Beware the Guns of Iron Eyes

by Rory Black

  A lifetime of starvation had taken its toll on his tall wiry frame. Iron Eyes was far leaner than most but had learned how to use this to his advantage. His long thin arm stretched out and grabbed a sturdy branch. His bony fingers got a firm grip of the slippery wood and hauled the rest of his emaciated body off the ground.

  Within seconds he had ascended the lofty tree until he was roughly thirty feet off the ground. Had he been heavier the branches might have snapped but Iron Eyes was able to rest upon a branch without it even bending. Iron Eyes was so light that he was able to travel from one tree to another without fear of branches breaking under his boots.

  After negotiating his way across the heavily leafed branches and using every shadow to his advantage, Iron Eyes finally spotted them.

  Six warriors armed with bows moved stealthily through the undergrowth below his high vantage point. Iron Eyes narrowed his eyes and focused down on them.

  They were a hunting party, he thought.

  But they were not hunting game.

  They were after the one creature within the dense forest that had always eluded them. He crouched down and balanced on a wide branch.

  Iron Eyes knew that they were hunting him. For years the young Indians had tried to earn the respect of their elders by trying to capture or kill the elusive Ayan-Ees.

  They wanted his mane of long black hair as a trophy.

  For they were all too aware that the warrior who achieved this feat and defeated the living ghost would become a legend amongst his fellow Indians and be proclaimed their chief.

  It sounded a lot easier than it actually was, for Iron Eyes knew the forest far better than any of them. He had travelled every inch of the vast tree-covered terrain during the days when he hunted with the pack of timber wolves.

  Balancing on a branch like an expert tightrope walker, Iron Eyes removed his own bow from his shoulder and then primed its taut string with one of his arrows. He closed one eye and then stared down at the six men below his high parapet and watched them.

  Their faces were covered in paint that, even from his lofty perch far above them, Iron Eyes could see. It was obvious to the young bowman that his instincts had been definitely right.

  They were hunting him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There was no hesitation in Iron Eyes as he released the arrow down upon his feathered adversaries. The lethal projectile hummed in the eerily cold air as it flew down from the high branch. One of the young Indians arched as the arrow buried itself into his neck and fell at the feet of his fellow searchers.

  Yet even before the arrow had found its target, Iron Eyes had moved from the high branch that he had been balanced upon and disappeared into the overhanging foliage. As the startled Indian warriors swung around in search of the archer, Iron Eyes had primed his bow again and fired another arrow at them.

  Hysterical chants filled the depths of the darkness as his second arrow landed between them. Within seconds the remaining warriors had started firing up into the trees.

  Iron Eyes remained unseen against the trunk of a tree as arrows tore through the overhanging leaves and peppered the branch in futile response.

  A wry grin carved a route across his youthful face as Iron Eyes swiftly placed another of his deadly arrows on his bow, drew back on its string and fired down at the startled Indians.

  Once again Iron Eyes moved from where he had fired and leapt like a mountain lion from behind the tree trunk to another branch. As the branch rocked under him he heard the Indians arrows tearing through the shadowy canopy.

  He gritted his teeth, lay across the branch and pushed some of the entangled branches aside until he was able to see the frantic Indians loading their bows again.

  Iron Eyes screwed up his eyes and looked down at his handiwork. One of the warriors lay dead and another was howling in agony as he tried to pull an arrow from his fleshy thigh.

  A satisfied smile crossed his face as he placed another arrow on his bowstring. He drew back on the taut string and fired down at the four remaining Indians who were still trying to work out where the elusive Iron Eyes was.

  One of the Indians was knocked off his feet as the arrow went through his chest guard into his flesh. Iron Eyes could not tell whether the arrow had killed or just maimed its target, but that did not matter to the lean hunter.

  He athletically got to his feet, raced along the branch and then jumped from one tree to another. Every leaf-laden branch shook as Iron Eyes hit the tree hard. His hands desperately grabbed at the slender trunk as his feet slipped on the damp branches. For a brief heart-stopping moment the gaunt youngster thought that he was going to fall until his hands finally got a firm hold on the tree.

  As he steadied himself against the slender tree trunk, Iron Eyes realized that the bow snapped as he had collided with the tree. Angrily he cast the broken weapon aside. The bow did not fall far as its string got snagged on a branch just below the one he was standing upon.

  A cruel look manifested on his haunting features as he gazed down at the remaining warriors far below him. A hundred thoughts flashed through his mind as his boots searched for a firm footing.

  Arrows ripped through the leafy canopy all around his lean body. Broken twigs and leaves showed over Iron Eyes as his foes still tried to kill the man they considered to be almost immortal.

  ‘I hate Injuns,’ he hissed through his gritted teeth before he clambered down to a lower broader branch. He rested a hand on the tree trunk and licked his dry lips.

  Then he remembered the guns pushed down into his pants belt. Their cold steel pressed against his belly as his fertile mind began to hatch another plan.

  Iron Eyes drew one of the weapons and stared at it, bathed in the shimmering moonlight. He knew of the destruction the gun could unleash but was fearful of firing it. He recalled the words that Kermit Lang had uttered when he had just confiscated the weapons from the lumberjacks.

  He did not know how to use these six-shooters.

  Iron Eyes was also well aware of the fact that when you pulled on their triggers a blinding flash would spew from the barrel. That as well as the deafening noise made him nervously unwilling to fire such weapons.

  Then another thought came to the gaunt hunter.

  If he were to leave the forest and venture out into the land where the white men dominated, he needed to become an expert with guns.

  Cautiously his thumb pulled back on the gun hammer until it locked into position. He had watched Drew Smith doing this during their fateful encounter.

  His heart was pounding furiously inside his bony chest as he aimed the gun through the branches at the Indians. The gun was far heavier than Iron Eyes had imagined and his hand began to shake.

  He pulled back on the trigger hard.

  The explosion rocked the lean hunter. The bullet cut through the trees like a hot knife through butter and hit the ground between the warriors.

  To the utter surprise of Iron Eyes, the Indians gathered up their wounded and started to flee the area. The sound of the gun had frightened the braves as they had no experience of six-guns, just like Iron Eyes when he had first entered Silver Creek.

  Iron Eyes had never seen anyone so frightened before and it both amused and troubled him. The Indians were long gone as the lean figure descended from the tree and crouched on the ground beside the towering tree.

  Smoke billowed from the barrel of the six-shooter as he slowly straightened up to his full height and gazed to where he had witnessed the warriors retreating.

  He looked at the gun in his hand in a mixture of surprise and awe. He had never seen the Indians move quite so fast before and knew that it had nothing to do with him. It had been the unexpected fury which the six-gun had unleashed at them.

  Iron Eyes moved silently across the uneven ground toward the body of the Indian he had killed with his arrow and studied it.

  There was no emotion in his gaunt features as he pushed the gun back into his pants belt next to its companion. He then glanced
over his shoulder to where the Indians had fled only moments before.

  He removed the Indian’s bow to replace his own and hung it over his arm. The tall figure pushed his bony fingers through his long hair as his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Now me hunt them,’ he whispered before smiling. ‘And get horse.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The forest began to reflect the sound of the gentle night breeze which swept through the trees yet Iron Eyes did not hear anything except the frightened hearts of the men he was tracking. Like a determined bloodhound on the scent of an elusive racoon, the young hunter followed the Indians for more than three miles through the rugged terrain. The deeper he got into the vast interior the stronger the scent of the main tribe became. He sniffed at the night air and detected the aromatic smell of cooking.

  Saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth as he forged on in pursuit of his prey, yet Iron Eyes had no intention of catching the fleeing Indians. All he wanted to do was find their new camp and steal one of their ponies.

  With the honed and ruthless determination which he had learned from the timber wolves years before, Iron Eyes continued to track the terrified warriors through the dense undergrowth. Nothing could slow his progress as he used every shadow to his advantage.

  Brief wisps of moonlight betrayed the Indians ahead of him as his determined eyes watched them carrying their wounded comrades. He knew that he could kill them at any moment but that was not his way.

  There was no profit in killing Indians.

  It was a total waste of his time and energy. Iron Eyes had only killed one of the hunting party because he knew from bitter experience what would have happened to him if he had not done anything.

  But the youngster still hated being forced to defend himself against an enemy who he knew would never be satisfied with anything other than his own demise.

  Silently, Iron Eyes travelled deeper into the depths of the woodland. Even though he knew that he could skilfully pick each of them off with well-placed arrows, he had no desire to do so. All he wanted to do was frighten them away from his own many secret lairs.

  As his bullet-coloured eyes focused on the fleeing men ahead of him, he gave out a bone-chilling howl and then sent an arrow over their heads. The warriors hastened their pace.

  ‘Injuns not come back soon,’ he whispered as he glanced up at the tree tops. A thought flashed through his mind as he returned the bow to his shoulder.

  They were utterly defeated as far as he was concerned.

  Iron Eyes would leave them be if they continued to run away, he thought. Then he glanced back up at the tree tops above him. There was a more pressing notion burning in his fevered mind. One which he had momentarily forgotten during his brief but bloody encounter with the hunting party.

  ‘Must get horse,’ he muttered.

  He knew that there was only one way he could get his hands on horseflesh and that was to steal one. The Indians had many ponies and, unlike the white lumberjacks in Silver Creek, they had no laws to say that he could not do just that.

  As he continued to move forward, Iron Eyes reasoned that stealing an Indian pony was no different than stealing anything else from them. He had always braved their fury to get anything he wanted. The bow and its arrows, which hung from his wide shoulder, had been obtained that way. Even the long-bladed knife in his boot had been stolen one dark night from under the nose of a sleeping Indian.

  In his naïve mind, there was no difference in stealing anything he desired from the Indians. Even a fully-grown pony was fair game in his mind.

  Iron Eyes paused and looked upward again. He knew that if he were to reach the Indian camp before the warriors did, he could do so far faster by using the high branches.

  Iron Eyes located one of his precious cigars in the breast pocket of his shirt and placed its twisted length in the corner of his mouth as his mind wandered.

  Until he had witnessed the riders in Silver Creek, a few hours earlier, Iron Eyes had never even given a second thought to horseflesh. Yet the mere sight of the horsemen as they raced around the remote town had fuelled his imagination.

  Horses were the means to escape this land.

  Iron Eyes had instantly known that he had to get one.

  The tall hunter struck a match and raised its flickering flame to the cigar. He sucked hard and filled his lungs with smoke as he pondered on the thought of having a horse of his own. The cupped flame of the match was extinguished as he exhaled the line of smoke at it.

  Suddenly it was virtually pitch black once again.

  His narrowed eyes adjusted swiftly to the darkness that shrouded his pitifully lean form. After nearly two decades, his eyes were used to the eerie twilight. Even though there was no moonlight capable of penetrating the dark hollow in which Iron Eyes found himself in, he could still see the warriors carrying their wounded back to their new camp.

  The camp was far closer than he had originally thought.

  As his bony fingers pulled the cigar from his lips, he sniffed the cold forest air and began nodding to himself. His flared nostrils could smell the signs of their camp. They were far stronger now, he told himself.

  Iron Eyes could also hear the faint vocals of untold numbers of Indians in the encampment. He inhaled the cigar again and returned his attention to the black cobweb of interlocking branches above him.

  He focused hard.

  Strange light reflected off the high canopy.

  The Indian camp was no more than a half mile away, he calculated. He filled his lungs again and then cast the cigar aside. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the climb.

  Soon he would find their ponies, he told himself.

  With an agility normally rationed to the forest’s mountain lions, Iron Eyes hastily ascended the tree. He kept climbing until reached the vast expanse of thick foliage and then started to move from tree to tree. There was no fear in the youngster as he leapt from one branch to another, even though at times he was at least sixty feet above the forest floor.

  With each leap, Iron Eyes drew closer to his ultimate goal, the newly established Indian camp. The light from their numerous campfires began dancing against the tree trunks far beneath the fearless young hunter. He did not slow his progress toward the isolated camp and after only a few strenuous leaps, he started to be able to make out movement, signs of life far below him.

  Like the phantom that many of the forest people considered him to be, Iron Eyes had no equal when it came to tracking anyone or anything. His unequalled skills were more akin to that of an animal than a man for he used every one of his senses in the manner most wild creatures do.

  Iron Eyes had perfected his unrivalled abilities by watching and learning from the animals that filled the forest. As a child he had quickly perfected the way that wolves hunted at ground level and then noticed the way squirrels and chipmunks moved through the trees.

  There was nothing that Iron Eyes could not track or kill and that included those which attempted to end his life as well.

  Even the mighty grizzly bear had proven no match for the tempestuous Iron Eyes when the young hunter had been cornered by the great beast. Some have said that there is nothing more dangerous than a cornered or wounded animal.

  Iron Eyes was equally as dangerous as any of the forest’s wild beasts. He still retained the merciless ways of the ferocious timber wolves that had raised him, as well as the wisdom of the animals that had always eluded his traps.

  Unlike the men he had encountered at Silver Creek, Iron Eyes knew nothing of revenge or any of their even worse habitual traits. When he killed it was because he had to kill in order to survive.

  There was never any hatred burning in his guts.

  In the harsh terrain of the unforgiving forest, you either survived or you died. There was no other alternative.

  Life and death were exactly the same to the pitifully thin hunter as he moved silently through the tree canopies ever closer to the Indian encampment. He knew that if he were to
make just one mistake, he would die.

  His eyes gazed down into the middle of the camp as he approached through the heavily leafed tree tops. Fires burned intently as numerous fragrant meals were being readied by the females.

  Iron Eyes had never seen so many of the Indians before.

  There were far more of them milling around in the unmarked boundaries of the camp than he had ever imagined. As the gaunt figure came to rest beside a high tree trunk he stared down upon them curiously. Then he remembered that every one of previous visits had all taken place after most of the tribe were asleep inside the tepees. He rubbed the sweat from his hollow features and pushed his long black hair back. He crouched on a branch and rested his backbone against the trunk of the tree.

  ‘Many braves,’ he whispered. ‘Many she-braves too.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Every saloon or meeting place in Silver Ccreek resounded to the raised voices of angry men as the story of what had happened to Drew Smith and the more fortunate Hog Barker. None of the muscular tree fellers gave a second thought to the fact that what the bruised and bloodied Barker was saying meant that the emaciated stranger known as Iron Eyes had been forced to fight for his very life. All the drunken crowd was concerned about was the fact that one of their own was dead.

  Hog Barker had embroidered a good if totally inaccurate version of what had actually happened in the main street. There was no mention of the fact that he and his drinking pals had gone out of their way to start a fight with what they had considered an easy target.

  Barker embellished the few details he could actually remember into a story he knew would stir up the avenging venom of his whiskey-sodden fellow loggers.

  It had started out with a handful of lumberjacks but as they moved from one saloon to another, the crowd had developed into practically every one of the muscular loggers.

  Barker might have lost his fight with Iron Eyes but, like all men who bullied the less able, he was determined to see the youngster hanged for killing Smith.