IF THE DEVIL had ever designed a landscape to suit his every need, it would have been the one in which the infamous Iron Eyes had found himself trapped. If there had ever been any grass across the rolling range and hillsides it had been burned to the root long ago by the ceaseless beating down of the unrelenting sun. It was hotter than hell and there was no shade. The thin, injured figure had somehow defied his own severe pain and the wound which refused to stop bleeding and had vainly tried to find the tracks of the outlaw he sought.
The blood had already soaked him in its own brutal shade of crimson but Iron Eyes stubbornly staggered on. It was as though there was more blood on his ragged clothing than remained flowing through his veins. Iron Eyes had left his saddle strapped to the dead pony and taken only the canteen and saddle-bags with him on his quest. But even these were beginning to weigh him down as he forced one foot ahead of another to keep moving forward.
He had cleared the first hill easily but now his strength was beginning to ebb. He held his hand over the broken ribs which had poked through the catgut stitches and the bandages and kept on. The sound of the remaining drops of water inside the canteen blended with the noise of his bloodstained spurs. Even though he still had a half-pint of water remaining. Iron Eyes felt no desire to consume it. The fumes from the saddle-bag satchel over his wide shoulder was enough to fuel his appetite for the time being.
Shadows swept steadily across the ground ahead of him. He glanced up and saw the wide wing-spans of the vultures, which were either interested in the corpse of the pony or the exhausted figure of its sweat-soaked master.
Iron Eyes tried to lick his cracked lips but there was no spittle. He inhaled the whiskey fumes deep and thought about the amber liquor he craved.
He knew that there just had to be some hard liquor ahead of him some place. Wherever more than a few men gathered together for any length of time, one of them would manage to make something resembling whiskey. All he had to do was find some men and he would also find something worth quenching his thirst with. He had enough money in his bags to buy an ocean of whiskey and would willingly have exchanged it all for a bottle.
He looked around him. The heat haze was sickening. It rippled the very air itself. It masked everything further than twenty yards away from his sand-caked eyes.
Then a sound caught his attention. He reached the top of the hill, paused, blinked hard and listened. He recognized the sound of fast-flowing water.
The sun was high overhead and beat down mercilessly. Iron Eyes studied the parched landscape towards where the sun danced upon the creek’s waters. Most travelers might have noticed the marked difference in the scenery that he observed from that which had tortured him for so many endless miles. But Iron Eyes only saw a place where he might be able to find another horse. And another bottle.
He rubbed his cracked lips across the sleeve of his free arm and sighed heavily. Every breath was now a nightmare. It was like being skewered by a butcher’s rod.
Once more Iron Eyes defied his pain and began to make his way down the hillside towards the creek.
To his left trees and lush undergrowth fed off the fast-flowing water which ran through the valley but this meant nothing to the bounty hunter who carefully edged his way down the sun-burned hillside.
His attention was on the ground before him. His eyes searched for the hoof tracks of which he had somehow lost sight a few miles back. This ground was rougher than any he had ever tracked across before. Sand and millions of small sharp stones gave no clues as to where Joe Brewster had gone. An army could have ridden across this ground without leaving a trace.
Iron Eyes knew that if he had not been wounded he would never have lost sight of the hoof tracks. But he was wounded and his renowned hunting skills had deserted him.
After what felt like a lifetime, Iron Eyes reached the level ground and paused. He pulled his blood-soaked trail-coat away from his skeletal frame and looked down at the broken tips of ribs which protruded from the bandages. Everything was soaked in red yet the bounty hunter felt no alarm. He had seen far worse in his days.
Then the sound of the water drew his attention again.
Iron Eyes lifted his chin and stared at the glistening shallow water which flowed from the valley out into the harsher land to his right.
Most men in his condition would have looked at the water with joy in their souls. They would have drunk their fill and said prayers of thanks, but not the emaciated figure, All Iron Eyes could see was an obstacle.
‘Damn it all!’ he cursed. He screwed up his eyes against the bright reflection of the overhead sun, which dazzled him.
Iron Eyes pulled the guns from his pants belt and looked at them. The blood had covered both Navy Colts. He staggered unsteadily to the water’s edge and forced himself to kneel down. He carefully washed the blood from the blue steel weapons and dropped them into the deep pocket of his trail-coat. The sound of the loose bullets filled his ears as the guns found the bottom of the deep pocket. He scooped water into the cupped palms of his hands and splashed it over his head several times. The cold liquid felt fine. He then splashed more over the bandages. It did not help or ease the pain. Then he looked around him, trying to work out where he ought to head from here.
To his left there was a lush valley shielded from the searing rays of the sun by the high sand-colored rock walls. To his right there was nothing but more of the same type of arid terrain of which he had already had his bellyful.
The choice was simple.
He gave another deep sigh. A troublesome thought occurred to Iron Eyes. He seemed to be having trouble filling his lungs since he had set out on this long trek. His fingers pushed the ribs back into his pitifully thin frame again. He winced.
‘I need strapping up tighter than ever,’ he muttered to himself before forcing his weary frame up off the ground. This time he did not reach his full height. It was as though someone was standing upon his shoulders.
Someone damned heavy.
He looked up to where the green vegetation started. There were an awful lot of trees there, he told himself. Trees gave shade. He glanced at his hands. The skin was blistered by the unceasing rays of the sun. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his long hair.
It was wet with sweat and creek water. He shook his head like a hound dog after stepping in from the rain.
‘Reckon there might just be someone up yonder with a horse I can buy,’ Iron Eyes said as he began to walk towards the fertile valley. ‘Or steal.’
For the first time in a long time, Iron Eyes felt the sharp drop in temperature as he staggered beneath the shade of a huge well-nourished tree close to the water’s edge. It felt good.
He had ventured less than a mile into the cool wood when he heard something which managed to cut through his weariness. It was a familiar sound. It was the sound of a snorting, galloping horse being ridden on the other side of the creek.
Iron Eyes pushed through the brush between the tree-trunks until he had an uninterrupted view of the fast-flowing water and beyond. He pressed a hand against the rough bark of the nearest tree and rested against it.
He could hear the rider and horse approaching but could not see them. Iron Eyes shook his head. His mind filled with images of all the Apaches he had confronted over the years. They had seemed to dislike him even more than he hated them. Again he pushed his ribs back inside his flesh.
Could this place be filled with Indians?
The thought chilled him to the bone. He knew that he was not fighting fit. There was no chance he would win an encounter with Indians. A bead of sweat trailed down his scarred features and dripped from his chin.
Iron Eyes gritted his sharp teeth. His bony fingers went to his shirt. They searched and then found what they were looking for. He pulled a thin cigar remnant from his shirt pocket. It was twisted and stained with blood, but he did not care. He pushed it between his teeth and then found a match and ran a thumbnail across it.
He raised its flame to the end of the cigar and dragged in the smoke as deep as it would go. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then allowed the smoke to drift from his lips. He tossed the match into the creek, screwed up his eyes and focused across the water.
Instinctively his right hand pulled one of his Navy Colts from his coat pocket. His thumb dragged back the gun’s hammer until it locked fully into position.
Iron Eyes leaned against the tree and held the gun at hip level. He strained to hear. He closed his eyes and tried to picture what his ears were telling him.
‘Think!’ he snarled at himself.
It was a single rider, his ears told him.
He nodded to himself. It was also a big horse. It was not a small agile pony.
Whoever was riding along the valley, it was no Indian.
‘C’mon, pard,’ Iron Eyes whispered through a cloud of acrid smoke. ‘I’m ready for you.’