by Rory Black
He began to shake.
Slowly, Iron Eyes rose out of the soft white sand with one of his Navy Colts gripped firmly in his bony right hand.
‘Lookin’ for me, mister?’ the bounty hunter asked.
The man stared at the ghostly apparition as the voice echoed all about him. He had heard many voices in his lifetime but none that sounded like this one.
His wrinkled eyes widened at the startling sight of the figure that rose out of the shallow sandy grave before him with the cocked pistol in his hand. He had not even considered that the bounty hunter would use the long blade of his Bowie knife to dig a shallow trench in which to bury himself, to wait patiently for the hunter to get within the range of his pistol.
For a moment the man could not believe the gruesome vision that he was witnessing. For the white sand had stuck to the blood-soaked bounty hunter, making him appear like a zombie rising from its grave.
‘What the hell?’ he croaked as he hastily reloaded the buffalo gun in his shaking hands.
Iron Eyes did not wait for the man to aim the buffalo gun once more. He fired the Navy Colt, then cocked its hammer again and fired again.
The wide-eyed man went flying backwards and hit the canyon wall hard. He slid slowly down its smooth surface leaving a trail of crimson gore behind him until he stopped in a sitting position a score of feet from the smoking barrel of the Navy Colt.
Iron Eyes staggered to his feet. He walked towards the body and kicked the rifle out of its lifeless hands. He then tore the hat from the head and looked hard at the unseeing face.
He did not recognize his pursuer.
The bony fingers searched the pockets of the dead man but they could not find anything that gave a clue as to his identity. All Iron Eyes knew for sure was that this man had hurt him real bad. He knew that there were many men like this one, who wanted to settle a score with the ruthless bounty hunter who had so cold-bloodedly claimed the lives of their loved ones.
Iron Eyes lifted his other Navy Colt off the boulder, tucked it into his belt next to its still-hot twin and spat at the body at his feet. He then paused and stared at the dead face again.
The eyes of the dead man were still wide open.
Iron Eyes lifted what was left of his trail coat off the sand and studied the damage the buffalo gun had done to it. It was the worse for wear and full of holes of various sizes but there was still enough of it left to wear, he thought.
He slipped it on.
As he pulled his mount away from the corpse, Iron Eyes hauled the whiskey bottle from the saddlebag, swilled what was left of the liquor around his teeth, then swallowed. He tossed the bottle away, grabbed the head of the pony and whispered into its ear.
‘He looks as if he seen a ghost,’ he said, looking at the open eyes of the dead man.
The bounty hunter mounted and tapped his mule-ear boots into the flesh of the still nervous pony. It responded and began to canter. A few yards beyond the dead horse he saw the hoof-tracks left in the sand by Harve Calhoon.
Iron Eyes continued tracking the outlaw.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Captain Hugh Wallis reined in his powerful mount. The sound of the buffalo gun still resounded all about him and his platoon of weary troopers. At first it had sounded to the horseman like a distant thunderclap, until his ears heard the rest of the brief battle echoing around them.
It had been a long time since he had heard the unmistakable sound of a buffalo gun being fired. It had once been a common noise on the Plains until the vast herds of nomadic buffalo disappeared.
The experienced officer held his mount firmly in check with both his white-gauntleted hands. He looked behind him at the troubled faces of his men as their eyes vainly searched the walls of the pass for a hint of where the shots had come from.
Wallis signaled to Hanks.
Hanks rode along the line of horsemen until he reached Wallis’s side then he dragged his reins up to his chest and pushed his battered cavalry hat off his tanned brow.
‘What in tarnation was that, sir?’ Hanks asked anxiously. ‘Dynamite?’
Wallis inhaled deeply and then heard the echoes of the fainter sound of the Navy Colt also bouncing off the high canyon walls.
‘That was not dynamite, Hanks. But maybe something almost as destructive.’ The officer sighed.
The sergeant looked hard at the captain. ‘What in tarnation is anywhere as destructive as dynamite, sir?’
The officer’s eyes flashed at Hanks.
‘A buffalo gun, Hanks! A buffalo gun!’
Hanks steadied his horse. ‘A buffalo gun?’
Wallis nodded.
‘And a handgun. It seems to me that someone along the trail has been having themselves an old-fashioned shootout by the sounds of it, Hanks.’
Hanks scratched his side-whiskers.
‘But who on earth would have a buffalo gun nowadays? It must be five years since the last buffalo was seen around here.’
Wallis had no answers.
‘Maybe we ought to try and find out. Get Billy Bodine,’ he ordered.
Hanks stood in his stirrups and called back at the two columns of troopers for the young corporal, who was renowned for his horsemanship. It did not take long for the trooper to make himself seen as he steered his magnificent chestnut quarter horse from next to the distant chuck wagon and headed for the shouting sergeant. Bodine galloped through the long, darkening shadows past the eighty cavalrymen until he reached the two riders at the head of the column.
Billy Bodine had enlisted a year earlier and had quickly gained promotion, mainly due to his skill atop a horse. He was fearless and had never once hesitated to obey an order however dangerous it might be.
‘Howdy, Captain.’ Bodine smiled as he ran his gloved hand along the neck of his mount. ‘Reckon you must want me to go scouting for you?’
Wallis tried not to show his amusement at the youngster’s total inability to be browbeaten by any man whatever his rank.
‘Correct, Billy. I want you to ride that fine animal of yours up this canyon to try and find out who is doing all the shooting.’
Bodine looked happy as he gathered his reins together in one hand.
‘You want me join in the fight, Captain? If’n they start shooting at me?’
‘No. Just check it out and then get back here as fast as you can and let me know what you find out.’ Wallis sighed. ‘I don’t want to lead the platoon into a bloodbath.’
‘Could be Indians up there, sir,’ Hanks said thoughtfully.
‘Possibly. We are close to the Indian territories.’ Wallis nodded knowingly. ‘But it seems doubtful that they would have a buffalo gun.’
‘What if it is Indians, Captain?’ Bodine queried. ‘Should I keep my distance?’
‘I’ll leave that up to your judgment, Billy. Just don’t bring a whole bunch of them on your heels when you return back here. I’m in no mood to fight Indians.’
Billy Bodine gave out a yell that alerted his highly-strung quarter horse to start running.
Wallis and Hanks watched as the skilled young trooper thundered away from them into the distance. Neither man had ever seen anyone who could ride as well as Bodine. He seemed to be part of the horse that he rode.
‘A fine young man,’ Wallis said.
‘Yep. A real horseman.’ Hanks agreed.
The officer looked up at the darkening sky above the tops of the canyon walls. He knew that they ought to make camp again but something told him that the time was not quite right. He could sense danger this night and knew that it was far wiser to keep his men in the saddle.
‘What you thinking about, sir?’ Hanks asked.
‘I’m thinking that we should continue along the pass for the time being, Hanks,’ Captain Wallis replied.
The sergeant knew exactly what the seasoned campaigner was thinking about. He wanted to venture deeper into Devil’s Pass whilst the sun was off the men behind them.
‘I’ll inform the men, sir.’
‘Wait a few minutes, Hanks.’
Hanks held his mount in check. ‘Sir?’
Wallis removed one of his gauntlets, then unbuttoned his breast pocket. He pulled out the two folded sheets of paper and handed them to the surprised rider.
‘I thought that you might wish to read the orders first.’
Hanks gave a wry smile and unfolded the papers.
‘About time, sir.’
Wallis did not reply. He had too much weighing on his mind to say another word until his second-in-command knew why they were in this unholy place. He watched Hanks reading and then stared at the dust still hanging in the hot air. Dust that had been kicked up off the hoofs of Bodine’s galloping mount.
He wondered how eager the sergeant would be to continue once he had read the orders.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It had been dark for a couple of hours but Calico was no cooler than it had been when the sun had been blazing down on its wooden buildings. The rooms above the Wayward Gun saloon were nothing more than practical. A bed and a chair plus a small dresser with a jug of water and a bowl on its top were all you got for five dollars a night, but most who spent time within the small square rooms were grateful just to have a roof above their heads for a change.
Harve Calhoon had been surprised when Big Jack Brady had knocked heavily on the door of his hotel room. The low booming voice was unmistakable, though, as it instructed the outlaw to join him and the rest of his men downstairs in the back room.
‘OK, Big Jack,’ Calhoon shouted at the locked door.
Calhoon heard the heavy footsteps walking back along the passage away from his room before he lowered his legs from his bed to the floor. He was tired and wanted to sleep but knew that Brady was not the sort of man you ignored.
He stared out of the window at the rising moon, then hauled his boots on over his worn socks. He was beginning to worry about why Brady needed a dynamite expert in the first place.
What was the giant man planning?
A bank robbery?
It had to be something as big as the man himself.
He rubbed his weary face, trying to wake himself up. Then his thoughts focused on Brady again. What did he want? There seemed no reason why the large outlaw would need to talk to him now, he thought. It had already been agreed that Brady would not reveal his plans to his assembled team until the following day.
Calhoon stood, lifted his gunbelt off the brass bedpost, strapped it around his hips and buckled it up. His skilled fingers instinctively confirmed that it was loaded and ready for action.
Even now he did not trust Brady. Some things just did not add up but he could not think why. The Calhoon gang had always made sure that they did not take on a job that was beyond their capabilities. Harve Calhoon wondered if he was up to the task that Brady had conceived in his fertile imagination.
The outlaw walked slowly to the small dresser and poured cold water from the large white jug into the basin. He splashed it over his face and hair. He ran his fingers through his hair, then dried his face with the tail of his bandanna. He was little more than half-awake when he unlocked the door, walked along the dimly lit passage and descended the flight of stairs into the large room where men were still drinking and gambling and females were still plying for trade.
He walked to the back of the building and saw the dozen or more men gathered in the rear room of the saloon. Big Jack Brady raised a hand and signaled for him to join them. The outlaw obeyed. He felt uneasy even though he recognized half the faces within the room gathered around Big Jack Brady.
Something was just not right.
He tried not to yawn as Brady gestured to an empty chair next to him at the large circular table.
‘Now we can start, boys,’ Brady announced to the gathered assembly of equally stunned and confused outlaws.
Calhoon rubbed his face with both his hands and glanced at the larger man.
‘What are you talking about, Big Jack?’
Brady grinned. It was like the man himself. Big.
‘I kinda hoodwinked you earlier,’ he told Calhoon. ‘You see, I’ve been hoping that you would turn up today because it makes the whole job a lot easier. I had the other boys all stashed away in other hotels and saloons around Calico for the last few days but without you, Harve, we could not act.’
‘I don’t understand, Big Jack.’ Calhoon sighed. ‘If you were waiting for me before you could get this job rolling, why didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘Because you were not the final piece in the jigsaw,’ Brady answered, ‘but you are the most important.’
Harve Calhoon was still no wiser. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Brady pointed across the table at a small man who resembled a lizard. Calhoon looked at the skittish man but did not recognize him.
‘This, gentlemen, is Black Roy Hart. He’s the final piece of my jigsaw puzzle. He only arrived in town an hour or so back and he brought the ingredients to enable us to accomplish the job that I’ve been planning for the last six months.’
Calhoon stared at the unsmiling Hart.
‘What did you bring that’s so darn important, Black Roy?’
‘Dynamite sticks and all,’ Hart replied.
‘We had the dynamite man but not the dynamite itself, Harve.’ Brady pulled out a scrap of paper from his vest pocket and laid it on the table. He unfolded it and every eye around the room stared at the seemingly meaningless hand-drawn map.
‘But I got me some dynamite in my saddlebags,’ Calhoon said. Big Jack laughed. ‘Not enough, Harve. This is a real big job and needs a real lot of dynamite.’
‘How much?’
‘A wagonload, boy,’ came the reply.
Calhoon looked around the table and began to recognize the faces of some of the other outlaws. Each was an expert in his own field and slowly Calhoon began to understand the enormity of what Brady had planned. Anything that required such a prodigious amount of explosives had to be beyond anything he had ever tackled before.
‘What did you mean when you said that you were glad that I turned up today and not in a couple of days’ time, Big Jack?’ he asked.
Brady tilted his enormous head.
‘Now we can ride tonight and get this job done. If you had been a tad slower reaching Calico, we would have had to wait for another three months.’
Harve Calhoon frowned.
‘What is this job?’
Big Jack Brady turned the scrap of paper around and pointed to the crude drawings. He watched as Calhoon’s eyes looked down at the place at which the finger was aimed. A picture of a train and a long, sturdy wooden bridge spanning a wide valley seemed to jump out at the still-tired outlaw.
Calhoon looked up at the face of the man beside him.
‘You want me to blow up a train?’
Brady shook his head.
‘Not the train. The bridge! You gotta blow up that bridge so the train has to stop and when it stops, we attack it, kill every critter that stands in our way and then take three months’ worth of gold coin headed for Fort Dixon.’
‘The army payroll?’ Calhoon queried.
‘Yep. The army payroll. All three months of it. Do you have any idea how much that is, Harve?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well there are more than six hundred troopers at Fort Dixon.’ Brady grinned. ‘So it’s one hell of a lot of money and no mistake. Equal shares. It could run to thousands of dollars each.’
The price was right but Calhoon wondered if he were good enough to accomplish what Brady had planned. How big was this bridge in reality? The simple pencil sketch gave no clue as to the true dimensions of the actual bridge itself.
How did you blow up an entire bridge? Sweat began to run down the side of the outlaw’s face.
Harve Calhoon rubbed his dry mouth and accepted the glass of rye that was offered to him. He downed it in one swa
llow and exhaled loudly.
‘So I’m to blow up this bridge so that you and the rest of the boys can rob the train?’
Big Jack Brady slapped Calhoon’s back and roared with laughter.
‘Now you getting your brain working, Harve. That’s exactly right, boy. See how important you are?’
‘How far away from here is it?’
‘A few hours’ ride north at a place called Honcho Wells,’ Brady replied. ‘The rail tracks cut through the top of the Indian territory boundaries. The bridge spans a river.’
‘Ain’t that a mite close to Calico, Big Jack?’ one of the other men asked. ‘The army will track us back here looking for their gold.’
‘Let them,’ Brady scoffed. ‘We’ll be long gone by the time they reach Calico.’
‘When’s the train due?’ Black Roy asked.
‘It ought to reach the viaduct at Honcho Wells at noon tomorrow, give or take an hour,’ Brady replied. ‘I’ve been keepin’ tabs on it for the past year.’
‘Is it heavily guarded?’ another of the men enquired.
‘Nope. Never has more than a dozen troopers guardin’ it and they’re all in the car ahead of the one with the gold.’
‘Like takin’ candy from a baby,’ Black Roy muttered.
Harve Calhoon felt a sudden chill overwhelm him as every one of the other outlaws began to chuckle along with the big man.
‘And when do we do this?’ he asked.
‘My personal associates are getting the horses and dynamite wagon ready as we speak, Harve.’ Big Jack Brady grinned. ‘We ride in about ten minutes.’
Calhoon pushed his empty glass towards the whiskey bottle. He needed another drink.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There were several smaller trails splitting off from the main canyon which were collectively known as the merciless Devil’s Pass. Yet Billy Bodine galloped on through the narrow moonlit canyon without taking his eyes off what lay directly ahead of him. His instincts told him that whatever he was looking for was somewhere ahead. Somewhere on the soft sand that sparkled in the bluish light of the large moon directly overhead.