The Curse of Iron Eyes (4 page)

In very different ways,
the two blood-drenched men were warriors. Each had learned to kill
so long ago that neither knew any other way to exist.

It was part of what
they were. They killed. Without emotion or regret, they simply
killed.

Blood trailed across
the white sand around the two men. Iron Eyes knew that he had been
caught more than a dozen times by the lethal Apache blade yet he
continued fighting. His own Bowie knife had slashed the painted
flesh of the smaller, more agile Indian as many times.

The two bleeding men
circled one another leaving trails of crimson droplets on the hot
sand. There was nothing now in their fevered minds except
death.

Each was equally
confident in his own ability to destroy the other.

Iron Eyes knew that he
had an advantage, being far taller than the warrior before him, but
this was no protection against the darting knife that ripped at his
already shredded shirt.

The
Apache slashed out with the knife again. Its honed tip sliced
through the bounty hunter’s sleeve. Iron Eyes could feel even more
blood trailing down his arm.

There
was only one way to have a chance of killing this foe, and it
required that he used his superior height. Fighting up close meant
giving the smaller man a target he could not miss and the multitude
of bleeding wounds on the torso of Iron Eyes were testament to the
warrior’s skill.

The Apache leapt once
again toward his tall, ghostlike target and used his knife
again.

Iron Eyes kicked out at
the Apache and forced him backward once again. He glanced down at
his right hand and saw the bloody gash across the back of it.

Keeping his keen eyes
on the crouching figure before him, the bounty hunter switched his
knife into his left hand, then slipped out of his long trail coat
and dropped it on to the blood-soaked sand.

There
was nothing in the face opposite him to give Iron Eyes any hint of
what the skilled warrior would do next. But he knew that whatever
it was, it would hurt. Just as every one of the countless other
bleeding wounds also hurt. It felt as if half the surface of his
skin had been attacked by crazed hornets.

Iron Eyes was angry
with himself for not being able to finish this straightaway. He had
missed the opportunity to kill the Indian swiftly. Now he was
paying with blood for that mistake.

Crimson gore trailed
from the numerous gashes all over the tall man as he stared at the
wounds of his deadly foe. He too was covered in the vicious scars
of their encounter. So far, they seemed to have inflicted an equal
number of injuries on each other, neither man having been able to
administer one last lethal strike.

Iron Eyes took a step
backward and then moved his feet behind his discarded coat.

He had somehow to use
his greater height and reach if he were to kill this man. If he did
not, he knew that it would be the Apache who would triumph.

The
crouching Indian leaned forward and charged for the umpteenth time.
The sun flashed across the knife blade which was held high above
the warrior’s head.

Iron Eyes knew he had
to act swiftly.

He scooped the
toe-point of his right boot under the coat and kicked it up into
the air between them. The coat was heavy with the bullets which
filled its deep pockets, but it still rose just high enough to hit
the charging warrior in his face and stop his advance.

The
Indian staggered for a few seconds, but it was more than enough
time for the bounty hunter to act.

He
strode across the sand and kicked at the Apache. He caught the
near-naked brave low and watched the man’s head drop. The second
kick caught the warrior in his face.

Before the stunned
Apache hit the sand, Iron Eyes had buried the full length of his
Bowie knife-blade into him.

Iron
Eyes twisted the deadly dagger and heard the shocked gasp come from
his victim’s mouth. He could feel the air leaving the burst lung
over his hand as they both hit the ground.

He withdrew the
blood-covered blade and then stabbed his opponent again and again.
There was a madness in the frenzied attack but the bounty hunter
wanted to ensure that he had finally finished off this
opponent.

Iron
Eyes continued ramming the knife into the helpless warrior’s chest
long after the man was dead.

For the first time in
his entire life, Iron Eyes had come within a whisker of being
defeated in combat. It was a situation that he found hard to
understand.

When
the pupils of his cold gray eyes focused at last on the dead body
beneath him, he rose quickly to his feet and turned away. He
staggered back to his coat and lifted it off the hot sun-baked
sand. Then paused.

He
stared all around him at the lifeless bodies which were strewn
across the white sand.

Iron Eyes slid the
knife back into the neck of his right boot and then hauled the
heavy trail coat on to his bleeding body. He staggered around,
looked down at his dead pony lying where it had fallen only a few
minutes earlier.

Then he concentrated on
the closest Indian pony.

It
took every ounce of his remaining strength to remove the coiled
rope off his saddle and face the scattered Indian mounts. He knew
that he had to try and capture one of the fallen warriors’ ponies
if he were to carry on in pursuit after the elusive Harve Calhoon
and escape this place.

Slowly he began to spin
the rope above his head.

He then recalled the
rider who had been following him.

Even though he knew
that it might take the rider an hour to reach this spot, there was
no time to waste. He had to capture one of the nervous mounts and
ride out of here before that rider caught up with him.

For the first time in
his brutal existence, Iron Eyes did not want to fight. He was
exhausted and needed time to heal. There had been enough blood
spilled this day and a lot of it was his own.

The
rope was spinning above his head faster and faster as he glared at
his chosen target. He unleashed the rope and watched its twirling
loop encircle the neck of the closest of the painted ponies. He
pulled on the rope and watched its loop tighten around the horse’s
neck.

Slowly he began to draw
the creature towards him.

It was
known as Devil’s Pass. It had earned the name long before any of
the men who rode across its blazing-hot sand between the high,
narrow canyon walls were born. Even the once numerous Apache knew
better than to spend too long in the place which, it was said, had
been created by the Devil himself to capture lost souls.

For this was a place
where nothing lived for long. It had a thousand ways to kill and it
had used them all on the unwary.

Situated less than a score of miles away from the Seventh
Cavalry’s most westerly outpost, Fort Dixon, Devil’s Pass was the
only direct route to Waco from the north. Yet even so, few ventured
into its deadly canyons which stretched for scores of lifeless
miles. There were safer routes that encircled the entire region and
had dozens of smaller trails leading to various other towns
situated on the edge of the territory.

But
for all its hidden dangers, Devil’s Pass still provided a short cut
to those who dared to enter its unforgiving canyons. There was
always someone either ignorant or foolhardy enough to risk his life
by venturing into it.

The
nervous platoon seldom rode into Devil’s Pass, because of its
deadly reputation, but on this day, it had done so. For some reason
that only Captain Hugh Wallis was privy to, they had been ordered
to ride straight through its winding hot canyons.

Each man in the cavalry
wondered why. What could be so important? Only Wallis knew the
answer and he was saying nothing.

His orders had been
sealed when they had left Fort Dixon. He had been instructed not to
open them until he had led his men to the mouth of the great
canyon.

Whatever were the
details contained in the orders, Wallis had done exactly as they
commanded. He had then folded up the two pages and placed them in
his breast pocket.

He did not reveal
anything to the men in his command. But each of them knew that it
had to be very important for him to be leading them into this
place. Something was brewing and they could taste it on the dry
sand that blew into their mouths as they teased their mounts
on.

But what?

The
soldiers rode in columns of two and totaled more than eighty in
number. A supply wagon brought up the rear of the column and had
massive water barrels strapped to its sides. Fort Dixon had ensured
that Wallis and his men were well prepared for the mission they had
been given.

Wallis
was a seasoned officer who had been stationed at Fort Dixon for
nearly a decade. He had the reputation of being a hard man and a
cruel taskmaster, yet his men were loyal. For some men can muster
loyalty in their troops by example. Wallis was such a man. They
knew that he was one of that rare breed of commanding officers who
led from the front.

It had
been nearly three hours since the cavalry had entered the dry
canyon. For all of that time, they had seen nothing living except
the vultures that floated on the hot thermals above
them.

For
most of their number, this was the very first time that they had
even come close to Devil’s Pass, let alone ridden into it. Yet none
of them were afraid because Captain Wallis showed no
fear.

He was the yardstick by
which they measured everything. As long as he remained at the head
of their column, then everything ought to be OK. It was a simple
logic.

The
soldiers moved slowly behind Captain Wallis, who sat astride his
tall gray charger. He dictated the pace and they followed. As
always, they trusted the experienced officer. For he was not a man
to sacrifice the lives of his enlisted men.

Sergeant Hanks spurred
his weathered mount until it drew level with Wallis and then teased
back on his reins. He had done the same thing countless times
before on previous patrols, but for some reason, he knew that this
mission was different from all the others. He could sense it.

The
two horses walked side by side for more than five minutes before
the officer glanced across at the red-faced Hanks. He had known the
man with the mutton-chop side-whiskers for his entire time at Fort
Dixon. They had been on so many patrols together that they seemed
to be able to read each other’s minds.

‘
What’s wrong,
Hanks?’ Wallis eventually asked the sergeant.

Hanks looked up at the
captain.

‘
I reckon you
ought to know what’s eatin’ at my craw, Captain.’

Wallis
nodded. ‘After all these years, I think I do.’

Hanks kept staring at
the dusty trail before them. It was so bright that it hurt his
eyes. It seemed that every mile that they travelled into this
unholy place, the hotter it got. Sweat streamed down from beneath
his hatband, burning his eyes.

‘
What was in
them orders, sir?’

Captain Wallis raised
his head and laughed.

‘
Curiosity
killed the cat, Hanks.’

‘
What cat,
Captain?’ Hanks scratched his whiskers.

Wallis
patted his breast pocket. ‘My orders are for my eyes
only.’

Hanks
shrugged. ‘Must be pretty important for us to ride into this
place.’

The
officer nodded. ‘Damn important, Hanks.’

‘
We got Apache
trouble?’

Wallis glanced at the
trail ahead but did not respond to the question.

Hanks
tried again. ‘Outlaw trouble?’

Wallis glanced at the
inquisitive soldier and smiled.

‘
Quit while
you’re ahead, Hanks.’

‘
How far are we
going into Devil’s Pass, sir?’

‘
All the way
through and then some,’ Wallis replied.

Hanks
felt his throat suddenly go drier than it had already been as the
thought of travelling all the way through Devil’s Pass filled his
mind. He looked up at the face of the man who, he knew, never
joked. If Wallis said that they were going straight through Devil’s
Pass, then that was what they were going to do.

The question was:
why?

Time
was against him. He had to find a place where he could see to all
the bleeding knife-wounds before he could fight again. Iron Eyes
hauled the near-full bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags and
swilled a mouthful around his mouth before swallowing it. Then he
poured the fiery liquor over the back of his gashed right hand and
chest and stomach. The whiskey burned but he knew that it might
help to slow down the blood-loss from his already emaciated body.
His eyes darted all around him as if still not convinced that he
had triumphed over the dead Apaches. Iron Eyes put the bottle to
his lips again and then swallowed hard until only an inch of the
amber liquid remained in the clear-glass bottle. He rammed the cork
back into its neck and slid it into the bag that was tied behind
the cantle of his saddle.

The
weary ghostlike figure tightened and secured the cinch straps, then
dropped the leather fender and stirrup back into place. He gripped
on to the saddle horn, thrust his left boot into the stirrup and
hauled himself up on to the back of the Indian pony. Its eyes
flashed as the wounded bounty hunter slid his other boot-toe into
the right stirrup.