The Ghost of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western Book 8)

by Rory Black

  With the outlaw gangs believing that their enemy Iron Eyes is dead, there’s nothing that the scattered lawmen can do to stop the horrific slaughter that follows. Gangs join together to become small armies and destroy everything in their wake. But one U.S. marshal is not convinced that the legendary bounty hunter is dead and sets out to discover the truth.

  More dead than alive, Iron Eyes slowly drags himself out of his desert hiding place in search of water and discovers that the deadly outlaws think that he is no longer a threat. Checking the Wanted posters and loading his Navy Colts, Iron Eyes rides with venom in his soul to claim the bounty money for those wanted dead or alive. To him, that only means dead!

  THE GHOST OF IRON EYES

  IRON EYES 8

  By Rory Black

  First published by Robert Hale Limited in 2005

  Copyright © 2005, 2015 by Rory Black

  First Smashwords Edition: April 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Carl Yonder

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Dedicated to the memory of the legendary Frank Capra.

  Prologue

  Diamond City was like most of the dust-weary Texan towns that fringed the sprawling Waco. It lived off the backs of the prosperous cattle ranches which filled the vast ranges that the Lone Star State was famed for. Yet like its neighboring towns of Black Rock and Springville, Diamond City had fallen prey to the same invasion of outlaw gangs that had been causing havoc for the previous six months.

  John Hardy stood on the porch of his weathered sheriff’s office and stared into the grim dust haze that had dogged the town for more than a week. His elderly hands clutched the scattergun to his belly as his narrowed eyes watched the awesome sight of thirteen well-armed riders guiding their lathered-up mounts slowly along Main Street.

  The sheriff used his thumb to pull back both hammers of his huge buckshot-filled weapon. He felt his throat tighten as they continued to approach him.

  In the thirty years he had been the elected law in Diamond City, Hardy had never seen so many long riders together in one intimidating group before. As the dust cleared slightly, his eyes focused on the unshaven faces of the emotionless horsemen.

  It was like looking at the stack of wanted posters he had in his desk drawer. Every one of the men was known to him and yet he knew that the baker’s dozen was made up of men from at least five gangs.

  He looked long and hard at the distinctive gunslinger at the head of the riders. It was Henry Jardine, a man who had plied his evil trade for almost as many years as the sheriff had defended the law. To Jardine’s right rode Luther Cole. Cole was a bald man who never wore a hat. Other members of Jardine’s gang were missing. Hardy wondered if they had been killed by men who wore stars on their vests such as he.

  Then the sheriff noted the three Darrow brothers. Toke, Fern and Jade were a rugged trio of Missouri bank-robbers who had earned their reputation of being less than human.

  John Hardy’s eyes darted to Skeet Bodine and ‘Doc’ Weatherspoon who trailed the Darrow siblings. They too had once had their own gang and he found it strange that they would ride with either Jardine or the Darrows. Yet there they were in all their dust-caked glory. Defiantly steering their horses straight down the center of the street towards him.

  Rufus ‘Red’ Clayton and his cousins Jonah Clayton and ‘Snake’ Billow were to the left of Bodine.

  ‘Pop’ Lomax, Saul Bass and Clay Moore followed the rest of the horsemen, silently watching the town’s inhabitants disappearing at the sight of such unwelcome visitors. Lomax looked like a man who ought to be smoking a pipe, sitting in a rocking chair. His white bushy beard gave no clue to the deadliness he had in either of his hands. Lomax was one man who, it was said, could outdraw even Jesse James. Whether true or just myth, few had ever lived long after trying their luck against the lethal gunman.

  Thirteen riders. The remnants of five gangs. Each as brutal as the others. How had they all hooked up together, the sheriff wondered. He doubted if he would ever find out.

  Hardy eased the scattergun away from his body and aimed the double barrels in the direction of the men whom he knew were here for only one thing. They had come to strip his town bare of everything it had.

  The experienced lawman also knew that men like these would kill anyone or anything in order to achieve this goal.

  Hardy stepped down on to the bleached dust and rested the wooden stock of his scattergun on his hip as he faced the riders.

  ‘Rein in, boys!’ the sheriff ordered.

  To his surprise, the thirteen outlaws pulled back on their leathers and stopped their mounts twenty feet away from him.

  ‘Ya got a problem, Sheriff?’ Jardine asked as he eased himself up off his saddle and balanced in his stirrups.

  ‘There ain’t no room in this town for vermin, Jardine!’ the lawman replied firmly.

  Jardine smiled and then lowered himself back down on to his saddle.

  ‘But we’re only passing through. Ain’t we got the right to stop and have us a drink and get provisions?’

  ‘Nope!’ Hardy gripped the barrel of his weapon with his sweating left hand as his right index finger gently stroked the twin triggers. ‘Diamond City ain’t got nothing for your sort. I suggest you turn them nags around and keep riding.’

  ‘You wanna die, old man?’ Toke Darrow snarled. “Coz I’m always willing to oblige.’

  ‘Ease up, Toke,’ Jardine said, waving his gloved left hand at the furious outlaw. ‘The sheriff here is only doin’ his job. He don’t mean nothin’.’

  ‘I’m serious, Jardine!’ Hardy insisted. ‘I’ll kill any one of you critters that even looks like he’s going for his weapon.’

  Henry Jardine’s grin widened. He liked a man with spirit.

  ‘I’ve never been a man to argue with a cocked scattergun, Sheriff. Trouble is, my fellow riders are dry and hungry. Men can get a tad ornery when their bellies are empty and they got cactus growing on their tongues. I’d ask you again. Let us get a drink and some provisions and we’ll not kill ya.’

  Hardy glanced around the faces of the men who were staring down at him. For the first time since he first pinned a star to his vest, he felt fear overwhelming him. He stepped back and swallowed hard.

  ‘I reckon I must be loco, but OK! Go get a drink and some grub. But I want you out of my town by sundown.’

  The rest of the outlaws all began to chuckle at exactly the same time as their gloved hands turned the heads of their horses away from the lawman.

  Jardine touched the brim of his hat as he watched the scattergun being lowered.

  ‘You gotta deal,’ the outlaw said. He jabbed his spurs into the flesh of his tired horse.

  Sheriff John Hardy could not stop himself shaking as the thirteen horsemen steered their mounts away from his office and headed toward the three saloons opposite. Sweat ran like water down his face as he made his way toward the telegraph office. He knew that he needed help and it was doubtful that he would find it anywhere within the boundaries of Diamond City. There was no Texas Range
r outpost within a week’s ride, so he would have to try and enlist the assistance of someone closer.

  He had to send a wire to Waco and the marshal there.

  The sheriff stepped up on to the boardwalk into the shade and placed his soaked palm on the telegraph-office door-handle. He was about to turn it when he saw the reflection of Henry Jardine in the glass panes. The outlaw was standing beside his tall horse watching the sheriff. Jardine was no fool and knew exactly what was in the mind of the lawman.

  Reluctantly, John Hardy slowly turned and looked across the distance between them. It was obvious by the expression on the outlaw’s face what Jardine was thinking.

  Then Hardy realized that Jardine had pushed his long trail-coat over the grip of his Colt. He had already removed his gloves and was flexing the fingers above the deadly weapon. He went to raise the barrels of his scattergun when he saw the outlaw’s right hand move.

  That was the last thing Hardy ever saw.

  The deafening sound of the single shot came a split second after the bullet went through his heart. Even before his limp body fell forward and crashed face first on to the boardwalk, Jardine had holstered his smoking weapon and turned to enter the saloon with his twelve companions.

  ‘Damn good shot, Henry!’ Pop Lomax noted.

  ‘Yep. I’m always better at distance-killing, Pop.’ Jardine nodded.

  ‘Now do we rob the bank?’ Toke Darrow asked.

  ‘We got plenty of time.’ Jardine grinned. ‘Diamond City is ours now and that bank ain’t going no place!’

  Along the street net curtains moved nervously, but not one person ventured out to get a better look at the body of their solitary defender as blood poured out from the small hole in the center of Hardy’s broad chest.

  The residents of Diamond City were as nosy as most other people in similar settlements, but they knew that they would meet the town’s uninvited guests soon enough.

  None of them wished to encounter them a moment earlier than necessary.

  ~*~

  A million shadows had traced their way through the maze of remote Texan canyons as the blindingly hot sun continued to beat down on the ragged sand-colored mountain peaks. It had been the better part of nine months since anyone had set eyes upon the thin emaciated creature who had sought refuge and sanctuary in their dusty canyons, to allow his wounds to mend.

  To most of those who had last seen his burned and bloodied body as it rode slumped across the saddle horn of his trusty mount, it seemed impossible even to imagine that he could have survived.

  Yet he had survived. The faintest spark of life had still burned in his tortured carcass. It was enough to keep the tall, thin, infamous figure from falling into the bowels of Hell. A place that he knew had waited patiently for him for most of his days.

  Lucifer was never far from the thoughts of the man who had once been a hunter of animals until he found that wanted men brought far greater rewards for his deadly skills. But that felt as if it were a lifetime ago. Now he was barely able to kill enough game to feed himself. Rattlesnake poison still coursed its way through his veins like acid.

  The dry relentless wind refused to stop blowing the fine sand and dust granules through the twisting canyons. They continued to cut into what remained of the wounded man’s flesh as if nature itself had decided that it too would punish him.

  But perhaps it was this that had kept him alive against all the odds. Kept reminding him that if he could still feel the pain, it meant that he could not be dead. The incessant sand which tried to smooth off his rough edges, as it had done to the canyon rockface, never ceased its torture. It was like the stings of a million crazed hornets, but it prevented him from falling into the pit that he knew no man could ever escape from.

  The bounty hunter knew that his reputation had become almost mythical in the minds of those he had hunted so mercilessly across the vast stretches of the west. Outlaws feared the coldblooded determination of the man who, once on their trail, would never give up until he had claimed the reward on their heads. Most Indian tribes hated him even more than the outlaws did, but it was the Apache who had more reason than most to want him dead. Their mutual hatred and battles had become legendary.

  But no matter how hard any of them tried to execute their plans for destroying him, they failed. It had been said that it was impossible to kill him, because he was already dead.

  His bullet-colored eyes stared around the arid canyon where he rested his long skeletal frame. If only his enemies could see him now, he thought. They would realize how wrong they had all been.

  He had tried to muster the strength to leave this remote maze of canyons many times over the previous months. But he had failed on every single occasion.

  Even the horse that had brought him here had deserted him during one of the numerous bouts of fever that had plagued his fragile body.

  Was there no escape? Was this where it was to end?

  The bruised mind of the man who had found himself in this most unholy of places knew that he might never discover the answers to the questions he posed himself.

  He pressed his scarred face against the rocks and felt the small trickle of water touch his cracked lips. From somewhere far above him, water defied the searing heat, traced its way down over the uneven surface and soaked into the sand beside him.

  It was all he had between life and death, but he had survived on less.

  The unbearable heat of the days was matched equally by the freezing cold of the nights and yet it had only been three days since the disheveled bounty hunter had started to notice.

  Suddenly something caught his eye.

  A snake appeared a few feet from his outstretched legs, winding its way through the hot sand. He instinctively drew one of his Navy Colts from his belt, cocked its hammer and fired in a mere heartbeat.

  The bullet severed the head of the sidewinder with lethal accuracy. The man dropped the smoking weapon, then crawled towards the snake’s body. His bony left hand plucked it off the sand. He dragged his long-bladed Bowie knife from the neck of his right mule-eared boot and started expertly to skin the viper.

  Once again he had managed to kill his supper and knew that he would survive another day.

  The razor sharp teeth tore at the flesh of the snake and started to chew.

  Iron Eyes was still alive!

  Chapter One

  There was trouble spreading unchecked across the West like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. Like a cancer devouring every decent particle of humanity until there was little left except vain hope. No tidal wave could have caused so much destruction or despair. It seemed that no town however large or small could do anything to prevent the inevitable arrival of the well-armed gangs of outlaws. Totally outnumbered by the vermin who preyed on the innocent souls who had worked hard to create what little civilization there was in the West, the law found itself helpless.

  Only the most experienced, dedicated and fearless of lawmen remained to face the outlaws, yet even they could not understand what was happening.

  For some inexplicable reason the most ruthless of desperadoes appeared to have lost all fear of the law itself. It was if they believed themselves immune to any possible chance of retribution. The remnants of every gang that had plagued Texas and its borders with neighboring territories had merged into larger, more disciplined outfits.

  They appeared to consider themselves indestructible.

  Yet even this did not explain the question which dogged the lawmen. Why should the gangs suddenly have found the courage to ride by day as well as night? To throw caution to the wind and defy the men with the stars pinned to their vests, was unheard of in the short bloody history of this still wild land.

  It was as if they knew that the one man who could have stopped them, was gone. Gone forever.

  For the most fearful of creatures to stalk outlaws had never been the posse, it had been the bounty hunter! And of that rare ruthless breed, the most deadly and infamous had vanished.


  Iron Eyes had disappeared!

  Marshal Lane Clark had been a lawman for twenty or more years and had never been faced with so many pleas for help from so many sheriffs in so many towns.

  What had changed?

  The veteran lawman knew that something must have altered for the scum of the West to have crawled out from under their rocks with such an abundance of disregard for retribution.

  But what had changed?

  Why were the outlaws now unafraid?

  They were not a breed of man that ever boasted about their bravery. Outlaws by their sheer nature were the most cowardly of creatures. Relying on their skills with weaponry and the ability to back-shoot with no remorse.

  Yet now it seemed as if they were more than willing to let folks know of their exploits. They were almost bragging out loud about their deeds to all and sundry.

  It made no sense to the marshal as he stared at the dozens of telegraph wires that he had received from the neighboring towns around his Waco office.

  Lane Clark was troubled and it showed in every line upon his weathered face. He had witnessed the problem growing for the best part of a year and could neither understand it or work out what he ought to do.

  Two score years and he felt like a rookie who was still wet behind his ears.

  He had tried and failed to stem the flow of lawlessness with every power at his disposal, but he had failed. It was as if he were attempting to prevent a dam from rupturing. But it was not mere water that was washing away the innocent people who relied upon him and his like. It was countless bloodthirsty outlaws killing, stealing and doing whatever they pleased who were destroying the fragile landscape.

  The office doorway burst open and drew the marshal’s attention to the gasping telegraph officer before him.

  ‘I got me a wire here, Lane!’ Olin Turner said, holding the small scrap of paper in his shaking hand until the lawman took it and started to read its words. ‘I don’t like it. It’s wrong!’

  ‘What ya mean?’ Clark muttered.