WITH BOTH NAVY Colts gripped firmly in his bony hands, Iron Eyes stood motionless like a granite statue. Nothing on the skeletal figure moved except his mane of long hair. He tried to work out which direction the sound of gunfire he had heard moments earlier might have come from. Then the bounty hunter knew the answer. Flocks of birds had risen up into the heavens directly north of where he stood. He tilted his head back and watched them fly overhead. Iron Eyes’ keen hunting instincts told him that birds always flew away from gunfire.
The thicket was dense and trees surrounded him on all sides, but that did not matter to the bounty hunter. All his concentration was upon the sounds of the brief battle which continued to ring in his ears. He lowered his guns and then slid them both into his belt beneath the fresh bandages made from Wilma Landon’s petticoats.
The cold steel chilled his belly. It sharpened his thoughts like a whetstone on a knife’s edge.
His expert knowledge of all types of weaponry had already informed him that one rifle had taken on at least half a dozen six-shooters. He had already seen one vaquero’s arsenal and knew that for some reason the Mexicans, like himself, seemed to favor handguns over rifles.
The question which burned into his mind like a branding-iron was a simple one.
Who had fired the rifle?
Then he recalled Joe Brewster, the outlaw for whom he was determined to claim the bounty money. He had a rifle. Even wounded, Iron Eyes had seen it in its saddle scabbard when the outlaw had high-tailed it out of Rio Valdo.
Iron Eyes rubbed his chin.
Could it have been other vaqueros who had fought with Brewster? According to the burly Dan Landon the valley was crawling with them. The longer he dwelled upon the theory the more it made sense. Who else would they be fighting? Iron Eyes knew that by now they must have discovered the dead body he had left upon the muddy banks of the creek. If they had bumped into the outlaw they would naturally think that he had killed the vaquero. It certainly could not be any of the farmers who were shooting. The farmers were unarmed and far off in the opposite direction.
‘Brewster.’ Iron Eyes allowed the name to escape his lips.
The gaunt man had only briefly encountered Joe Brewster but he knew that the outlaw liked to bushwhack folks. He was not the sort to take anyone on face to face. Outlaws were basically cowards and never got involved in showdowns.
Iron Eyes lowered his head thoughtfully. A smile crossed the scarred face.
With everything that had happened to him since he had gunned down the vaquero, Iron Eyes had almost forgotten the reason he was here in the first place.
He was here to kill the last of the Brewster clan.
No other reason. Dead or alive meant only dead to Iron Eyes.
The twisted smile grew wider. Then thoughts of losing the reward money filled his mind and ended the smile. What if they had killed the outlaw?
His reward money could be lying dead out there someplace, he thought. His teeth gritted.
An urgency overwhelmed him. He had to discover the truth.
He glanced keenly all around him. Iron Eyes took a step forward. The brush was unyielding but nature had never been able to stop his progress before. He bent down and plucked the long Bowie knife from the neck of his right boot. His cold eyes stared at the knife. The dried blood of so many outlaws and Indians filled its scratched back above the Nazer sharp-edged blade.
He gripped its handle and then swung it like a sabre and saw the tangle of thorny brambles fall away.
The bounty hunter hacked with sweeping strokes until he had managed to cover an extra hundred or so yards into the depths of the woods.
He then paused once more and listened.
He could hear a horse laboring through the distant maze of trees and vicious brush. With every beat of the bounty hunter’s cold heart the sound of the animal grew louder in his hunter’s ears. It was a long way away but Iron Eyes could hear it approaching.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Knowingly, Iron Eyes nodded to himself. The rider was using the woodland and not the far easier creek to travel down the valley. That meant only one thing.
It was the outlaw.
Joe Brewster was still alive.
There was still a fighting chance of claiming the bounty on the outlaw’s head. Iron Eyes relaxed.
His thoughts returned to the plight of the farmers he had vowed to help. The bounty hunter slid the knife back into his boot, turned and retraced his steps between the trees. He was heading for Dan Landon’s small cabin. From there he would trail the dirt farmers and their families up to the distant rockface.
There was black powder to obtain.
There was a trap to set.
A trap for far bigger prey than the last of the Brewster brothers. It took almost an hour but he knew that the outlaw would not be able to move as fast as he could. The trees were too close together for the most part. His lean frame could slip between them easily. Brewster’s horse could not. Iron Eyes had discovered that when he had ridden through the woods astride the palomino stallion.
It was late afternoon when Iron Eyes reached the cabin. He then moved silently to the palomino stallion. He threw a blanket on its back and then the hefty Mexican saddle. He reached under the horse’s belly and grabbed the cinch straps. He buckled the straps, then lifted his saddle-bags up and tossed them behind the cantle. He used the cantle’s leather laces and secured the bags.
Iron Eyes held on to the saddle horn, poked his left boot toe into the stirrup and hauled his lean frame up until he was able to throw his right leg over the broad back of the nervous animal. He tore the reins free and then gathered them up in his hands.
It would not take long to reach Landon and the others, he told himself. They were on foot and herding milk cows and children up to the base of the steep rock walls. The stallion would make short time of the journey that they had to toil to complete.
Iron Eyes turned the stallion and spurred.
The golden animal thundered up into the woods.
It sounded like a hundred heavenly thunderclaps exploding one after another along the valley. Yet no mere thunderstorm could have created a more fearsome noise than did the hoofs of the vaqueros’ magnificent horses as they continued on their vengeful quest.
The sun had fallen behind the towering rocks but night would not arrive for another two hours yet. Until then an eerie half-light would fill the valley as the sky slowly turned crimson above the horsemen. They had driven their mounts hard and without rest for most of the day but now even the powerful white stallion beneath Sanchez was beginning to flag.
Reluctantly Don Miguel Sanchez brought his thirty or so followers to a halt. The exhausted vaqueros dismounted beside their equally worn-out mounts.
Only Sanchez remained defiantly atop his horse.
Like an eagle searching for its prey his eyes narrowed and stared out into the fading light of the lush valley. The creek was wide and the trees to either side of its fast-moving waters appeared almost impenetrable. The Spaniard eased himself off the stallion and remained at the horse’s noble head as others rushed around the scene. His entire body hurt but he would never allow his men to see the pain which racked his body. For men of aristocratic breeding had a duty to their underlings to maintain the illusion of their superiority.
His features remained the same as he continued to search for those who had infiltrated his empire. No emotion apart from anger ever changed his chiseled, Latin looks. The horses were spent but the ride was far from over, Sanchez told himself. It could not end until he had the bodies of those who had dared to challenge his authority.
Exactly like the ancient rulers of the Old World from which he had come, Sanchez ruled by might and fear. There was no mercy in the blood which flowed through his veins.
Sanchez raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Men came rushing to his side.
‘Break out the grain, amigos. We shall allow the horses to eat and rest,’ Sanchez informed them coldly. ‘Make a fire and cook some food.’
The vaqueros began to carry out their instructions.
Sanchez defied his aching bones and screaming muscles and walked a few yards ahead of his men and their mounts. He kept looking down the valley. There were less than ten miles left before the valley gave way to the desert. Somewhere along this strip of land between the high rockfaces to either side of the valley there were people he knew he had to destroy.
But where?
Where were they?
Sanchez looked back at his men. ‘Before the stars fill the sky we shall be back in our saddles.’