The two remaining Hardy brothers had ridden long and hard before they spied the buzzards circling above the far-off mesa. It was the more observant Tom who reined his mount to a halt first and stood high in his stirrups.
The sight ahead bothered him greatly, and, for the first time since setting out from Rio Drago, he was concerned at what might lie ahead for them.
The dark clouds did little to help him as he pulled up the high collar of his over-jacket to shield his ears from the chilling breeze.
Death lay over the far off ridge, and his guts ached at the thought that revenge might not be such an easy task. He and his drunken brother had to try and catch the bounty-hunter named Iron Eyes before he crossed the Rio Grande and headed into the far more populous Texas to get his blood money It was a task that had soured in Tom’s mouth for the past few hours as the constant riding had sobered him up.
The slower Whit Hardy pulled up to a halt beside his brother, and sat spitting out the flies from his teeth. Swaying in his saddle he could barely focus on his horse’s mane, let alone the far-off mesa which seemed to be occupying his brother’s attention. To Whit the only thought had been to have another drink of his powerful Mexican brew.
It was nowhere near as tasty as whiskey but it served its purpose and kept the reality of their situation at a distance.
‘You see that, Whit?’ Tom balanced himself by holding on to the reins as he hovered in his stirrups.
Whit looked at his brother and then at the distant birds that circled in the far-away sky Removing his Stetson and scratching his lice-infested head, he tried to work out what the fuss was all about.
‘I see a bunch of crows or something. So what?’ he drawled in his usual manner. The sight was hardly enough to get him worked up into a lather.
Tom sat back down in his saddle and glared at the man beside him. The expression was one of total frustration.
‘Them’s buzzards, Whit,’ he sighed.
‘So?’ The younger man reached back into his saddle-bag and withdrew a bottle. Finding it empty he tossed it away and fished out another.
This one was full to the cork, which he pulled with his teeth.
‘Buzzards flying around in a circle?’ Tom tried to get a response from his tequila-swigging sibling. ‘Think about it, boy.’
Whit pulled the bottle from his lips and gave a yell of sudden awareness.
‘Something is dead over there,’ Whit ranted, with an excitement in his voice that was as rare as finding him without glazed eyes.
Tom blew long and hard and prodded his horse with his sharp spurs. The mount started to move ahead at a slow pace. He was headed for the mesa and the buzzards.
The younger man followed with reins in one hand and the bottle in the other. He had long forgotten why they were on this journey, and the constant consumption of homemade liquor seemed to keep his brain permanently blurred.
Whit Hardy followed his brother up over the sand dunes until they reached the level top which rolled down on to the almost flat prairie.
Tom sat, leaning on his saddle-horn, glaring at the sight before him. It was totally horrific and at first very difficult to make out, but gradually both riders knew what they had ridden in on.
This was a sight seldom seen.
This was the remnants of a one-sided battle that the shredded bodies before them were testament to.
This was the work of Iron Eyes.
The bodies of the Apache warriors were scattered around, and had been plucked almost free of flesh since they had been slaughtered. The buzzards that circled were waiting their turn at the feast below, as other birds ripped at the rotting flesh. A handful of ponies were away in the distance, having remained close to their fallen masters.
Whit lowered his bottle to his side and turned to throw up. He chucked his guts up into the hot dry sand.
The smell was like nothing either man had ever experienced in all their days.
Even the more battle-scarred Tom felt the bitter taste of vomit in his mouth as he inhaled the terrible stench.
‘Indians,’ Tom managed to say ‘Them bodies used to be Indians, boy.’
Whit continued being sick as the mixture of acrid aroma and cheap liquor filled him.
Soon the two men had left the carnage behind them as they followed the trail left by the unshod pony The bodies might have been getting more distant behind their horses as they proceeded ahead, but the smell lingered in the two riders’ noses. No matter how hard they rode, they could not get the stink out of their heads.
With gritted teeth, Tom Hardy leaned over his saddle-horn and rode toward the far-off golden hills, leading his swaying brother behind him.
Whoever this man named Iron Eyes was, he was sure good with his guns, the outlaw thought.
The sweat ran down his spine beneath his thick shirt.
It was not the sweat of a man suffering from excess heat, but the sweat of a man who was scared of what lay ahead. The trail was easy to follow. It was like the bounty-hunter himself, straight to the point.
The ghosts of his many victims seemed to be howling in the chilling wind. They were being urged on by all the notches upon the guns of Iron Eyes.
Tom Hardy was no gunslinger, he was always the man who followed his daring brother Dan into the banks. He was better than the dim-witted Whit, yet that was nothing to write home about.
After his usual intake of booze, Whit could be outdrawn by his horse.
Tom knew that chasing the deadly Iron Eyes was foolhardy, but continued heading after the bounty hunter anyway.
Who the hell was this varmint called Iron Eyes? It was a question that would ride inside Tom Hardy’s head for the rest of their journey. He had little else to think about as the cold breeze blew at their spines and chewed into their bones.
Who was this Iron Eyes?