Drinking alone in a hotel room had never been something the strange killing machine had cared for. Yet he had done it more times than he could recall clearly. After finishing off most of the contents of the whiskey bottle and his meal, Iron Eyes began to take an interest in the town outside the small sealed window which faced the front of the hotel. Resting a hand upon the wall, the cold, bullet-colored pupils glanced down upon the pair of bloodstained spurs resting over the back of the solitary hardback chair where he had placed the saddlebags. He moved around the small clean room like a caged beast. It was quieter out in the street now as the noonday sun blazed its fury down upon Rio Vista and the few citizens mad enough to venture out in its cruel brilliance.
Iron Eyes lowered down the drape by its pull cord and secured it around a nail driven into the window sill.
Sweat trickled down from his forehead and dripped off his smooth jaw line freely. Unlike most grown men, whiskers had never chosen to propagate over his scarred face. Some had suggested the infamous bounty hunter must be an Indian, but even he had no idea of what he truly was. If he were a white man, he was unlike any other in the West. He was an outcast.
Iron Eyes was one of a kind. A unique being who seemed to be destined never to fit in anywhere with anyone. There was no place for him. Perhaps this was why he had taken to killing so easily and so expertly.
The residents of Rio Vista, like most people in border towns, seemed to be an even mixture of Mexican and Texan by those he had observed from his high vantage point. Iron Eyes knew most Mexicans preferred to sleep during the sun’s highest point and spend the night enjoying themselves. Texans were a different breed altogether: they tended to work during the day, until the sun burned the skin off their backs, then spent the night sleeping.
Iron Eyes wondered which was the smartest way to live. Neither seemed to hold any clear advantage to a man who had seldom, if ever, experienced pleasure. Hard liquor had never managed to smooth away the blackness of his nature, however much of it he consumed. Most men who lived by the gun spent their free time and blood money seeking and finding women to satisfy their basic needs. Yet Iron Eyes had never done so. Females who plied their trade within saloons and dance halls never came close to men with his threatening appearance. Not that he had ever had any real desire for a woman to come too close anyway.
Iron Eyes sat down on the soft mattress and touched the sharp spurs resting upon the chair before him. Blood ran from his fingertips the way it always seeped from his horse’s flanks when he drove them on and on brutally. How many miles had he ridden in search of one wanted outlaw after another? Forcing his thin fingers through his long hair, he wondered why he had come to this place called Rio Vista. Since leaving Tombstone, he had travelled continuously south, as if drawn by an invisible power he neither knew or understood.
Why had he come here?
Was there a reason?
Lying back on the bed, he stared at the wall where his coat hung covered in the stains of a life devoted to slaughtering those wanted by the law. His saddlebags sat heavily on the small wooden chair taunting his every waking moment below the vicious spurs. Exhaling heavily, he pulled the two matched Navy Colt pistols from his broad belt and rested them at his sides and tried to sleep. The drawn drape failed to keep the brilliant sunlight out of the room which was beginning to annoy the cold-hearted bounty hunter, when the sound of knuckles on the room’s wooden door drew him into a sitting position.
‘Who is it?’ Iron Eyes growled, staring at the door handle, waiting for it to start turning.
‘Sheriff Bass,’ came the reply.
It ain’t locked, Sheriff.’ Iron Eyes glanced quickly down at his guns and then back up at the door as it began to slowly open inward.
‘I ain’t armed, Iron Eyes,’ the voice informed the watching man, as the door revealed the stout lawman.
Iron Eyes remained upon the bed as he saw the cautious man stepping into his room. When satisfied the sheriff was telling the truth, Iron Eyes lay back against the pillows.
‘I like you, Bass. You got brains.’
‘I guess that’s fine, Iron Eyes,’ Bass said, removing his hat and holding it across his ample belly. You also got a lot of guts to come visiting someone like me, Bass.’ Iron Eyes watched the man with his cold, hypnotic steel-colored pupils.
The sweating sheriff edged closer until he was at the foot of the bed looking straight down at the man whose reputation he was intelligent enough to fear. Even with his Navy Colts lying to either side of his thin frame, it was evident to the lawman this was probably the most dangerous few moments of his entire life.
‘You in town for a reason, Iron Eyes?’
‘To rest.’
‘You ain’t hankering to kill nobody, are you?’ Bass tried to control his voice, as he felt every sinew in his body shaking in terror.
Iron Eyes pulled a long thin cigar from off the small table next to him and placed it between his teeth before striking a match across his belt buckle.
‘I ain’t hunting no bounty in Rio Vista, Bass.’
The sheriff watched, as Iron Eyes sucked in the smoke as the flickering flame of his match teased the end of the foul-smelling weed.
‘I find that hard to swallow. Men like you don’t just ride into a peaceful town to take in the scenery.’
Iron Eyes blew out the match and tossed it at his food tray before sucking the strong smoke into his emaciated body.
‘I’m telling the truth, Bass.’
The lawman nodded, the way all men nod when faced with a man known for his speed with his weaponry.
Then why come here?’
‘I ain’t intending settling down in Rio Vista, if that’s what you’re frightened about,’ Iron Eyes smiled, through a cloud of gray choking smoke.
‘When you riding out again?’ Bass blurted.
‘I can’t say for sure. When I’m ready, I’ll go.’ There was a coldness in Iron Eyes’ voice as he savored the flavor of his cigar.
The sheriff began to edge himself backward towards the door once again.
‘There are a lot of folks in town who might not believe you, Iron Eyes,’ he warned.
‘So?’
‘I don’t want no blood spilt in Rio Vista.’
‘Then tell them to keep their guns holstered and they’ll live long enough to see me riding out, Bass.’ Iron Eyes stared coldly at the rotund man before him making his way slowly to the door.
‘I don’t want trouble.’
‘I ain’t gonna start none, but if some fool makes a play, I’ll finish it,’ Iron Eyes warned the sheriff.
Bass replaced his hat upon his head and began nodding, as he took the door handle in his sweating hand.
‘Good enough. Good enough.’
Iron Eyes watched as the door closed before blowing a line of smoke at the ceiling. Swinging his mule-eared boots back onto the floor, the tall gaunt man stood and grabbed his coat off its hook before sliding his pitifully thin arms down the sleeves. Leaning over, he plucked the Navy Colts off the blanket and pushed them into his belt.
He was going for a walk around Rio Vista.
If there was some foolhardy soul out there, he wanted to meet him. For the first time in seven months he felt his sap rising.
The heat bore down upon Iron Eyes as he strolled across the wide street from the hotel towards the largest of the saloons he had noticed upon his arrival a couple of hours earlier. Being watched was nothing new; he could sense eyes tracking him wherever he went, burning, inquisitive eyes. Few men carried a heavy saddle-bag over their shoulder in the blinding heat which baked this small border town. Even fewer men had the ivory grips of two Navy Colts ominously protruding from their belt. Yet, as he reached the porch overhang outside the saloon, there was no living person about to question him. Pushing the swing doors apart, the large room suddenly went silent.
Iron Eyes stepped into the cool building and studied the faces of the two dozen men and women whose attention was fixed upon his every movement.
Walking silently to the long bar he felt uneasy as the men drifted away from him, dragging their drinks across its damp surface. One of the pair of bartenders closest to him stepped forward and gulped.
‘What’ll it be, stranger?’
Iron Eyes silently placed a handful of silver dollars onto the top of the bar and indicated a bottle of whiskey bearing a colorful label amid the various home-made rotgut preparations.
‘This is too much,’ the bartender announced.
‘Fill a few glasses.’ Iron Eyes cast a look at the terrified gathering before turning with the bottle and a crystal shot glass in his hand and walking to a dark corner.
The room remained silent until the bartender counted the coins and shouted at his customers, ‘The drinks are on the stranger, folks.’
Suddenly the saloon began to rekindle its former confidence. Iron Eyes watched as the people moved to the bar to collect their free drinks. Pulling the cork from the bottle neck with his small sharp teeth, he poured himself a glass of the amber liquor observing the people through his limp, black hair which dangled before his face.
Sipping at the whiskey, Iron Eyes missed nothing within the four walls of this place.
There were six females amongst the crowd, each looking as if they had seen better days. Two Mexicans wearing droopy sombreros wrestled in the far corner over what remained of a bottle of tequila. The remaining patrons were Texan men of various ages and appearance. The majority looked harmless, but two seemed worth keeping an eye on. Well-heeled with polished leather gun belts and gleaming gun grips these men drew his attention. He had seen their like before too many times in too many towns.
Iron Eyes knew these two men might just be well-scrubbed cowboys out on the prowl for the soft bosoms and thighs of a female who had her price, but his well-honed instincts told him to be wary.
The pair finished their free drinks and then purchased a few more before turning to face the seated figure in the shadowy corner.
Their interest in him made the bounty hunter realize he was correct in his assumption they were not cowboys. Even the average cow hand had brains enough to steer well clear of a man like him.
Then the swing doors parted and the portly Sheriff Bass walked in carrying a twin-barreled shotgun in the crook of his arm. The two men glanced across at the lawman and then turned to face the bartenders once more.
Iron Eyes sat upright in his chair and watched as the sheriff ambled over to his table.
‘Bass.’
‘What you doing here?’ Bass asked angrily.
‘Drinking.’
Bass stared down at the fat leather saddlebags and then back at the gaunt stranger.
‘You leaving?’
‘Nope,’ replied Iron Eyes.
‘Why you got your trail gear with you then?’
‘I ain’t. This is my bank roll.’
The sheriff jabbed the saddlebags with the barrel of his weapon and heard the distinctive sound of metal coins. Looking into the scarred face he seemed confused.
‘Ain’t you heard of paper money, boy?’
‘Yep. I don’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It burns and it rots. Silver and gold don’t even rust,’ Iron Eyes grunted, as he cast an eye across at the two men who were watching and listening with far too much interest.
Bass sat down next to the bounty hunter and sighed.
‘I told you, I don’t want no trouble in my town.’
Iron Eyes took a deep inhalation of air as he watched the pair of very clean men moving away from the bar and strolling out of the saloon.
‘Who are those two varmints?’
Bass looked over his shoulder at the swing doors which told him the men had gone.
They ain’t from around here.’
‘How long have they been in Rio Vista?’
They rode in an hour after you.’
Iron Eyes nodded. They ain’t cowboys.’
‘Then what? Outlaws?’
‘Maybe.’ Iron Eyes pushed the tall bottle towards the sheriff and thought about their faces which seemed to be carved into his distant memory, faces he had once seen on a wanted poster.