The buzzing sound that filled the ears of Iron Eyes was one that he instantly recognized from all his years of roaming around the barren wastes of the West. There was no noise quite like the sound of an arrow being released from an Apache bowstring and cutting through the air.
Even in his confused state, the tall lean man knew that an arrow had been fired at him. He ducked down and saw the arrow shatter against the rocks just above him.
‘Apache!’ Iron Eyes growled, hauling both his guns from the deep pockets of his weathered coat. ‘Ain’t they ever gonna leave me be?’
Without even thinking, his thumbs engaged the hammers until they locked into position. He screwed up his eyes and stared desperately into the heat haze before him. He still could not make out the figure clearly but knew that, yet again, one of his most hated enemies had come to try and claim his scalp. So many other Apaches had tried to do the same thing over the years.
They had all failed.
As Iron Eyes lowered himself on to the hot sand with his Navy Colts aimed straight ahead, he knew that this time it might be a different story. For he was drained of vital fluids and could barely managed to concentrate, let alone fight.
‘Show yourself!’ the bounty hunter yelled out.
Another arrow sped out of the swirling hot air. Its tip skimmed off the rocks sending it up the canyon behind him.
‘Where are you?’ the bounty hunter muttered under his breath as he crawled slowly forward. ‘Just give me a target to aim at.’
Then he saw movement.
The shimmering image was fifty feet away from him and moving from one side of the narrow canyon to the other. Another arrow came humming out of the haze and landed a few inches to the left of his outstretched hand. Iron Eyes pulled his hand back and glared at the arrow. It bore flights similar to those that had tried so vainly to claim his life nine months earlier. He continued to move across the sand, keeping as low as possible to make the smallest target for the bowman.
The closer he got to the warrior, the clearer the near-naked man became. Iron Eyes could see the brightly painted marks on the Apache’s torso.
It was a target that he could not resist.
Iron Eyes gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger of his left gun. The fiery explosion sent a bullet at the image but another arrow came back, less than a heartbeat later. This time the arrow found its mark and sank into his left shoulder. The impact jolted him hard enough for him to drop the still-smoking Navy Colt.
‘You damn bastard!’ the bounty hunter screamed out, rage mingled with the sudden unexpected pain. He groped at the sand, grabbed the gun again and hauled its hammer back until it locked. Then he forced himself up off the sand and began to walk straight towards his well-hidden foe.
He fired one gun after the other as he somehow managed to defy his pain. Only one more arrow came back in answer. It missed. It was vintage Iron Eyes. A man who refused to die like other men.
‘Eat lead!’ he repeated over and over.
Iron Eyes continued walking and firing until both his weapons were empty. Then as the gunsmoke cleared he saw the wounded Apache ahead of him lying against a rockface. The heavily painted brave had taken more than one of Iron Eyes’ bullets squarely in his guts. Blood poured from the belly of the warrior as he watched the ghostlike apparition approach.
‘Iron Eyes?’ the Apache spat in surprise. ‘But you are dead! My people kill you many moons ago.’
Iron Eyes dropped both his guns into the deep pockets on either side of his narrow hips, then leaned down and dragged his Bowie knife from the neck of his right boot.
‘Damn right!’ With no hint of any emotion, the tail man wrapped his fingers around the knife-blade. He mustered every ounce of his strength and threw it with all his force. The Indian slumped as the knife went straight into his heart. ‘You just bin killed by a ghost!’
Iron Eyes staggered to the body and retrieved the gore-covered knife. He then turned his head and looked at the arrow stuck in his shoulder. He grabbed its shaft and ripped it from his flesh. There was no blood. It was as if he no longer had any left to spill. He tossed it away, then something caught his eye.
The nervous painted pony stood a mere twenty feet from where Iron Eyes was standing.
But it was not the animal itself that managed to bring a smile to his cracked lips. It was the sight of the swollen water bag that hung over the animal’s neck. It drew him across the sand like a magnet. He pulled the stopper and inhaled the scent of the fresh liquid inside the large leather bag.
He tilted the neck of the bag and allowed the cool water to wash over his face and into his mouth. He drank slowly for more than a minute and then returned the stopper to the neck of the bag. His bony hands gripped the crude rope reins that were looped around the pony’s head and neck.
It was a refreshed Iron Eyes who gave the dead Indian a sideways glance. He smiled.
‘Don’t that take the biscuit, boy? You just saved the bacon of Iron Eyes! I got me a feeling that they’ll never let you into Apache heaven now.’