The sight which met the eyes of the weary lawman out on the prairie filled him with a mixture of horror and revulsion. For nearly an hour he had been wondering whether he ought to give up the idea of going anywhere near the scores of Indians, in the vain hope of finding, capturing or even killing Diamond Back Jones.
Now the sight that his weathered eyes focused upon in total disbelief gave him the spur that he needed to act. The Apaches had made up Marshal Tom Quaid’s mind for him.
He swallowed hard and vainly tried not to watch the ungodly scene that unraveled before him.
Open mouthed, he watched the pitiful Iron Eyes being hoisted up on a crude wooden frame before the raging flames that licked at the moonlit sky.
Tom Quaid felt as if he were witnessing a latter-day crucifixion.
It chilled him to think that any man could be subjected to such barbaric torture. Yet he had seen many similar events in his long life and could not judge the Indians. They were simply doing what so many other people had done over the centuries. They were administering their own brand of justice.
There were no doubts left in the mind of the lawman. Now Quaid had no option but to help another helpless victim, as he had done so many times before. Forty years of upholding the law and protecting the innocent would not allow him to ride away from this. Even if he paid the ultimate penalty, he would have to try and save the man who was being tortured.
The marshal could not tell exactly how the Apaches had managed to attach their prisoner to the wooden frame, but that did not matter to the man who grabbed hold of his saddle horn and stepped into the well-used stirrup. As he sat across the wide back of his black gelding, Tom Quaid knew that he had at last found the reason he had been searching for.
The marshal tapped his spurs gently and allowed the tall horse to walk away from the Joshua tree and out into the brilliant moonlight.
He gritted his store-bought teeth and narrowed his determined glare at the distant scene beneath the wall of sand-rock. Giant shadows loomed across the face of the wall of rock as the dancing braves circled the well-fed fire and their half-dead captive.
The marshal noticed the mist drifting across the wide moonlit prairie. Yet the jubilant Apaches seemed oblivious to everything except the task in hand. Quaid glanced up at the sky above him and inhaled deeply. Black clouds were now tracing across the heavens from the east.
He wondered if they might give him the cover he required to get closer to the chanting warriors. Black shadows swept over the flat prairie as the clouds passed before the face of the bright moon.
Was this a sign for him to drive his spurs into the flesh of his faithful mount and charge at the countless Apaches? The thought lingered in his mind.
For several minutes the lawman sat astride his mount watching the Indians as they secured the twisted wooden frame into the soft ground. Yet still none of them noticed the elegantly dressed marshal who observed them.
The triumphant war cries that echoed out across the vast prairie told Quaid that the Indians had only one thought in their collective mind.
And that was to torture their prisoner in ways that even he could not imagine.
A solitary bead of sweat trickled down from the hatband of his Stetson and navigated every one of the tanned wrinkles which covered his ancient face. Finally it dripped from his solid chin and landed on the back of his left gloved hand which rested on the saddle horn.
Those dime novels he had read with such relish for so many years were nothing compared to the gory reality that faced him now.
No Eastern writer, however imaginative, could have conceived of such horror, he thought.
There was something terrifying about the sound of so many dancing Apaches chanting their songs of victory which chilled the old horseman.
He edged his horse closer and closer to the scene ahead of him trying to see if the long-haired man who was somehow tethered to the crude wooden crucifix was still alive.
The light of the Apache camp-fire illuminated the man in every detail. As Quaid’s mount got ever closer, it became obvious that their victim was indeed alive. Even covered in enough blood to give the appearance that he had been painted, the man on the wooden frame was still capable of moving his head.
Quaid felt a lump in his throat.
At first the marshal wondered if it was Diamond Back Jones who had been hoisted into the air. It was the long dark hair that fooled the curious onlooker. Then Tom Quaid pulled back on his reins and swallowed hard.
He knew that Jones, like most Apaches, was only a little more than five feet in height.
The man who was naked apart from the torn bloodstained trousers and boots, had to be well over six feet in height.
‘Iron Eyes !’ Quaid said under his breath. That poor bastard has to be Iron Eyes!’
A fury suddenly exploded inside the innards of the veteran peace officer. He watched as Iron Eyes’ head lifted up and stared beyond the black clouds at the bright moon over the prairie as if searching for a god that might send some guardian angel down to help him.
Quaid wondered if he might be Iron Eyes’ guardian angel! Had the fates or something else brought him to this spot simply to bring salvation to the bounty hunter?
Marshal Tom Quaid had not even waited long enough to hear the preacher’s words at his own daughters’ joint funeral service back in Waco. He had lost his faith the day he had discovered their bodies, had thought that nothing could make him even consider that there might be something he could pray to ever again.
Had he been wrong?
Could it have been providence and not vengeance which had brought him here?
As the marshal watched the long sharp points of the war lances being poked into the flesh of the helpless bounty hunter, he realized that there had to be some higher meaning to all of this.
Quaid pulled the reins up and then looked back at the brush which surrounded the Joshua tree. It was kindling-dry. He had an idea.
He hauled the head of the horse around and then rode back to the place where he had hidden for so long as his confused mind tried to work out what he ought to do.
Tom Quaid stopped the gelding and glanced briefly across at the Indians again. They still had not noticed his presence.
As mist rolled over the moonlit ground, the determined marshal wrapped his reins around the saddle horn, then pulled his frock-coat away from the silk vest. His gloved fingers found the large silver cigar-case in the pocket over his heart. He withdrew it.
With one eye on the chanting braves, Quaid carefully opened the silver lid of the case and removed a cigar. He placed it between his teeth and then pulled out a long match from a special compartment inside the case.
He struck the match and inhaled the strong smoke deeply before cupping the flame and tapping his spurs until the black gelding moved close to the dry brush.
Tom Quaid knew that to get close enough to the bounty hunter in order to try and rescue him, he had to cause a distraction. A fire would be made to order.
It might buy him enough time to circle the Indians and get in behind them. All he had to do was distract enough of the Apaches long enough for him to gallop to the aid of Iron Eyes. He knew that it was probably doomed to failure, but he had to give it a try.
Just as he was about to throw the burning match into the bushes, he saw something riding towards him through the mist and murky light of the moon.
There were three riders with a pack-mule.
Marshal Tom Quaid lifted the match to his mouth and blew its flame out.
He inhaled the smoke again and then removed the cigar from his lips. As more and more dark clouds raced across the face of the moon, his eyes darted back and forth between the raging Apaches to the approaching horsemen.
He rested the palm of his gloved right hand on the grip of the Remington in its holster and then felt himself suddenly relax.
‘What in tarnation is Matty Hume doing here?’ he asked himself quietly. ‘Not like him to get lost.’
The three Texas Rangers continued to ride towards the lawman, unseen by the celebrating Apaches.
‘We’ve bin lookin’ for ya, Tom,’ Col Wall said. The three riders stopped their mounts beside the marshal’s horse the Joshua tree.
Quaid nodded as smoke drifted from his mouth.
‘I hate to upset you boys, but this ain’t Texas.’
Matty Hume stared through the dry brush at the scene of brutality near the ridge.
‘What’s goin’ on over yonder, Tom?’
The lawman glanced to where Hume was pointing before returning his attention to his friend.
‘Them Apaches have got themselves a prisoner, Matty! His name’s Iron Eyes, I think. I was just about to try and rescue the critter.’
Wall sighed.
‘Are ya loco? There must be nearly a hundred Injuns over there. What was ya gonna do, Tom? Surround the varmints?’
Quaid looked at the pack-mule thoughtfully.
‘Have you boys got any dynamite on that animal?’
Hume nodded, then smiled.
‘We happen to have a few sticks. Reckon ya thinking the same way as me, Tom.’
The marshal tapped the ash from his cigar.
‘Do you want to help me save a critter from being tortured to death, Matty?’
Hume looked into the faces of his two companions. They averted their eyes from the horrific scene and looked straight at their captain.
‘Should we help this old rooster, boys?’
‘I’m game!’ Tanny Gibson nodded firmly. ‘I can’t leave no man to them merciless Apaches, Cap. We gotta help.’
Hume looked at Wall.
‘What about you, Col? You figure we ought to give this old Texas lawman a helping hand?’
Col Wall’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight.
‘Sure enough, Matty. I ain’t got nothin’ else to do but I still figure we might be bitin’ off more than we can chew.’
Hume raised an eyebrow at his well-built friend. A man with an appetite as big as the broad smile that never seemed to fade.
‘More than you can chew? There ain’t no such animal, Col.’
Marshal Tom Quaid leaned across toward the three nervous Texas Rangers and began to speak.
‘Listen up, boys. This is my plan ... ’