THE INDIAN PONY thundered down the steep mountain trail yet no matter how fast it ran it could not escape its new master’s bloodied spurs. Iron Eyes showed it no mercy. He wanted to reach the floor of Devil’s Canyon and get to grips with the four outlaws who were somewhere within its confines. He knew that their collected bounties would keep him in whiskey and cigars for at least a year.
As Iron Eyes spurred he could still hear the gunfire echoing all around him. He wondered what was going on. Then he recalled seeing his worst enemy, Buffalo Benson, leading a packhorse with a body lashed across its back.
Had Benson decided to try and capture Iron Eyes’ chosen prey and collect the reward money on their heads?
It was a thought which drove the bounty hunter into making his pony find even more pace.
The terrified animal charged down the last yards of the sloping trail and on to the flat sand. Iron Eyes hauled back on the crude rope reins and stopped it in its tracks. His long legs hung almost to the ground as he sat astride the bareback animal. The sound of the shooting carried on. Iron Eyes swung the small pony around in an attempt to locate where it was coming from. It was impossible. The high-sided walls of solid rock were unfamiliar to him. The trail from the high mountain had led him away from the main canyon. Now he was somewhere that he did not recognize.
He gritted his teeth.
‘Where the hell am I?’ he shouted to himself.
There were three trails away from where his mount was standing. Three choices. Two were wide whilst the third was little more than a crack in the canyon wall. Little wider than the pony he sat upon.
Iron Eyes forced the pony to walk in a wide circle. He listened hard as he passed each of the canyon trails. There had to be a clue to which was the one he should take. The one that would lead him to the fighting and the men he sought.
Which one would get him to the outlaws he craved to meet and destroy?
To his surprise it seemed that the sound of shooting was coming from the narrowest of the three trails.
Iron Eyes hauled the head of the pony around and stared at the break in the canyon wall which faced him. It looked as though a mythical giant had brought his axe down on the wall of rock and split it.
He edged the pony closer, tilted his head and listened even harder. He was right. This was where the sound of shooting seemed to be loudest. Iron Eyes straightened up. He tried to see down along the length of the trail but it twisted and turned too much. Sunlight could not penetrate into the ravine either. The emaciated man rubbed his arm and realized that it no longer hurt. He flexed his fingers and nodded to himself.
Iron Eyes raised a hand and slapped the rump of the pony as hard as he could. With no saddle or stirrups he had to use every facet of his riding skills just to stay on the pony’s back as it bolted into action.
‘C’mon, nag!’ Iron Eyes yelled. ‘I got me some vermin to kill!’
The Indian pony galloped into the twisting crack in the sand-colored rockface. It would not be allowed to ease its pace until its new master decided it was time to do so.
Klute Varney had been the first to spot the unknown intruder hauling away their ill-gotten gains. He was also the first to open fire. Within seconds his cohorts had joined him in the relentless show of firepower. They had left their three remaining horses at the mouth of the main canyon and steadily made their way deeper into its fiery heart.
There was plenty of cover. Craven and Varney used every protruding boulder along the rockface for cover as they slowly made their way towards their hideout. Jones and Kettle used the opposite wall in the same manner.
Their rifles were smoking hot as the four men shot their way ever closer to their unknown adversary.
Whoever he was, they had him pinned down.
For more than two long minutes there had been no return fire from the man behind the large boulder.
Varney halted their steady progress with a raised arm. He looked to Craven behind him. Sweat hung on the outlaw who, Varney feared, would one day make a mistake that could cost them all dear. He glanced across at Kettle and Jones. They were on the same side of the canyon as their quarry. The huge boulder behind which the unknown intruder was hiding gave them total protection from his guns.
Varney waved his Colt at his two most reliable men by way of giving instructions. They understood his silent signals and waved their rifles in reply.
Craven moved to the shoulder of his leader.
‘What you telling them, Klute?’ Craven asked nervously.
‘I’m telling them not to waste ammo, Matt!’ Varney retorted gruffly. ‘I’m also telling them to creep up on that boulder as quiet as they can!’
Craven rubbed the sweat from his face. ‘What about us? What we gonna do?’
Varney turned and looked at the face which was only inches from his own. He gave it a cruel smile.
‘You and me are gonna draw that bastard’s fire and give Frog and Clu a chance of creeping up on him!’
Craven felt his heart quicken its pace.
‘I ain’t drawing fire for nobody! Why should I be a damn target? Nope! I ain’t gonna do it, Klute!’
Varney jerked his .45 around and poked its barrel up under Craven’s chin. He smiled even wider.
‘Oh yes, you are, Matt! Iffen you don’t, I’ll kill you myself!’
Craven gulped hard. ‘You serious? You’d kill me?’
‘Yep! I sure would!’ Varney grabbed the outlaw’s collar and swung him around. He shook Craven and stared straight into his eyes. ‘Now, me and you are gonna rush that hombre and give the boys a chance to creep up on him! Savvy?’
Matt Craven said nothing.
Suddenly Varney felt the barrel of Craven’s own Colt poking him in the guts. Before he could look down his entire body shook as the deafening sound of the gun filled his ears. A pain ripped through his guts. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He teetered backwards for a second and then tried to aim his own pistol.
‘You stinking coward!’ Varney spat as blood ran from his mouth.
Craven sneered and then fired again. This time he saw the gore splatter from the second brutal wound. Varney twisted in the air and crashed on to the sand.
‘What you doing. Matt?’ Kettle shouted out in horror.
‘You killed Klute!’ Jones yelled in disbelief.
Craven raised his gun and aimed in their direction. ‘You wanna make a fight of this, old-timers?’
They sure did.
The two outlaws dropped on to their bellies and started to fire their guns at the younger man. He in turn dropped down behind the crumpled body of Varney and propped it up to act as a shield.
The canyon now echoed with even more gunfire.
Within a few minutes all three had spent their shells and needed to reload.
There was a lull as if time itself had stood still whilst the gunfighters shook hot brass casings from their guns and dragged fresh bullets from their belts to replace them.
The battle restarted.
Gunsmoke filled the wide canyon and mixed with the hot air to make a sickening cocktail. Craven blasted his handguns in quick succession. Then Clu Jones screamed and tried to rise to his feet as he realized he had been hit.
‘Git down, Clu!’ Kettle implored.
It was too late. Even the crazed Craven could not miss a standing target at such distance. Jones was knocked off his feet and tumbled into the canyon wall behind them.
‘Give up!’ Craven demanded.
Kettle had used up all the rounds in his rifle. He tossed it aside, pulled his .45s and blasted both at once. He saw his bullets tear into the lifeless Varney. He knew that it would take something special to kill the cowardly man who hid behind the corpse.
Then he realized that he did have something special.
Something hidden in his deep jacket pocket.
Something he been keeping secret from his fellow outlaws for over a year. It was something he knew would bring this fight to a sudden and brutal conclusion.
He carefully dug deep and pulled out the dynamite stick from his inside pocket. He blew the dust off it. A smile crossed his weathered features. Then he searched for the short minute fuse he had in his pants pocket.
‘You run out of ammo, Frog?’ Craven yelled out through the gun smoke that separated them. ‘I ain’t! I still got me plenty of bullets and I ain’t even started to use old Klute’s guns yet!’
‘Why don’t you come over here and find out, Matt?’ Kettle called back as his large fingers pushed the fuse into the soft end of the explosives. ‘I’d ask if you was scared but I already know the answer to that ’un! I can smell your fear from over here, boy!’
‘You calling me yeller?’ Not willing to waste time loading his own guns again, Craven picked up Varney’s Colts and cocked their hammers. ‘Well? Are you?’ Kettle pulled a match from his shirt pocket and dragged it up the side of his pants leg. It ignited and he hastily lit the fuse. It burst into spitting fury.
The outlaw licked his dry lips and watched as the fuse burned down quickly. Sixty seconds was not a very long time and the big man knew it. He inhaled and then hoisted the single stick of Grade A dynamite across the distance between them. He saw it hit the rocks behind Craven and fall. Kettle buried his face in the hot sand and pushed his fingers in his ears.
The explosion was far bigger than Kettle had thought it would be. The ancient rocks had never been subject to anything as powerful before.
The entire canyon shook.
Boulders started to fall from all sides.
Choking dust enveloped the entire floor of the canyon making it impossible for the outlaw to see if he had succeeded in destroying Matt Craven or not.
There was no time to find out.
Faster than a man of his age should have been able to move, Frog Kettle got back to his feet and looked all around him. He was scared. He had not expected the dry canyon walls to fall the way they were falling.
He looked back through the thick swirling dust to where their three horses were. Rocks of every size were falling like shrapnel between the outlaw and the mounts.
Kettle grabbed his rifle and started to make for them as fast as his legs could carry him. It was not easy. He had to avoid the falling debris as best he could.
He had not gone far when he froze in his tracks.
Frog Kettle’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
Through the dust he could see them.
A line of Apache horsemen were moving steadily into the mouth of the wide canyon. They were painted for war.
Herinaco and his warriors had arrived.