered as he watched his cup being filled. ‘What do I look like then?’

  Bo Hartson poured the last of the liquor into his cup and tossed the empty bottle across the livery. He cleared his throat carefully and looked at his companion in a fatherly way.

  ‘I reckon you’re unique, Iron Eyes,’ he said tactfully. ‘A one of a kind sort of critter. There ain’t nobody like you, boy. You should be proud of that.’

  Iron Eyes leaned back on the upturned barrel and looked at the liveryman through strands of his limp hair. ‘I no savvy.’

  ‘Me neither, sonny,’ Hartson chuckled. ‘I ain’t sure that anyone could ever figure you out.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  Hartson nodded and slapped the hunter’s shoulder. ‘I damn well hope so. I really do. You scared the dickens out of me when you drew that bow and fired that arrow. Damned if I know how you hit that rat.’

  ‘I can see in the dark,’ Iron Eyes explained.

  ‘Have you always lived in that forest, boy?’ the blacksmith wondered. ‘How could you have survived when you was little?’

  Iron Eyes pushed his long hair off his face. ‘The wolves looked after me until I was able to fend for myself. They still protect me when I need help.’

  ‘Wolves?’ Hartson swallowed hard.

  Before Iron Eyes could reply the sound of loud voices drew his attention to the large barn doors. Men were approaching the livery stable unannounced.

  The honed instincts of the young hunter immediately burst into action. His bullet-coloured eyes flashed at his drinking pal and then at the street.

  Hartson again witnessed the unimaginable speed of his companion as Iron Eyes primed his bow with a fresh arrow, leapt to his feet and aimed straight at the sun-bleached barn doors.

  ‘Men come,’ he snarled.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The two burly lumberjacks walked out of the blinding sunlight and into the livery. They were greeted by an arrow which took one of their hats clean off. The fatter of the pair stared up at his hat pinned to the barn door as his equally rotund friend glared at the archer who had swiftly placed another deadly arrow on his bowstring and was aiming it straight at them.

  ‘Oh hell,’ the first lumberjack stammered as he caught sight of Iron Eyes.

  ‘Look what that bastard done to my brand new derby,’ the other complained as he released his hat from where it was pinned. With a look of horror etched into his eyes, the logger threw the arrow at the ground and then glared at his priz
ed derby hat with the holes in its bowl. ‘What’s going on here?’

  His equally robust friend patted at his friend’s gut as he stared across the livery at Iron Eyes who had another of his lethal missiles aimed at them.

  ‘I’d hush the hell up if I was you,’ he warned.

  ‘Look at my hat,’ the snorting lumberjack was almost in tears as he poked fingers through the fabric. ‘It’s ruined. My best hat has bin ruined.’

  ‘Hush up before you end up in worse condition than your hat, buddy.’ His pal finally managed to get his fellow logger to look to where he was pointing.

  The irate man suddenly fell silent as he too spotted the fearful creature that had them in his sights. Both large figures were glued to the spot in sheer terror by the sight of the archer.

  Neither had ever seen anything like the emaciated Iron Eyes as he held the bow in his bony hands and trained the flint arrowhead at them. It was impossible to see the face of the youngster as his long hair covered his determined features like a mask. But Iron Eyes could see them clearly enough as he gripped the bow firmly and held the arrow on the taut bowstring.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ one of the loggers stammered.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ the other said. ‘He’s sure got us where he wants us.’

  They stared in utter disbelief at the horrific sight before them. Neither dared to move a muscle as they watched the young hunter standing in the centre of the livery close to where Bo Hartson was seated.

  The blacksmith waved a hand at the lumberjacks.

  ‘Howdy, boys,’ he said. ‘This is Iron Eyes.’

  There were few things more terrifying than the sight of the deathly Iron Eyes as he trained the bow and arrow on them and glared from behind the veil of long lifeless black hair.

  ‘I reckon you spooked him,’ Hartson added.

  ‘What kinda name is Iron Eyes?’ one of the loggers asked his companion from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Me Iron Eyes,’ the skeletal archer growled.

  Both men wanted to turn and run but realized that nobody could outrun an arrow in flight. Their feet shuffled as the blacksmith took a sip from his tin cup and tapped the leg of his tall young pal.

  ‘Don’t go killing them, boy,’ he said as the satisfying liquor burned down his throat on its way to his belly. ‘I know them fat varmints.’

  Iron Eyes looked disappointed. ‘Are you sure?’

  The blacksmith laughed and nodded.

  ‘I’m sure, Iron Eyes,’ he sighed.

  ‘Listen to Bo, boy,’ the lumberjack begged.

  ‘We don’t mean you no harm,’ the other exclaimed with equal terror in his voice. ‘We just come to give old Bo his winnings.’

  Iron Eyes frowned as he stared through the limp strands of hair that covered his face. He could sense that the men were frightened but did not understand what they were actually saying. He swiftly glanced at the blacksmith as Hartson slowly got to his feet and moved toward him.

  ‘What they mean?’ Iron Eyes asked as he kept the bow string taut and aimed at his targets. ‘What is winnings?’

  Hartson placed a massive hand on the bony shoulder of the young hunter and whispered in Iron Eyes’ ear.

  ‘I won money on that prize fight, boy,’ he explained as he carefully placed a hand on the youngster’s outheld arm and slowly lowered the bow until it was aimed at the sod. ‘This is just Luke and Charlie bringing me my winnings.’

  Utterly bemused, Iron Eyes turned and stared straight into his friend’s face and repeated his question. ‘What is winnings?’

  Hartson rolled his eyes and then recalled that Iron Eyes did not understand the ways of his civilized neighbours. The blacksmith rubbed the sweat from his face and indicated with a nod of his head for both the lumberjacks to advance.

  ‘You know about dollars, huh?’ he said to the hunter.

  Iron Eyes pulled the arrow from the bow and slid it back into the leather pouch on his hip and nodded. ‘I know. Dollars buy whiskey and cigars. Dollars good.’

  ‘That’s right, boy,’ Hartson chuckled as both Luke and Charlie cautiously moved up beside the forge. ‘I used some of my dollars to bet on the winner of the prize fight. I won so the boys here have brung me my winnings. More dollars.’

  Iron Eyes watched as Luke Hardy handed the silver coins to the blacksmith as he and his pal both stared at the unusual youngster who towered over them all.

  ‘You won dollars?’ The gaunt youth repeated the still abstract thought. ‘What if you had chosen the wrong fighter, Bo?’

  ‘I’d have lost my money,’ Hartson shrugged.

  The youngster gave a disapproving shrug.

  ‘Not good,’ Iron Eyes shook his head as he hung the bow over his shoulder again and turned to face the still frightened lumberjacks. His uncanny eyes inspected both men carefully before returning to Hartson. ‘Why risk your dollars? Dollars get whiskey and cigars.’

  Luke Hardy turned to his fellow lumberjack Charlie Knox and shrugged. ‘This skinny varmint is right. Betting is plumb loco when you weighs it up, ain’t it?’

  ‘Plumb loco and no mistake,’ Knox agreed.

  ‘How much did you bet on that fight, Charlie?’ Hartson asked the well-built man. ‘Tell my tall pal how many dollars you risked betting on that fight.’

  ‘Ten dollars,’ the lumberjack replied.

  ‘I bet five,’ Knox chipped in as he stared at the tall Iron Eyes carefully in his ill-fitting clothes.

  ‘Did you boys win?’ Hartson rubbed his whiskers.

  ‘Nope,’ the both replied at exactly the same time.

  ‘You all loco,’ Iron Eyes stated before checking the pelts hanging from his belt for the umpteenth time and then without a word of warning started walking toward the bright street.

  ‘Where you going, Iron Eyes?’ Hartson called out to the wide back of the hunter. ‘I got another bottle of whiskey hid under the forge.’

  Iron Eyes glanced back at the three men but continued walking out of the livery. ‘Me trade furs for dollars and buy cigars and whiskey. I come back.’

  As the tall emaciated figure walked out into the sun-baked street, the lumberjacks moved closer to the owner of the livery like a pair of vultures around a carcass.

  ‘Crack that bottle open, Bo,’ Charlie rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m as dry as the desert and spitting up cactus.’

  Luke Hardy stared to where he had last seen Iron Eyes and then tapped the arm of the blacksmith several times until he drew Hartson’s attention.

  ‘Who in tarnation is that critter, Bo?’ he asked nervously, as though still fearful of being overheard by the stranger who had nearly unleashed his arrows at them. ‘I’ve seen a lot of folks in this territory, but I ain’t ever seen one that looked anything like him. He kinda troubles me.’

  Knox looked at his fellow lumberjack and nodded in agreement. ‘To be honest that boy kinda scares me as well, Bo. Who is he?’

  Hartson lowered his ample bulk back on to the barrel and pulled out another bottle of whiskey from under the forge. He pulled its cork and spat it at the coals.

  ‘That, my friends, is Iron Eyes,’ the blacksmith said as he stared at the bottle in his hands. ‘He’s from the forest down yonder.’

  Both men stared down at the seated blacksmith.

  ‘Iron Eyes?’ Charlie repeated the name. ‘What kinda handle is that?’

  Hartson looked up at the lumberjacks. ‘That’s what I call him, Charlie. He said his name was Ayan-Ees but I figured that was just what them Injuns in the forest call him. I figured it sounded like Iron Eyes, so that’s what I’ve bin calling him. I’ve bin teaching him English.’

  Luke sat down beside Hartson. ‘You mean he just showed up here and couldn’t talk?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ the blacksmith nodded. ‘He just wandered out of the forest one dark moonless night and I kinda took him under my wing.’

  ‘Weird looking critter and no mistake,’ Hardy spat at the sod floor and stared at the fresh bottl
e of whiskey in the hands of their host. ‘What is he? He sure don’t look exactly like a white man. Not with that long black mane of hair hanging halfway down his back.’

  Hartson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Hell, that boy don’t even know what he is,’ he explained.

  ‘He ain’t no Injun,’ Charlie Knox commented. ‘He’s way too tall to be an Injun.’

  The blacksmith gestured to the lumberjacks to lower their voices as he glanced at the barn doors and then back at his guests.

  ‘Don’t go calling him an Injun, Charlie,’ Hartson warned the lumberjacks. ‘He gets real dangerous when folks imply that he’s one. I found that out just before you boys showed up.’

  ‘How come?’ Luke wondered.

  ‘Iron Eyes has spent his whole life in that forest dodging arrows,’ the blacksmith began to explain. ‘Them Injuns have bin trying to get his scalp since he was a runt.’

  ‘Didn’t he have no folks?’ Knox questioned.

  The blacksmith shook his head and sighed.

  ‘Just wolves, Charlie,’ Hartson repeated what Iron Eyes had told him. ‘Iron Eyes was raised by timber wolves. If you seen him angry you’d know what I mean. Iron Eyes seems to turn into a wolf when he’s riled.’

  ‘Holy smoke,’ Knox gulped.

  ‘Gimme that,’ Luke Hardy tore the whiskey bottle from Hartson’s grip and took a big swig of the fiery liquor. He then handed it to his fellow lumberjack and watched as Charlie copied his action.

  ‘Raised by wolves?’ Knox stammered as he returned the bottle to the blacksmith and wiped his mouth along the back of his sleeve. ‘That’s what he reminded me of when he had that bow aimed at me and Luke. It was like looking into the eyes of a ravenous wolf.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Hartson nodded as he glanced at his friends. ‘That’s why I’m treating him with kid gloves, boys. Iron Eyes don’t understand people like normal folks do and that’s mighty dangerous.’

  ‘Yeah, Iron Eyes don’t understand nothing,’ Hardy gulped nervously. ‘You had to explain to him what “winnings” are, Bo. Iron Eyes might misunderstand some hombre in town and decide to rip the poor bastard to shreds or fill him with arrows.’