Beware the Guns of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  The blacksmith grinned.

  ‘Luke and Charlie got liquored up after you left,’ he explained. ‘They staggered off to sleep it off.’

  The naïve young hunter still had difficulty understanding the complicated language he had only recently begun to learn. He stared blankly at his burly companion.

  ‘Sleep what off?’ Iron Eyes wondered.

  ‘They were drunk, Iron Eyes,’ Hartson joked. ‘They polished off my bottle between them in record time.’

  Iron Eyes thought that everyone had the same constitution as himself. He could not comprehend what the blacksmith meant by saying the old loggers were drunk.

  ‘What does drunk mean?’ he pressed.

  The blacksmith knew that it was pointless continuing. He stood and patted the wide bony shoulder of his young pal and grinned.

  ‘They were just tuckered out,’ he grinned.

  The blacksmith walked slowly to the massive barn doors and glanced out at the crowded street. Even though a score or more blazing torches now illuminated the town as darkness crept across the rolling hills, the drunken festivities were far from over. Hartson paused and looked at Iron Eyes who was standing behind his muscular shoulder.

  ‘What is going on, Bo?’ Iron Eyes wondered as he too noticed men flooding out from various buildings and gathering again. ‘Are they having another fight?’

  ‘Nope,’ Hartson said through a cloud of smoke. ‘They’re gonna have themselves a horse race.’

  ‘Horse race?’ Iron Eyes considered the words. ‘Men bet dollars again?’

  ‘Yep, that’s what they’re gonna do,’ the blacksmith agreed. ‘They always have themselves a horse race to round off the day.’

  Hartson sucked in cigar smoke as his eyes focused on a half dozen horses and riders being gathered at the far end of town. He removed the cigar from his lips and pointed it at the horses.

  ‘They’re gonna race them horses, boy,’ the larger man noted. ‘The gamblers always arrange a horse race when the prize fight ends early.’

  ‘Men bet dollars again?’ Iron Eyes repeated.

  ‘Yep, they’ll be betting big money,’ Hartson chuckled.

  ‘White men are loco,’ Iron Eyes spat in disgust. ‘They play games like little people.’

  ‘You mean kids?’ the blacksmith questioned.

  Iron Eyes squinted hard at the totally odd sight of riders and horses getting ready to race and grunted his disapproval at the sight. The crowd were exchanging banknotes and other valuable items in a fevered fashion in readiness of the impending race.

  Then the darkness at the far end of Silver Creek lit up for a fraction of a second as someone fired a starting gun. The ear-splitting sound of the gun was only matched by the excited howls and cheers of the gathered audience.

  Iron Eyes flinched in surprise as the gunshot rang out. Both he and Hartson watched as the half dozen horsemen spurred and started racing. They could feel the ground beneath their feet start to tremble as pounding hoofs raced down the street toward them.

  The hunter placed a hand on the muscular shoulder of the blacksmith and watched in awe as the six horsemen galloped past the livery stable.

  Both he and Hartson screwed up their eyes as dust filled the eerie torchlight. Silver Creek rocked as hundreds of men cheered. The six riders continued to spur their mounts as they headed toward the outskirts of town. The cloud of choking dust which followed in the wake of the horses hung in the early evening air and mocked all attempts for the onlookers to observe the riders.

  ‘There they go, boy,’ Hartson exhaled and clapped his monstrous hands. ‘They’ll head on around the town until they reach the old windmill and then come on back.’

  Iron Eyes had no interest in the race itself but he was interested in the horses. He frowned and pushed his limp mane off his face and began to think.

  The blacksmith turned and looked up into Iron Eyes’ thoughtful face. He could tell that the youngster had suddenly had a notion.

  ‘What you thinking about, boy?’ he pressed.

  ‘I was thinking that I should have a horse,’ he muttered aloud. ‘A horse could take me to places.’

  ‘You ain’t got enough money to buy any of the nags in my stable let alone a good one,’ Hartson said bluntly. ‘Horses are valuable in these parts.’

  Iron Eyes considered the blacksmith’s words.

  ‘Did the man I kill have a horse, Bo?’ Iron Eyes asked as he traced a thumbnail along his jaw. ‘If he did, I take his horse.’

  The blacksmith shook his head at his companion’s idea.

  ‘Listen up, you can’t go taking a man’s horse, Iron Eyes,’ Hartson said firmly as he followed Iron Eyes back into the heart of the livery. ‘They lynch folks that steal horses around here.’

  Iron Eyes was confused. He hesitated and looked back at Hartson.

  ‘But man is dead,’ Iron Eyes frowned. ‘He not need a horse now. His horse is mine. That is the law of the forest.’

  Hartson marched after Iron Eyes, rested a hand on the shoulder of the young man and turned him.

  ‘Listen, boy,’ he pressed. ‘This ain’t the forest. If you take even a dead man’s horse, they’ll kill you for sure. If you want a horse you’ll have to buy one.’

  Again Iron Eyes considered his idea of how to get his hands on a horse. Then a wry smile etched his face.

  ‘Or steal one,’ Iron Eyes grinned as his bony fingers pushed his long limp hair off his face.

  ‘You can’t do that, Iron Eyes,’ Hartson argued. ‘They’ll hang you for sure if you do.’

  ‘Not white men’s horses,’ the gaunt hunter smiled.

  The large liveryman glared into the bullet-coloured eyes of his tall friend and shook his head. ‘What you got cooking in that conniving head of yours, boy?’

  Iron Eyes curled his finger as he had seen Kermit Lang do an hour before. The blacksmith moved closer.

  ‘Injuns have many ponies,’ he said drily as he lifted one of the whiskey bottles from the box. ‘I have seen them around their camp.’

  The blacksmith rubbed his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he watched Iron Eyes extract the bottle’s cork with his sharp teeth and spit it at the forge.

  ‘Are you figuring stealing an Injun pony?’ he gasped.

  Iron Eyes filled the tin cups and handed one to his friend. As the large man accepted the cup he watched Iron Eyes staring into the hard liquor.

  ‘Injuns not hang people,’ the hunter grinned. ‘Not like white men.’

  The blacksmith downed the powerful whiskey in one swallow and held his tin cup out for a refill. As Iron Eyes poured more of the amber liquor into his cup, Hartson sighed.

  ‘Reckon them Injuns ain’t as savage as civilized folks tend to be when it comes to horse flesh, boy.’

  Iron Eyes took a sip of whiskey and nodded in agreement.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sky had darkened since the dishevelled Iron Eyes had left the pair of lumberjacks lying in pools of their own blood outside the general store. Only the bright moon gave any hint of the strange hunter as he silently approached the vast forest with his box of goods in his bony hands. With every stride he sensed that he was being observed from the depths of the woodland and yet he did not slow his pace. Iron Eyes wanted to dissolve into the land he knew so well. Few if any of the forest’s many creatures could disappear quite as effortlessly as the tall youngster, but he had many years of practice behind him.

  Iron Eyes paused for a moment and stood like a stone statue in the long swaying grass. The moon was making everything appear to be painted in a deathly shade of blue.

  His eyes darted in their sockets at the wall of trees that faced him. Every inch of his honed instincts told him that someone or something was watching his approach. A bead of sweat rolled down from his hair and navigated a route over his bony face until it finally dropped from his chin.

  He was only too aware that he had left himself vulnerable by leaving the protective cover of the forest hours earlier an
d was now probably being observed as he returned.

  Iron Eyes rested the cardboard box down on a tree stump and adjusted the bow still residing on his shoulder. The grips of the two deadly .45s poked out from his pants as his long digits fished out one of his cigars from his shirt pocket. He then produced one of the matches Kermit Lang had given him and scratched it across a gun grip.

  The match erupted in his cupped hands as he raised it to the end of his cigar. He sucked the strong smoke deep into his lungs and stared ahead through the flickering flame. For a fleeting moment his bruised features were caught in the faltering light. He then shook the match and tossed its twisted black length aside as his eyes still searched for any hint of the eyes he was convinced were watching him.

  Iron Eyes pulled the cigar from his mouth and allowed the smoke to filter from between his teeth. He then returned the long weed to his mouth and snorted like a caged mountain lion in readiness.

  The fearless youth filled his lungs again with smoke and then stroked the grips of his six-shooters. He knew that none of the Indians had the range to reach him with their arrows from the forest. A wry grin etched his face as he picked up the box and held it to his belly. He walked to where the grass was highest and then vanished from view as he continued on toward the trees.

  The vast forest was deathly quiet as Iron Eyes moved back into its confines. The gaunt hunter used every shadow, tree and dense undergrowth to his advantage as he moved unseen toward his goal. A sudden chill crept down his backbone as once again he sensed the danger which he knew was getting closer with each beat of his heart. He glanced upward at the tree canopy and then returned his icy stare at his surroundings. The large moon might have been bright outside the forest but even its rays could not fully penetrate the foliage. Only narrow wisps of moonlight travelled a crooked trail down into the belly of the forest.

  The tall youngster paused for a moment and listened hard to his surroundings. Experience told Iron Eyes that something was wrong.

  Something was very wrong.

  Even if he could not actually see them, he knew they were close. Whether it was animals or Indians, he sensed that they had to be moving in his direction.

  He spat the cigar at the damp ground and crushed it underfoot as his eyes flashed in the eerie illumination of the forest gloom. The scent of the cigar was alien to the dense woodland but Iron Eyes did not care, for he had other things burning into his mind.

  He realized that he had to reach one of his many dens and hide his goods before he could venture deeper into the forest and find answers to his countless questions. Iron Eyes knew every sound in the forest yet no matter how hard he strained to hear, there was nothing. Not one solitary sound.

  Like the wolves which had raised him, he sniffed the cold night air. His eyes and ears might not be able to detect anything, but his keen sense of smell did.

  There was a faint scent on the soft breeze which moved through the forest. It was the familiar aroma of burning. The Indians had a campfire lit somewhere close, he told himself. His eyes narrowed and studied the tree canopies in search of reflected light that would dance against the overhead branches. After a few moments Iron Eyes caught a brief glimpse of scarlet wisps of light as they danced on the underside of the branches.

  He strode up an embankment and paused.

  Something was wrong though.

  The Indians had lit a campfire far closer than usual.

  His honed instincts were tingling. Every hair on the nape of his neck had risen to alert him. Iron Eyes moved through the undergrowth swiftly until he found one of the many places he used to keep out of sight from his many enemies. Ever since he had been a small child Iron Eyes had learned from the timber wolves to make scores of small dens so that his enemies could never know where he was.

  The youngster stooped under seemingly impenetrable undergrowth and carefully slid down a slope to the base of a massive oak. He brushed the sharp brambles aside and found what he had been seeking.

  A hollowed out section beneath the tree suddenly presented itself to Iron Eyes. He pushed the box containing his cigars and whiskey bottles into the dark interior and then pushed the grass and sharp brambles across the secret den.

  Iron Eyes then straightened up. He looked all about him once more and gritted his teeth as he made his way under another mass of dense brush and climbed back up the slope.

  The forest was still quiet.

  Iron Eyes had never known it so quiet.

  Even the animals made no noise. They too sensed the approaching danger, he reasoned. Silently the gaunt figure raced up a slippery slope to the top of a tree-covered hill and crouched in the shadows of the elms and oaks.

  He sniffed at the forest air again. This time he was certain that a number of Indians were carefully making their way toward the very spot where he rested on one knee. In all his days, he had never known a hunting party to venture to this part of the forest.

  Why were they doing so now? He silently wondered.

  For what felt like an eternity, the young hunter tried to make sense of the fact that the Indians were hunting in a place that they knew had very little game. The only things which shared this part of the forest with Iron Eyes were bears and mountain lions. Neither of which were good eating.

  The young hunters might be after furs, he reasoned, but even that seemed doubtful. Bears provided good furs for their lodges, but were far more easily hunted down and killed during the winter months when they took their long sleeps.

  Iron Eyes could not make any sense from his mortal enemies hunting in this part of the dense forest. There was little game to be had here. Indians were not satisfied with mere rabbits as he was. They needed something to feed the entire tribe.

  Something like elk or moose.

  So why were the Indians moving through this section of the forest? The question gnawed at his craw until the obvious answer suddenly dawned on Iron Eyes.

  They were hunting him.

  They had to be, Iron Eyes thought. They did not want something to eat, they wanted something to kill.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With the sudden realization that he was no longer the hunter but the hunted, Iron Eyes felt uneasy as he moved through the shadows from tree to tree. His eyes darted from one part of the forest to another in a vain search for the Indians that his flared nostrils sensed. Apart from countless trees of every type and size, he saw nothing in the eerie twilight.

  Iron Eyes rose to his full height and rested against a stout broad leaf tree. He sniffed the air and caught the distinctive aroma of the Indians again.

  All creatures have their own distinctive scent and Iron Eyes knew them all. His flared nostrils were so skilled at locating the various creatures within the confines of the vast forest, he could even tell how many individual creatures he was honed on to. There were roughly six Indians moving silently toward him, he told himself.

  Iron Eyes bit his lower lip as his mind raced.

  He had tackled more than six warriors before, but it was never easy. His bony hands gripped the bow which hung over his left shoulder and checked the arrow-filled quiver.

  The gaunt hunter knew exactly why the Indians were moving through the dense undergrowth in his direction. For years he had used his superior agility to steal whatever he wanted from the Indians’ encampments. He had relieved them of the bow and the arrows only a week earlier.

  He had also made off with a leg of venison as well during the same raid. The Indians had obviously decided to put an end to the man they knew as Ayan-Ees, the evil one.

  Every year or so the tribe’s young Indians would take it upon themselves to attempt to capture and kill the elusive Iron Eyes, who was a thorn in their collective sides. Their failures had only added to the stories of the ghost who would not die.

  Most men would have shied away from potentially deadly trouble, but Iron Eyes was unlike most men. He had no fear of anyone or anything. Death was something he knew was inevitable so he faced it head on.

&
nbsp; Every creature within the forest had gone to ground, he thought. All except the Indians, who he knew were getting closer and closer.

  Unlike Iron Eyes, the Indians could not move silently through the vast forest like a fleeting shadow. When he hunted, none of his chosen prey had any notion that death was on the prowl.

  Iron Eyes placed his ear against the hollow trunk of the tree next to him and listened. The moccasin-covered feet of the advancing Indians made sounds that were magnified by the hollow trunk of the tree.

  His eyes flashed around the untamed terrain until he worked out exactly where they were. A mass of dense darkness stood between the young hunter and the Indians who were heading in his direction.

  Entangled ivy and razor-sharp brambles covered the slope and held the tree trunks together like netting. Iron Eyes knew that the Indians were just beyond the impenetrable undergrowth.

  The dark interior of the forest was protecting the tall misfit from a direct attack. He screwed up his eyes and began to wonder why his mortal enemies were venturing into this section of the woodland.

  It seemed strange to the hunter that the Indians were this far east of their camp. They tended to hunt and trap on the other side of the forest where the game was more varied and abundant.

  Why were they in this part of the forest?

  The question taunted Iron Eyes. With the cunning the timber wolves had imparted to him years before, he stooped and moved swiftly along the tree-covered ridge.

  When he stopped, Iron Eyes knew that he had encircled the hunting warriors. But even his keen eyes could still not see them in the half light.

  The massive trees were in full leaf. Everything beneath the top of the high branches was starved of light. Only slender shafts of moonlight managed to filter through the darkness and find the floor of the woods.

  Iron Eyes looked upward.

  He knew that if he were going to be able to see the Indians clearly he would have to get above them. Most men of Iron Eyes’ height would be far too heavy to climb up the trees, but not the emaciated hunter.