THE FOUR MEN inside the small cabin were nervous. Even with the pot-belly stove filling the sod structure with warmth and a hot meal inside their guts, each of them was still uneasy. For each of them knew that they should have finished Iron Eyes off when they had had the chance. Yet if the infamous bounty hunter was only half as good as his reputation claimed they knew there was more chance of them joining their fellow outlaws on a one-way journey to Hell, not Iron Eyes.
For nearly a decade Klute Varney had earned his name as a fast draw and one of the cleverest outlaws along the border. Yet even he found it impossible to settle down and rest. The sight of the notorious Iron Eyes had branded itself into his mind. It would remain there for eternity.
Matt Craven was probably the least jumpy of the four outlaws as they sat around the rickety table and stared at the tin plates before them. He had known the horror of being hunted down by Iron Eyes and now, back with his leader and two of Varney’s best guns, he felt safer than he had done for weeks.
Clu Jones and Frog Kettle said nothing. They too had stared at the bounty hunter close up when they had driven their horses past his skeletal form. His image refused to quit their thoughts.
Silence filled the cabin.
Yet for all the quietness, the four men showed no signs of bedding down for the night.
Each of them knew that Iron Eyes would not give up easily.
He would follow.
It was not in his nature to quit. The question each of them silently shared was: when would Iron Eyes show? And when he did, how would he make his play?
It mattered little to Iron Eyes whether he was still in Texas or had crossed the unmarked border into Mexico. Man-made borders meant nothing to the bounty hunter. He went where the tracks of his prey led him.
Where their scent betrayed them.
Iron Eyes pulled back on his reins and felt the tired animal beneath him slow to a stop. His keen eyes required little help from the bright moon which had replaced the burning sun. He just knew where the four outlaws were.
The sod structure blended into the background well. No light escaped from its wooden shutters or doorjamb but the smoke from its chimney had led the bounty hunter straight to it anyway.
He sat motionless atop the weary horse. A thousand times he had been in a similar situation. His mind raced as the night breeze moved his long mane of black hair. Now it was down to killing.
Killing creatures who deserved the justice he was willing to dish out. He wondered how much they were all worth. He had paper for only Craven and Layne in his pockets, that came to a princely sum. He knew that Klute Varney and the two other riders had to be worth more. A lot more.
His only problem was finding a town where he might be able to collect the reward money before his prey rotted. He knew that Silver Springs was a long ride away but it had law and the ability to pay him for his hard work.
Iron Eyes had started out chasing two wanted souls but now found he had a quartet of outlaws trapped. A crooked smile crossed his lips.
There was profit here. He could smell it as clearly as he could smell the smoke that drifted down from the blackened chimney stack.
Silently he slid down to the ground. His long thin legs absorbed the shock of the impact in well-rehearsed action.
The bounty hunter studied the area.
The outlaws’ four horses had been unsaddled and tethered to the rear of the soddy. That pleased Iron Eyes. It meant there was no quick escape for any of them.
It took a long time even for well-practiced men to saddle a horse in the best of situations. This was not going to be the best of situations for those he sought. It would be all they could manage to do just to remain alive under his onslaught.
Iron Eyes grabbed his reins and secured them to a large rock at his feet. He knew that even the most faithful of horses shied when the shooting started. This creature, that he had spurred and whipped mercilessly, would run for sure when the first shot was fired given half a chance. The tall bounty hunter would not risk losing his mount in this remote land. He opened one of the flaps of his saddle-bags and pulled out a whiskey bottle. Three inches of the fiery liquor remained. He tore its cork from the bottle neck and spat it away.
He would not require it again.
Holding the bottle to his thin, scarred lips, Iron Eyes tilted his head back and started to swallow the liquor. It did not take long for most of the bottle’s contents to be consumed. Most but not all.
Iron Eyes stopped when there was a mere half-inch of whiskey left in the bottle.
His eyes flashed briefly at the cabin, then returned to the bottle in his bony hand.
He had an idea.
He placed the bottle on top of the rock, then pulled out the tail of his well-worn shirt. He tore a strip from it and then stuffed the fabric into the neck of the bottle.
Iron Eyes shook the bottle until the shirt strip was soaked in the powerful liquor. Again a smile came over his features.
He slid the bottle into his right coat pocket and pushed a cigar between his lips. He struck a match and lit the long black weed. He drew deeply until the cigar was well alight. He tossed the match away and started for the cabin.
As he went he pulled one of his matched guns from his belt and cocked its hammer.
His long stride ate up the ground beneath his boots. The distance closed between the bounty hunter and the sod cabin quickly.
The Grim Reaper’s closest rival was about to fight. Only death could stop him.