The Spurs of Iron Eyes (Iron Eyes Western #3) Read Free

town. Even fewer men had the
ivory grips of two Navy Colts ominously protruding from their belt.
Yet, as he reached the porch overhang outside the saloon, there was
no living person about to question him. Pushing the swing doors
apart, the large room suddenly went silent.
    Iron Eyes stepped into the
cool building and studied the faces of the two dozen men and women
whose attention was fixed upon his every movement.
    Walking silently to the long
bar he felt uneasy as the men drifted away from him, dragging their
drinks across its damp surface. One of the pair of bartenders
closest to him stepped forward and gulped.
    ‘ What’ll it be, stranger?’
    Iron Eyes silently placed a
handful of silver dollars onto the top of the bar and indicated a
bottle of whiskey bearing a colorful label amid the various home-made rotgut
preparations.
    ‘ This
is too much,’ the bartender announced.
    ‘Fill a few glasses.’ Iron Eyes cast a look
at the terrified gathering before turning with the bottle and a
crystal shot glass in his hand and walking to a dark
corner.
    The room remained silent until
the bartender counted the coins and shouted at his
customers, ‘The drinks are on the stranger, folks.’
    Suddenly the saloon began to
rekindle its former confidence. Iron Eyes watched as the people
moved to the bar to collect their free drinks. Pulling the cork
from the bottle neck with his small sharp teeth, he poured himself
a glass of the amber liquor observing the people through his limp, black
hair which dangled before his face.
    Sipping at the whiskey,
Iron Eyes missed nothing within the four walls of this
place.
    There were six females amongst
the crowd, each looking as if they had seen better days. Two
Mexicans wearing droopy sombreros wrestled in the far corner over
what remained of a bottle of tequila. The remaining patrons were
Texan men of various ages and appearance. The majority looked
harmless, but two seemed worth keeping an eye on. Well-heeled with
polished leather gun belts and gleaming gun grips these men drew his
attention. He had seen their like before too many times in too many
towns.
    Iron Eyes knew these two
men might just be well-scrubbed cowboys out on the prowl for the
soft bosoms and thighs of a female who had her price, but his
well-honed instincts told him to be wary.
    The pair finished their
free drinks and then purchased a few more before turning to face
the seated figure in the shadowy corner.
    Their interest in him made
the bounty hunter realize he was correct in his assumption they
were not cowboys. Even the average cow hand had brains enough to
steer well clear of a man like him.
    Then the swing doors parted and
the portly Sheriff Bass walked in carrying a twin-barreled shotgun in
the crook of his arm. The two men glanced across at the lawman and
then turned to face the bartenders once more.
    Iron Eyes sat upright in
his chair and watched as the sheriff ambled over to his
table.
    ‘ Bass.’
    ‘ What
you doing here?’ Bass asked angrily.
    ‘ Drinking.’
    Bass stared down at the fat
leather saddlebags and then back at the gaunt stranger.
    ‘ You
leaving?’
    ‘ Nope,’ replied Iron Eyes.
    ‘ Why
you got your trail gear with you then?’
    ‘ I
ain’t. This is my bank roll.’
    The sheriff jabbed the saddlebags with the
barrel of his weapon and heard the distinctive sound of metal
coins. Looking into the scarred face he seemed confused.
    ‘ Ain’t
you heard of paper money, boy?’
    ‘Y ep. I don’t like it.’
    ‘ Why
not?’
    ‘ It
burns and it rots. Silver and gold don’t even rust,’ Iron Eyes
grunted, as he cast an eye across at the two men who were watching
and listening with far too much interest.
    Bass sat down next to the
bounty hunter and sighed.
    ‘ I
told you, I don’t want no trouble in my town.’
    Iron Eyes took a deep
inhalation of air as he watched the pair of very clean men moving
away from the bar and strolling out of the saloon.
    ‘ Who
are those two varmints?’
    Bass