by Rory Black
‘Turn around and face me, Iron Eyes.’
Iron Eyes looked up into the long mirror hanging behind the array of glasses and bottles. The face was like so many faces he had seen over the years, an angry, and tortured face snarling for vengeance for something Iron eyes had done to a loved one.
‘Turn around, you snake,’ the voice screamed at Iron Eyes’ spine.
Iron Eyes shook his head as he watched the figure’s reflection.
‘I don’t know you, do I?’
‘Turn and face me, you yellow bastard,’ the voice commanded once more.
There seemed to be an empty void in the centre of the saloon as the people spread to either side of the pair. The bounty hunter eased himself away from the bar and rested his wrists on its wet wooden rim as he narrowed his eyes and glared at the mirror. There had been so many photographic images on so many wanted posters over the years. This youngster could have been kin to any of them.
‘I ain’t hankering to kill you, boy,’ Iron Eyes growled earnestly above the sound of nervous people trying to put as much distance between these two figures as the saloon’s dimensions allowed. From the corner of his left eye, the tall skeletal figure spied several customers climbing up the stairs to where rooms were rented for ten minutes at a stretch.
‘You always need a reward to kill, Iron Eyes?’ the youth taunted.
‘I don’t kill for pleasure,’ Iron Eyes replied. ‘Never have, never will.’
‘When I kill you, the world will laugh out loud.’
The tall, grim-faced man slowly turned to face the shouting voice. What he saw through his long limp black hair gave him cause to feel uneasy. It was a kid of maybe sixteen or possibly less, a freckled-faced youth.
‘Go away, son. I ain’t for killing babies.’
‘I ain’t going no place. Not until I kill you.’ The voice was confident but foolish.
‘It ain’t gonna happen that way,’ Iron Eyes warned, as he saw a hand resting upon the top of the swing doors. It was the hand of Sheriff Bass.
‘You just a tad scared? Was you scared when you bushwhacked my brother in San Remo?’
Iron Eyes’ brain raced as he tried to recall who he had killed in San Remo. Then a name filtered into his memory and then over his cracked lips.
‘Sam Harper.’
The kid began nodding as he rested his small hand upon the grip of his gun and stepped closer.
‘Sam was no outlaw. You still killed him, though.’
‘He had a bounty, son.’ Iron Eyes gritted his teeth on the cigar and sucked in its smoke as he stared hard at the distraught figure before him.
‘You ain’t human,’ the boy’s voice cracked as he spoke.
‘You’re right, boy. I ain’t even close to being human,’ Iron Eyes grunted.
The swing doors opened and the sheriff stepped into the light of the saloon before pausing, a rifle cradled in his arms.
‘Johnny.’
The youngster cast a look at the elderly man and then spat at the sawdust angrily as he continued inching forward.
‘Back off, Johnny. This ain’t a man you can lick.’ The sheriff’s voice was raised but to no avail. The kid kept on moving in on the tall bounty hunter.
‘Iron Eyes is gonna die tonight.’ The boy was shaking as he moved and spoke. Now he could not do anything but continue. It had gone too far.
Bass took another step and turned his attention to the motionless bounty hunter.
‘Iron Eyes?’ The name hung like a question on the smoke which drifted from the cigar gripped in the frozen face.
Iron Eyes straightened up and raised both his hands to hip level as he glared into the face of the kid who got closer with every heartbeat.
‘No.’ The word bounced off the walls of the saloon.
Suddenly the youth began dragging his pistol from its holster as he yelled out in a pain only those who have had grief touch their souls could understand.
Iron Eyes’ hands turned inward as he pulled the Navy Colts from his belt and swung their lethal barrels out.
As the boy’s gun fired, the two Navy Colts spat out their anger in two blinding flashes.
The gunsmoke choked the air as Bass gripped his rifle in shock at the speed the weaponry had been drawn and used. The sheriff stayed glued to the spot as the air slowly cleared, allowing him to see the result of the showdown. Before his eyes could see, his ears heard the shrieking coming from the lad he knew as Johnny Harper. Waiting until he was certain it was safe, Sheriff Bass hovered, looking from one side to the next.
To his right, Iron Eyes stood silently, sliding the guns back into his belt. To his left, Bass saw the figure of the youngster on his knees holding his wrist as blood dripped onto the sawdust-covered floor.
Moving closer to the expressionless figure, the sheriff snarled up into the scarred face hidden behind the matted hair and acrid cigar smoke.
‘You had to shoot him, didn’t ya?’ Bass snorted.
Iron Eyes pulled the cigar from his mouth and focused on his victim over the lawman’s head.
‘Look harder, Bass.’
Bass stood confused as the tall man turned back to the bar and poured himself another whiskey. Stepping up to the sobbing youngster, Bass began to feel sick as his eyes noted the index finger on the floor beside the pistol amid the pool of fresh blood.
Straightening up, Bass called to the customers, ‘Take Johnny to the doc’s place.’
Iron Eyes downed another couple of glasses of his whiskey before moving away from the bar and out onto the boardwalk in the fresh air. He waited for a few moments whilst the familiar footsteps of the sheriff followed him out into the darkness and began trailing him up the street. Pausing when he was directly opposite the hotel, Iron Eyes adjusted the hefty bags on his shoulder as the law officer drew level with him.
‘I don’t get it. Explain,’ Bass snapped.
‘I shot off his trigger finger. What’s to explain, Bass?’
Why do that?’
Iron Eyes stepped down onto the dusty street and moved slowly with the older man at his side.
‘His brother was vermin, Bass. I killed him for the bounty and it’s as simple as that. The kid ain’t got no bounty on his head so I did him a favor.’
‘Shooting off his trigger finger is a favor?’ Bass stepped up onto the boardwalk outside the hotel and sighed heavily as the thin man moved beside him still sucking on the weed and spitting out tobacco leaf.
‘Now he’ll either have to learn to shoot with his left hand, or maybe he’ll stay honest.’ Iron Eyes watched as the handful of men led Johnny Harper out of the saloon and off into the night seeking a doctor.
‘He fired first. I saw that, Iron Eyes.’ Bass nodded as he spoke.
Iron Eyes grinned as he stepped into the light of the hotel and strode away towards the wide staircase.
It was only as Sheriff Bass was about to head off towards his office, that he saw something catching the lamplight at his feet. Kneeling, the lawman touched one of the many spots of scarlet which traced across the hotel foyer, and rubbed it between his fingers. It was blood.
It was Iron Eyes’ blood.
Chapter Five
Sheriff Bass stood out in the street staring at the trail of blood left in Iron Eyes’ wake for ten minutes before crossing the foyer past the clerk and ascending the staircase. With each step up the threadbare carpeting, small dots of fresh blood sparkled in the light of the oil lamps guiding his route. Bass could not conceive why the tall stranger Iron Eyes would allow himself to be wounded without dispatching the perpetrator to Boot Hill. The weary sheriff closed in on the door with the faded number 45 painted on its cracked surface and knocked.
‘Who is it?’ the voice asked through the door.
‘It’s Bass.’
It ain’t locked,’ Iron Eyes shouted loudly.
Bass turned the handle and entered the dark room lit by a single lamp with its wick turned down to its lowest notch. At first the lawman’s eyes did n
ot see the man he sought, but as he swung his head around towards the window, he spied the silhouette seated on the edge of the bed, his head slumped over his knees. Cautiously, Bass walked across the room towards the figure. As Bass reached the side of the bed, he noticed Iron Eyes was stripped to the waist facing the lantern. With the long black hair hanging limply to his knees, it was difficult to see the face most men would ride a thousand miles to avoid.
‘Mind if I turn the wick up a tad, Iron Eyes?’ Bass said, stepping over the man’s mule-ear boots and twisting the brass screw on the side of the oil lamp. The room quickly brightened up.
The sight which was suddenly bathed in light shocked the lawman as he turned to face the silent bounty hunter. Iron Eyes had taken off his shirt for a reason: the bullet wound had torn the flesh away from between his two lower right ribs. It was a mean injury. Blood ran down from the gash freely as Iron Eyes stared down at the wound.
‘Damn,’ Bass gasped, as he sat down next to the silent man and inspected the gunshot injury.
‘It’s just a graze, Bass,’ Iron Eyes sighed. ‘I’ve had worse.’
‘I’ll get the doc.’
‘No need for a quack. Get what’s left of the whiskey.’ Iron Eyes nodded in the direction of the window where the bottle rested; an inch of amber liquor glistened in the lamplight.
Bass reached across and handed the bottle to Iron Eyes who pulled out the cork with his teeth and spat it away.
‘What you gonna do?’ Bass asked, as he saw the pain carve its way through the bounty hunter’s grim features.
‘Do me another favor, Bass?’ Iron Eyes stared hard at the sheriff as sweat poured off his face.
‘Name it, boy’ The sheriff swallowed hard as his eyes were drawn to the blood running freely from the man’s side onto the bedding.
‘Get my knife and get it hot over the lamp glass.’
‘Where is your knife, Iron Eyes?’ Bass looked around the scene, unable to locate anything resembling a knife.
‘My right boot leg,’ Iron Eyes replied as he held onto the bottle trying to will the pain away.
Sheriff Bass leaned over and saw the well secreted handle of the Bowie knife resting in the tall mule ear boot and retrieved it.
‘What you intending to do, boy?’
‘Just heat up that blade for a few minutes, Bass.’ Iron Eyes snorted as he carefully poured a few drops of the whiskey over his bleeding wound before arching in pain. A thousand swords could not have caused more agonizing torture, he thought.
Bass removed the glass off the lamp globe and ran the blade of the deadly knife in the licking flame until he could see it was hot.
‘It’s good and hot.’
‘Hot as the Devil’s spit?’
‘Reckon so.’
Iron Eyes held out his thin arm and took the knife from the sheriff and quickly placed its long blade across the wound. The skin sizzled and smoke rose into both their nostrils. Burning flesh blistered long after the blade had been removed from the gaping gash.
Iron Eyes bent forward when he released the knife and dropped it to the floor. Sheriff Bass stared at the knife as it swayed back and forth between the two mule ear boots, its blade buried an inch into the wooden boards.
‘You stopped the bleeding, Iron Eyes,’ Bass announced, staring at the pitifully thin body of the man bent double in agony.
Slowly, the head hidden beneath the long black hair rose as Iron Eyes felt his wits returning to him. For a few moments, he just sat breathing heavily as he focused on the window before them.
‘You okay?’ Bass asked in a hushed voice.
The head covered in limp black tresses turned and the cold gray pupils burned into Bass.
‘Just dandy, Bass. Just dandy,’ Iron Eyes replied spitting at the floor.
‘I still don’t understand you,’ Bass admitted.
‘There ain’t nothing to understand.’
Bass shook his head.
‘Quit the bull. You got yourself shot and yet you didn’t kill the stupid kid who did it.’
‘I told you, there was no reward money on him.’ Iron Eyes sat fully upright and glanced down at his wound before looking at what remained in the whiskey bottle.
‘The Iron Eyes who is feared throughout the West would have killed him.’ Bass raised an eyebrow and glared at the man seated next to him.
‘Who says?’
‘You sure that you’re the famous Iron Eyes?’ Bass watched as Iron Eyes hoisted the bottle, sucking the liquid into his dry mouth and swallowing before lowering it once again.
‘You know of any other man tough enough to do what I just done, Bass?’ There was a fire back in the cold eyes. Suddenly he was beginning to sound and look like his old self once again.
‘Nope. Reckon not,’ Bass shrugged.
Iron Eyes rubbed his hand over the neck of the bottle and handed it to the lawman.
‘Drink?’
Bass accepted the bottle and nodded. Iron Eyes watched as the sheriff downed the remaining few drops of the liquor before speaking again.
‘I’ve been thinking about them two well-heeled dudes in the saloon this afternoon.’
Bass stared hard at the thin man who looked straight at him with piercing accuracy.
‘Ain’t you had enough for one day, boy?’
Iron Eyes stood and looked at his blood-soaked shirt before grabbing his long coat off the bedpost and slowly putting it on over his naked torso.
‘It’s still early by my reckoning, Sheriff.’
Bass stepped around the bed and looked at the pale man carefully tucking his guns into his belt and walking toward the door.
‘Where in tarnation are you heading?’
‘To get another bottle of whiskey and take me a hard look at your wanted posters, Bass.’
‘Wanted posters? What for?’
‘I just recalled something about those two men.’
‘What?’
‘Their faces are branded into my memory, Bass. They gotta be wanted for something; I’d like to know what.’
Sheriff Bass walked in the wake of the tall man.
‘You taking the saddlebags with you?’
Iron Eyes pulled the room key from his pocket and shook his head as he slid it into the lock.
‘Not this time.’
‘What if somebody steals your bankroll?’ Bass raised an eyebrow and gazed hard at the sweating man.
‘I don’t give a damn,’ Iron Eyes grunted as he made his way stiffly down the landing toward the stairs. ‘Besides, if anyone does I’ll kill them.’
Bass pulled the brim of his Stetson down over his brow and trailed the injured man. He noticed with every step, Iron Eyes seemed to loosen up and get taller. Flicking his long raven hair over his collar, Iron Eyes almost ran down the stairs toward the hotel lobby.
Chapter Six
It was a quarter before one in the morning by the large wooden clock hanging next to the cells inside the sheriff’s office when Iron Eyes finally found the second of the two posters he knew had to be amongst the dozens covered in dust on the large desk. Bass had been dozing in his chair for nearly an hour as the bounty hunter carefully inspected each and every one of the wanted posters with an expertise uncommon in his chosen profession. Lifting the half-empty bottle of whiskey to his lips he swilled the powerful brew around his mouth before swallowing.
The four words he always looked for were printed boldly in black ink at the head of both posters.
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE.
Studying the words, Iron Eyes began to remember he had seen these same images two years earlier when he had been trailing another outlaw through town after town.
The first outlaw was called Frank Lewis; the second, Ben Tyler. Both wanted for murder and bank robbery, plus a dozen other crimes.
Replacing the cork in the bottle and sliding it into one of his deep pockets, Iron Eyes carefully folded the posters up before moving to the door. Pausing for a few seconds, the hunter gazed across at the snoring
sheriff before exiting the building quietly.
The long stride seemed unaffected by his wound as he walked quickly back to the hotel. Entering the large dimly illuminated lobby, Iron Eyes walked up to the desk and stared down at the clerk - sleeping peacefully in a soft, heavily padded chair behind it.
Swinging the register around, Iron Eyes glared down at the names entered after his. There was only one; a female.
The bounty hunter unfolded the pair of posters and then began hitting the bell until the sleeping man awoke.
‘Mr. Iron Eyes,’ the clerk mumbled as he got to his feet and rubbed the sleep from his bloodshot eyes.
Ramming the posters under the clerk’s nose, Iron Eyes growled softly, ‘You seen these two varmints?’
The tired man shook his head as he studied the pictures.
‘No, sir. Why? Are they in Rio Vista?’
If they happen along and check in to your hotel, come and tell me straight away.’ Iron Eyes pushed the posters down into his pocket and leaned on the wooden counter. His naked chest heaved as he wondered about their present whereabouts.
‘Of course, sir,’ the clerk babbled. ‘Are they dangerous?’
‘Yep. They’re killers.’
The small clerk aimlessly shuffled at some papers on the desk as he found his attention drawn to the scarred body visible beneath the open trail coat.
‘What you damn well looking at?’ Iron Eyes snarled.
‘Where’s your shirt, Mr. Iron Eyes?’ the small man asked, pointing a shaking finger at the bare flesh above the grips of his Navy Colts.
‘It got kinda ruined,’ Iron Eyes replied sharply, lighting yet another cigar.
‘Do you require a new shirt?’
Iron Eyes sucked in the smoke and then nodded.
‘Yep. Send it up in the morning about seven, and I want a cooked breakfast.’