RIO VALDO WAS a sleepy town balanced on the very edge of humanity. It had once been part of pre-revolution Mexico but over die ensuing generations had somehow found itself on the other side of the unmarked border. Now claimed to be part of the Lone Star State it even had a sheriff who wore a Stetson. Yet the majority of those who lived in or around the remote settlement still favored sombreros. A few Texan rituals had taken root but the overall flavor of Rio Valdo remained Latin in origin. As the sun dipped beyond the distant mountains a red glow erupted across the cloudless heavens.
It was as though the very sky was on fire. It should have been regarded as an omen. An omen of impending bloodshed.
For with the dying embers of the fiery sunset on his back the lone rider drew closer to the town to which he had tracked his prey. As the spectral horseman reached the first of the settlements buildings he could see the eyes of those who feared him. They were many.
There was no mistaking the man atop the disheveled Indian pony who steered his mount towards the mixture of whitewashed adobes and more recently constructed red-brick buildings. His was a description which nobody ever forgot. Some thought that the stories of the bounty hunter were exaggerations. Those who had set eyes upon him knew that they were in fact the truth. If pain had a face it was his. A lifetime of hunting creatures of all kinds had left their scars upon not only his body but his face as well. Every battle he had fought was carved into the twisted flesh of his face. The residents of the remote town fled as he rode into the outskirts of Rio Valdo. The deeply religious and superstitious had set eyes upon death in human form. If there had been a church it would have been filled to overflowing with the terrified.
Yet Iron Eyes knew what he was. He was simply a hunter.
He was considered by the Apaches to be a ghost. A man who could never be killed because he no longer lived. The majority of white men whom he had encountered thought he had to be an Indian. Their logic was that only an Indian could track his prey so ruthlessly. Only an Indian would take so much pleasure in capturing and killing those with bounty on their heads. Another reason that white folks considered him not to be one of them was his mane of long black hair, which had never come close to a barber’s scissors. His scarred face had never required shaving in all his long days.
Iron Eyes knew only one thing for certain. He was unwelcome wherever he went. He was hated and feared with equal venom by nearly everyone. But most of those who feared him were wanted, dead or alive.
They had the greatest reason to be afraid. For once he had your wanted poster in his deep trail coat pockets, he would never quit his hunt until you were dead and he had claimed the bounty.
Even though Iron Eyes had never been to Rio Valdo before, his name was being spoken by all those who saw his brutalized features as he spurred his pony deep into the town. One voice became a hundred. They were all chanting the unholy name of Iron Eyes. The crimson rays of the setting sun reflected off the windows of the buildings as he approached. It made the bounty hunter look as though he were the Devil himself, set amid mythical flames.
Women hauled their young off the streets. Grown men felt their hearts quicken as the emaciated horseman studied them all with interest. For Iron Eyes had the scent of his prey in his flared nostrils. He was on the look-out for three wanted outlaws who were worth more than five thousand dollars. Men in sombreros on the boardwalks crossed themselves in silent gratitude to their Maker as he passed them.
Halfway along the crooked main street Iron Eyes drew rein.
His head moved as his eyes darted around the quiet town at those who fearfully watched him from the blackest of shadows. He then looked up at the newly painted facade atop the porch overhang directly before him. The dying sun danced across its still fresh paintwork.
It had only one word upon it.
‘Sheriff!’ Iron Eyes read aloud.
He saw a lamp being lit inside the office through its solitary window. He nodded to himself, threw his long right leg over the neck of his tired pony and slid to the ground. He led the animal to the full trough outside the office and tied his reins firmly to a wooden upright. The pony began to drink. It was the first time it had tasted water in nearly twenty miles of hard riding.
Iron Eyes stepped up on to the boardwalk and turned to face the street. Lights were being lit all along the main thoroughfare as cantinas, cafes and saloons acknowledged the coming of yet another night. His thin left hand slid down into a pocket of his battered and torn jacket and retrieved a slim cigar. He placed it between his teeth.
Then behind him he heard the sound of a match being ignited by a thumbnail.
The tall bounty hunter turned quickly and stared into the darkness at the seated figure. The flame lit up the face of the man, who appeared to be at least sixty with a proud, grey, handlebar moustache. It was the first face he had encountered in Rio Valdo which showed no fear.
‘Light?’ the man asked.
Iron Eyes did not reply. He walked the two steps to the man and leaned over. He sucked in the flame and then allowed the smoke to dwell for a while in his lungs.
‘Much obliged.’ Iron Eyes said as he straightened up.
The man produced a corncob pipe and gripped its stem between what was left of his teeth. He touched the flame to the bowl and then tossed the match away.
‘You Iron Eyes?’ the old man asked through a cloud of smoke.
The bounty hunter narrowed his eyes and then leaned against the red-brick wall. He continued to watch the man, who puffed on the aromatic pipe.
‘You’re mighty smart for an old-timer.’
‘Not really,’ the man disagreed. ‘I heard about you a whole heap of times from folks on both sides of the law. Never thought them stories about you could be true but, setting eyes on you as close as this, I reckon they are.’
Iron Eyes inhaled the smoke of his cigar deeply. ‘I figure that I must kinda stand out from the average varmint.’
‘Yep!’ the man agreed. ‘Never thought anyone could be as ugly as them tales said you was. Damned if’n you ain’t even uglier.’
Iron Eyes nodded.
‘You ain’t afraid of me then?’
The man laughed. ‘Nope.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m the sheriff!’ the man pulled his coat apart to reveal the tin star pinned to his vest. ‘You ain’t gonna get ornery with the law. I’m the critter who has to dish out the reward money when you bring in your kill. Right?’
‘You damn smart,’ Iron Eyes looked at the door. ‘Who you got in there, Sheriff? I seen the lamp light up as I hauled rein.’
‘Just my deputy.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘Makes the worst coffee this side of the Rio Grande but he keeps the office clean,’ The man grinned.
Iron Eyes tilted his head and blew a line of smoke at the ground. ‘You know my handle, what’s your name?’
‘Drew Colby.’
The tall man walked to the very edge of the boardwalk. He rested a shoulder on the nearest upright and stared through the cigar smoke out at the street and the people who were keeping well clear of him.
‘You had three riders come into town in the last day or so, Sheriff Colby?’
‘Yep!’ The man eased himself up from the hardback chair and moved to the side of the figure who was at least a foot taller than he was. He looked up at the features which grew even more horrific as the very last of the sun’s crimson rays shed an ominous gleam directly into the scarred face. ‘They wanted dead or alive?’
‘Yep.’
‘I figured as much.’ Sheriff Drew Colby nodded. ‘You don’t chase outlaws who ain’t, I hear.’
‘You hear right. I don’t cotton to prisoners.’
Colby laughed. He had never met anyone as blunt about his work as the bounty hunter obviously was.
‘Reckon there ain’t no point in me trying to tell you not to go shooting them Navy Colts in town, is there?’ The lawman sighed as he tapped his pipe against the upright.
‘Not hardly.’ Iron Eyes rubbed his neck and shook his long limp hair like a hound dog trying to shake rain from its back. ‘I don’t see their horses anywhere along the street.’
The sheriff pointed to the far end of town. A lantern was just being lit outside the livery stable.
‘They rode to the livery when they arrived. Their horses must still be up there.’
‘Where’d they go?’ Iron Eyes asked.
Again Colby pointed. This time to the nearest of the saloons.
‘The Longhorn saloon. I seen them head in there about two or three hours back, Iron Eyes, I ain’t seen them come out.’
‘Got girls in there?’
‘Yep.’ Colby smiled. ‘Pretty Mexican girls. The kind that makes a man wish he was twenty years younger.’
The statement meant nothing to the tall bounty hunter. He just nodded and stared at the building as though memorizing its every plank of wood. Iron Eyes sucked the last of the smoke from his cigar, then tossed the last half-inch away. He pulled the crumpled posters from his pocket and handed them to the lawman.
‘This’ll tell you all about the critters I’m gunnin’ for.’
Sheriff Colby turned and walked to the office door. He opened it and moved to the lamp on his desk. He did not see the shocked expression etched on the face of his young deputy as Iron Eyes followed the lawman into the light. Colby tilted the Wanted posters until the amber lamplight was upon them. He read and then looked at the tall man beside him. The bounty hunter was like a carved wooden statue. There was hardly any expression on the twisted face. Only the eyes moved as they surveyed everything, looking for potential danger.
‘The Brewster brothers?’ Colby questioned. ‘Is that who them critters were?’
Iron Eyes nodded, ‘Clem, Frank and Joe.’
‘They held up a few banks up north, huh?’ Colby commented. ‘Is that why you’re after them?’
‘They killed a few folks over in San Remas as well,’ Iron Eyes added. ‘I don’t cotton to grown men who kill females for the fun of it.’
‘What kinda females we talking about?’
‘It don’t matter none.’ Iron Eyes pulled the guns which he had tucked into his pants belt and checked them. Only when satisfied that they were fully loaded did he return them to his belt.
‘It’s bin a while since I seen me a pair of Navy Colts, boy.’ the sheriff said. ‘Most men use .45s. How come you use .36s?’
‘They’re light.’ Iron Eyes was about to turn away when he caught sight of the dumbfounded deputy’s reflection in the window. He glanced at the youth who could not have been more than sixteen. ‘I ain’t seen a deputy look so young before, Sheriff.’
‘Ain’t many grown men want the job.’ Colby shrugged.
Iron Eyes looked hard at the deputy. ‘What they call you?’
‘Johnny Ryker,’ the deputy gulped and stammered.
‘Always watch your back, Johnny Ryker,’ Iron Eyes advised. ‘Most people get killed by cowards. Cowards like to shoot folks in the back. Remember that and you might get as old as the sheriff.’ The youth nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Colby pointed at the guns whose grips were pointing out from the tall man’s slim waist.
‘By all the stories I’ve heard about you, boy, I’d have thought you’d have the fanciest shooting rig going. How come you ain’t got a gunbelt and holsters?’
‘Ain’t never needed them.’ Iron Eyes walked back out into the darkness. His eyes screwed up as he focused across the street on to the saloon again.
Sheriff Colby leaned on the office door with his deputy staring over his shoulder.
‘Reckon it’s time, huh?’
‘Yep. It’s time.’ Iron Eyes stepped down on to the sand and started to walk directly towards the smell of stale sawdust and the sound of a tinny piano.
The Longhorn was busy, as always. Those who had witnessed the arrival of the infamous bounty hunter had not ventured into the saloon to inform those inside. They had done what all sane men and women would do when seeing Iron Eyes and headed back to their homes.
Iron Eyes studied the two-story building as he approached. It had a veranda with a low rail which stretched the entire length of its front. Four windows faced the main street. Only three of them had lights flickering behind their lace drapes. Two larger windows were set to either side of the saloon’s swing doors. Their panes were covered in painted images to prevent the innocent from seeing within.
The experienced hunter of men looked back at the windows above the veranda. He knew what was probably happening up in those rooms. And he also knew that the Brewster brothers were probably occupying them with a little female company. They would be celebrating their latest triumph.
Since he had set out after die outlaws he had never been this close to them before. He had never been close enough to their hoof dust for them even to imagine that they were being trailed by the most lethal bounty hunter in the West.
He stepped up on to the boardwalk, paused and then looked over the swing doors into the smoke-filled interior. His bullet-colored eyes narrowed. A dozen or more tables were crowded with men playing cards. Scores of other men were resting against the long bar counter as if afraid to venture too far away from the bartenders. A pair of bar girls in skimpy dresses moved around between the saloon’s patrons trying to find their next paying customers.
Iron Eyes rested a bony hand on top of the swing doors. He continued to stare into the room like an eagle trying to locate his chosen prey. Close to the saloon’s back wall he noticed a staircase which led up to a landing. It looked as though there were more rooms towards the rear of the building. A door up on the landing opened and a drunken man staggered out with a rather rotund female. Most of her face-paint was now covering the man’s face as they both navigated their way down the stairs back to the heart of the drinking-hole.
That was where the outlaws were, Iron Eyes silently told himself. The three Brewster’s were otherwise occupied. A cruel smile crossed his mangled features. That would make killing them easier.
He nodded to himself and put another cigar between his teeth before pushing the door inwards. He had barely taken two strides across the sawdust when he noticed that the piano player had ceased pounding the ivories. Every eye was upon him as he strode toward the bar.
Men of all shapes and sizes watched the strange, unholy-looking figure as he walked to the tune of his spurs. Each of the onlookers was silent.
Iron Eyes noticed how men parted and allowed him to reach the bar. He placed a boot on the brass rail, then looked to both sides. Men backed away without even realizing that they had done so. Even the bar girls did not approach. For what seemed an eternity Iron Eyes waited. At last one of the bartenders summoned the courage to move to him.
‘How can I help you, stranger?’
‘Whiskey,’ Iron Eyes said. ‘An unopened bottle with a label on it.’
As the bartender went to get a bottle Iron Eyes pulled a match from his pocket and struck it across one of his gun grips. He cupped its flame and sucked in the smoke before dropping the match into a spittoon.
The entire saloon was hushed in silence.
When the bottle and thimble-glass were placed before the bounty hunter Iron Eyes placed a silver coin upon the bar top, then pulled the cork. He lifted the bottle and drank from its neck. He took three long swallows, then he pushed the cork back and slid the bottle into one of his deep pockets.
‘I’m looking for the Brewsters,’ Iron Eyes exclaimed.
Without even realizing it, one of the bartenders looked up to the landing. The gaunt figure nodded at the man as though he had actually told him the answer to his question. He then began the long walk around the bar counter towards the staircase.
With one fluid action, Iron Eyes pulled one of his deadly guns and cocked its hammer. He slowly ascended the stairs towards the landing like a panther closing in on its prey.
Only his spurs made any sound.
Every single person in the saloon watched. Most had open mouths. All knew that at any moment they would hear the noise of lethal lead come from above them. They all realized it would be far safer to leave the saloon, yet none of them could tear themselves away from knowing who would be victorious in the forthcoming gunfight.
Iron Eyes reached the landing. He turned. His eyes darted across the open space to the four doors. Each had a number painted upon its wooden surface.
The sound of boisterous exercise was coming from two of the rooms, whilst the others were silent.
The bounty hunter walked to the line of doors. They were roughly ten feet apart. With the gun pointing from his hip, Iron Eyes leaned close to the first door and strained to hear.
There was no noise. His mind raced as he tried to recall which of the windows he had observed from the street had not had a light behind its drape. He remembered, and moved to the next door. He stared at the number ‘two’. This time he did not have to strain to hear. The sound of bed springs and grunting made it obvious that at least one of the outlaws was inside.
He glanced at the remaining two doors.
When the shooting started, he knew that the other brothers would soon come out with guns blazing.
Iron Eyes inhaled, drew the other gun and cocked its hammer to match the one already primed. He sucked in smoke and then raised his bony left leg.
The sound of the door being kicked off its hinges echoed around the Longhorn. Iron Eyes took only half a step forward and saw the head of the eldest Brewster rise from the thick quilted bedcovers. The face stared at him as the female began to scream, She was obviously not quite as drunk as Frank Brewster. She could see who had just destroyed the door.
‘Brewster?’ the bounty hunter drawled through cigar smoke.
The outlaw desperately clambered across the hysterical female and the bed towards the holstered gun in the fancy shooting rig on a worm-eaten stool.
Like a cat playing with a mouse, Iron Eyes waited the fraction of a second it took for Frank Brewster to pull the Remington free of its holster before he squeezed his own triggers.
A deafening rat-a-tat filled the upper floor of the Longhorn. Both of Iron Eye’s bullets hit the outlaw in the neck. Blood splattered over the bed and the female before Frank Brewster slid to the floor taking the sheets with him. The bar girl was naked and covered in blood. Upon seeing what covered her pale flesh she fainted.
Iron Eyes heard both of the doors to the other rooms opening. He swung around and saw the first man with his guns in his hands. Iron Eyes instantly recognized the face as matching the picture on the Wanted poster. This was Clem Brewster, his memory told him. The outlaw fired his weaponry. Two bullets hit the doorframe. A million splinters showered over Iron Eyes, filling his eyes with hot, burning debris. He staggered as the noise of two more screaming women filled the upper story of the Longhorn.
Instinctively Iron Eyes returned fire. He watched through half-closed eyes as the youngest of the outlaws flew backwards and landed at the feet of his stunned brother.
Joe Brewster ducked into the room as Iron Eyes fired again.
Iron Eyes spat the cigar from his mouth and pushed one of his guns into his belt. He cocked the hammer of his .36 with one hand as his other frantically tried to rid his eyes of the agonizing splinters which were burning into them.
He was panting as he managed to rid his eyes of most of the splinters. He dropped low and looked back along the landing. Steam rose from the two bullet holes in the half-naked body but there was no sign of the last of the outlaws.
‘I’m gonna kill you, Joe!’ Iron Eyes yelled. There was no reply from behind the furthermost door.
Then he heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the room. Iron Eyes drew back to his full height and ran to the closed door. He kicked it open. He squinted into the lamplit room and saw that the drapes were floating in the evening breeze. A terrified female knelt behind the bed, sobbing. Behind her he could see the broken window.
Iron Eyes raced across the room, leapt over the bed and landed next to the naked women. He poked his gun out of the window and then his head. He just had time to see the outlaw drop from the balcony to the street below.
‘Damn it all!’ Iron Eyes growled. ‘Some critters just don’t know when to quit living.’
Iron Eyes scrambled out of the window in fevered pursuit of his prey. He ran across the balcony just in time to see the half-naked outlaw pause at the corner of a building with the word ‘Bank’ emblazoned upon its facade.
Iron Eyes saw the gun smoke and then felt the bullet hit him in the left trail-coat pocket. The sound of the whiskey bottle shattering filled his ears, and the liquor soaked through the coarse fabric. He raised a gun but saw the outlaw disappear beneath the overhangs.
‘Git back here, you yella dog!’
Iron Eyes lifted a long leg over the railings and jumped from the balcony. He hit the ground hard as two more bullets cut through the darkness and passed within inches of him.
Joe Brewster was headed for the livery, the bounty hunter told himself. He had only just begun to make chase when he was knocked off his feet by what felt like a mule kick. He had been hit. The bullet had caught him in the ribs.
Iron Eyes lay on his back beneath a street lantern. Then heard a sound he recognized.
The sound of a horse thundering away.
He rolled on to his knees and watched his blood dripping into the sand as a shadow traced across him.
‘Need a hand, Iron Eyes?’
The wounded bounty hunter glanced through his long limp hair up at the sheriff.
‘Yep,’ Iron Eyes muttered.