Blood of Iron Eyes (6 page)

Territorial Governor John Masterson was an honourable soul of honest conviction. Unfortunately the man who had been sent from Washington DC to act as his secretary had no such virtue. Herbert Carmichael had lived his entire adult life trying to make America not only bigger, but better. It was also an ambition he had
designated
for himself. Few unelected men in
government
had grown as prosperous as Carmichael himself. He had entered the civil service as a twenty-five-year-old straight out of college and achieved a meteoric rise to success. Carmichael had learned early how to manipulate the rules which governed politics. Rules were made to be bent to one’s advantage, and he had no equal when it came to such matters. He had grown wealthy far beyond what his salary should have allowed, yet there were few in Washington DC who would have dared question the integrity of their
peers. When you live in glass houses, it is never wise to throw stones. Even his enemies knew that you never pointed an accusing finger at anyone, for fear it might seek you out next.

Carmichael had been quicker than most of his contemporaries to realize the financial possibilities of exploiting the expanding West, and how
someone
in his position could profit from encouraging it.

For years he had tried to turn every available territory into a new state, whatever the cost. He was a single-minded soul who had little truck with those who had sympathy for the Indians who had once occupied the vast land beyond the Appalachians. Tribe after tribe were cast aside to satisfy his ambition. To the ignorant Easterners the Indians were nothing but savages. They deserved no favours from the superior white man.

He knew how to exploit the fears of his fellow man, how to get them to turn a blind eye to any atrocities. It was something which came naturally to the majority of them. At least a third of the
senators
had at one time owned slaves.

The heart of America was a land that Carmichael considered the perfect place to send the East coast’s surplus population.

Turn a territory into a state and you could tax the majority who clawed out an existence there. Carmichael had many friends who would tender their bids to him for government contracts to 
‘tame’ the wilderness with the knowledge that they would be successful.

Carmichael always granted contracts to those companies that had been generous to him. For nearly thirty years he had learned how to work the system. It did not matter to him who was crushed underfoot in the process.

There was not a single sympathetic bone in
fifty-four
-year-old Carmichael’s body. To him, it was just business. Dirty business, but business all the same. He was no better or worse than the rest of his kind.

He was just a lot shrewder.

Secretary Carmichael saw the financial
possibilities
that expansion could bring, not just to the government, but mainly to himself. He was no better than the territories’ criminals whom he had publicly vowed to cast out and destroy.

At least the gamblers, conmen and killers who had been driven into one territory after another, fleeing civilization, had been brave enough to risk their lives in their pursuit of riches.

Carmichael, however, hid behind the flag and pretended to be patriotic.

In truth, he was just another thief.

Once again Carmichael had managed to convince the authorities back East that he was the man for the job of helping Governor Masterson bring civilization to yet another massive chunk of American acreage. The job of convincing the people within another territory that joining the 
Union and embracing statehood would be good for them was something at which he had already been successful. Carmichael would omit telling any of them that once Arizona became a state, it would come under the control of faceless
bureaucrats
thousands of miles away.

Freedom as they had known it would no longer exist.

Herbert Carmichael had a lot riding on success in his latest mission. He had already accepted the advance gifts and money the tenderers had
showered
on him upon his agreeing that he would ensure their bids were on top of the pile when the government contracts were dished out.

All he had to do now was get Arizona to go, unwittingly, along with his proposals.

As always when he entered lawless territories, Carmichael was escorted by a troop of well-armed cavalry. No fewer than forty of the seasoned Seventh had flanked either side of his carriage all the way from Fort Bragg.

He sat inside his handsome conveyance with his only child, Florence for company. The
nineteen-year-old
had no idea why she had been enlisted to accompany her father on this important visit. She assumed, as most loving children do, that her father was proud of her and wanted to show her off. Florence was indeed a beautiful female.

In truth, the heartless Carmichael wanted his daughter as nothing more than a human shield. 
She would be sacrificed if the need arose. He knew that even the most ruthless of outlaws would rarely fire a gun at their worst enemies if a handsome female was close at hand.

Women were far too scarce in the Wild West. To risk shooting one by accident was unthinkable.

The vehicle that Carmichael had commissioned to be built was not what it appeared to be. From the outside it looked as though it was of wooden construction. The carriage was in fact made of cast iron and had been covered with a thin veneer of wooden panels. It weighed three times as much as an ordinary stagecoach. Six sturdy horses were required to pull its immense weight, and even then the animals could barely cover twenty miles in a day.

Carmichael had planned their route and ensured that on each night of their long overland journey he and his escort would take refuge in one of the many stagecoach way stations which were dotted across the vast desert and plains.

Captain Bob Sherwood led his troop and the hefty well-armoured carriage down through a dusty draw into the flat plains toward the Overland Stage Company outpost at Apache Wells. The sun was low. Sherwood knew that the six-horse team was again exhausted from pulling the massive vehicle.

Carmichael watched from inside the carriage with a satisfied smile upon his face. He could see 
the flaming torches on the high-walled way station, indicating that darkness would soon be with them again. Tomorrow they would reach the fertile range filled with a multitude of cattle. A jewel in the crown of the mainly arid territory.

He knew the risks that he faced when he
eventually
reached his destination. They were
formidable
. There were always scores of wealthy men who wanted nothing to do with relinquishing their hold on what they believed was theirs.

They would do anything to stop him.

This was why he travelled inside a bullet-proof carriage.

But even though the risks were immense, Carmichael knew the rewards made it all
worth-while
.

Carmichael had accepted far too many bribes for this venture to fail. There was no way that he would have even considered paying back all the dirty money he had accumulated. He had to succeed. There was no other option.

Yet if he had known anything of Brewster Fontaine he might have not been quite so eager to reach the settlement of Hope. He might have
realized
that his military escort was barely half the strength of Fontaine’s hired army of guns.

As the carriage and forty cavalrymen entered the way station’s compound, Carmichael knew that he was less than twenty-four hours away from lush grassland.

The final leg of their perilous journey was almost upon them.

Only a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep lay between them and a fate which had yet to be devised in the ruthless minds of men who were quite as evil as himself.

A million twinkling stars hung over the sprawling town casting their eerie light over everything below. Iron Eyes had slept since eating the stale, mould-covered bread the old female had given him. For three hours Bessie Cooper had sat at the foot of the bed and listened to the tortured ramblings which spewed from the lips of her patient. Iron Eyes had fought against the fevered nightmares which had haunted him since he succumbed to the long overdue sleep.

The small shack was dark. Its only illumination came from the dim light that flickered from the wick inside the glass bowl of the battered
oill-antern
on the table. Yet there might have well been no light at all. One of the shack’s occupants was deep in sleep whilst the other had eyes which could barely tell night from day.

She wondered what the man who had been ravaged by fever for so many hours actually looked
like. Everyone she met nowadays was merely a voice and a hazy outline of muted colour. Her ancient eyes could only see vague shapes which were masked by a milky film. Yet she had sensed something in his quiet, low voice that reminded her of another man. A man who had been her only true love and who had died more than twenty years earlier. A broken heart still ached inside her weary body.

Her life had been hard. Bessie had worked, as all pioneer wives did, in an unforgiving land. She had seen only one of her thirteen children live to beyond his tenth birthday. Teddy was all she had, and to her he was precious. Indians and illness had destroyed everything she had ever loved with the exception of her son.

Yet she did not complain.

Even crippled and getting blinder with every passing day, there was nothing powerful enough to make this female seek refuge in self-pity.

Bessie was stronger than that.

She had sat patting the delirious bounty hunter’s boot for hours since he had slipped into the deep sleep. A million memories flooded her mind. She had sat helplessly beside so many of her children until they had lost their individual battles with the Grim Reaper. Then it had been her husband’s turn to be struck down in his prime.

So many unmarked graves filled her memory.

Yet she remained defiantly calm because even 
with eyes which could no longer see, the faces of all her cherished family still lived inside her mind.

Suddenly Bessie’s attention was drawn from the helpless man on her son’s bed to the door and what lay beyond it. She heard the familiar
footsteps
approaching the shack.

Bessie Cooper inhaled and smiled as the door opened.

‘Teddy!’ she sighed.

‘You OK, Ma?’ Cooper asked as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. He stared at the
sweat-soaked
figure, then dragged the chair across the earthen floor and sat beside his mother. ‘I see ya met my new pal.’

‘He was hurt, Teddy,’ Bessie said. ‘He was burnin’ up with fever so I give him some mouldy bread. He’s bin sleepin’ ever since.’

Cooper looked up and down the long emaciated figure. His gaze rested when he spotted the torn pants leg and the inflamed wound that Iron Eyes had burned into submission with the red-hot poker. The bartender gritted his teeth and shook his head.

‘Ya reckon he’ll pull through, Ma?’

‘I don’t rightly know, son.’ She sighed, patting the boot once more. ‘I think he’s got a fifty-fifty chance. What’s he do for a livin’, boy?’

‘He’s a bounty hunter, Ma,’ Cooper whispered. ‘He took on Fontaine’s best men and killed two dozen of the critters.’

She gasped.

‘He did? But he seems so gentle. His voice is so peaceful. I think they must have picked on him! He don’t seem the kinda man that starts trouble.’

Cooper smiled.

‘That there man is as tough as they gets, Ma. His name’s Iron Eyes!’

‘I know his name, Teddy. He told me. I thought he was an Injun for a while.’

The bounty hunter inhaled deeply and rolled his head over. He was still muttering nonsense under his breath. ‘He is a strange one, though. There ain’t an ounce of meat on his bones. I can’t figure how he ain’t died of hunger.’

Cooper nodded.

‘Damn right, Ma.’

‘No cussin’, Teddy!’

‘Sorry,’ Cooper apologized. ‘I ought to make us a little grub. I figure we could all do with a full belly.’

Iron Eyes raised his right hand and pushed the long sweat-soaked strands of hair off his face. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and then fixed on the two other occupants of the shack.

‘What happened?’ he asked in a low drawl.

Bessie leaned forward and patted his arm. She could not conceal her joy.

‘Ya fever just broke, boy,’ she announced joyously. ‘Ya fever broke.’

Cooper walked from the stove to the bed. He 
looked down at the confused bounty hunter.

‘How’d ya feel, Iron Eyes?’

‘Better than I did, Ted.’

‘Teddy’s gonna fix us some vittles!’ Bessie said. ‘He can cook up a feast out of thin air. When you’ve had somethin’ to eat, you’ll feel a heck of a lot better.’

Iron Eyes propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Cooper.

‘They still lookin’ for me, Ted?’ he asked.

Cooper pushed more kindling into the stove.

‘They found themselves a bigger target, Iron Eyes! A government dude from back East. Some critter named Carmichael that’s bin sent to try and persuade the folks in Arizona to vote for
statehood
! That has to be a dude headed for Boot Hill and no mistake!’

‘Fontaine must be mighty afraid of losin’ his grip on this territory.’ Iron Eyes sighed.

‘More than afraid, Iron Eyes,’ Ted said. ‘He’s terrified of losin’ his fortune! Everythin’ he’s got is tied up in this territory! His sort ain’t worth a plugged nickel outside Arizona!’

‘Are ya sure that they’re gonna kill this Carmichael dude?’ The bounty hunter was
curious
.

‘Yep! I heard them talkin’ in the Spinnin’ Wheel. Fontaine and his boys are gonna dress up as Injuns and attack Carmichael’s coach.’ Cooper repeated the information that he had overheard in 
the saloon. ‘It’s got a military escort, but they’re gonna ambush it anyways!’

‘As long as they stop huntin’ my hide for a while, I don’t care!’ Iron Eyes said. ‘I still ain’t got my bounty money though, and that makes it darn hard to just ride out of here!’

‘Ya ain’t still gonna try and get that money, is ya?’ Cooper gasped.

‘Yep!’ Iron Eyes nodded. ‘I earned it and a whole lot more if ya tally up the bounty on them dead gunslingers. I reckon every single one of them was wanted dead or alive.’

‘But they’ll kill ya!’

Iron Eyes shook his head.

‘So ya said that they’ve forgotten all about killin’ me, Ted Cooper!’

Cooper picked up a skillet and placed it on top of the stove. Then he turned.

‘Nope! They intend killin’ you after they’ve killed Carmichael!’

Iron Eyes sat up.

‘Reckon I’d better do somethin’ about that!’ he drawled. Cooper stared in disbelief at the bounty hunter.

‘Are ya loco?’

‘When ya got a bunch of gunslingers on ya trail, ya gotta do somethin’, Ted,’ Iron Eyes explained. ‘Ya gotta turn on them first! They started this war, but I’ll finish it!’

‘After ya vittles, boy!’ Bessie waved a finger. ‘Ya 
ain’t doin’ nothin’ until ya belly is full! Savvy?’

Iron Eyes nodded to the blind female and then touched her cheek softly.

‘Sure, ma’am! I savvy!’