Fistful of Hate

by Steve Lee

  The Mexican standing uneasily by their table was as humble-looking a fellow as Sloane had ever seen. He stood timidly by their table, his straw hat held nervously before him, his tanned face slightly bowed and full of uncertainty. When he spoke, his low whining voice was like the licking of a dog's tongue.

  'Perdóneme, Señores Nortes Americanos,' he began, 'for daring to dishonour your table with my presence that is unwelcome to you. My friend Tomas over there said you would beat me for sure. He said to me — "Pancho Gonzalez…" — that is my name, señores — "Pancho Gonzalez," he said, "those nice Americanos over there, they just want to drink their tequila and have some fun. They do not want to speak to one such as you." And I say back to this Tomas — a good and honest man he is, señores, and a good father to his children. That is him you see over there, the one with the moustache…'

  Over at the table of watching men, Tomas' moustache curled around a beaming grin. He raised a hand and wriggled three fingers in greeting.

  Pancho Gonzalez continued: 'I say to him — "Tomas, mi amigo, have you ever seen Americanos with such kind friendly faces as those señores Americanos over there? If you say you have, you are a lying pig!" I tell him. Because those ones are not like other Americanos. They are very generous Americanos and in particular the one who looks so distinguished in the prime of his life…' Here Pancho paused briefly to favour Joe with an admiring smile. ' "Him I know by his handsome face to be a very good man", I say to Tomas. "He will not mind if I approach his table and speak with him and his compañeros…"'

  'For God's sake, man, hurry and get it out,' Joe urged the Mex. 'What is it you want with us?'

  'Pardon me, señores, for the slowness of my tongue, but I am a humble man and not at all used to speaking to such fine caballeros as yourselves. I was over there sharing a jar of pulque with my compadres, all honest men as you can see, when you honoured us all by entering into this unworthy cantina. When I see you come in through the door, I say to Tomas and to Pablo too and to my other friends, I say, "What fine boots he has on his feet that big tall Americano that looks so handsome…" Is it not as I have said, Tomas, muchacho mio?'

  For confirmation Pancho looked over to where his seven friends were sitting. All seven had been watching and listening with the very closest attention possible and each of them had a grin on his face as big as a slice of water melon. The one called Tomas stood straight up, the grin vanishing clean off his face. He was dressed, as were all his companions, in white cotton shirt and pants. He walked over and joined Pancho, holding his hat respectfully in his hands.

  'Si, señores,' he gravely affirmed. 'He speaks no more than what is true.'

  'Never before in my whole life have I seen such wonderful boots as these I tell myself,' Pancho went on. 'I say to Tomas and to Pablo and to the others, I say — "These are most definitely boots any man would be proud to wear. Look how soft is the leather, like the skin of a rich woman. And the heels thick and high like a big stack of gold pesos. Everyone in Tijuana would look up to a man who wore such magnificent boots as these — especially the chicas!" '

  Pancho's dark eyes gleamed at the thought. The gleam in his eye made Joe shift his booted feet uncomfortably under the table. Then Pancho's head drooped as he lowered his gaze to his own feet and the eyes of everyone were drawn to the ragged sandals he wore, sandals so rotten and worn and full of holes that it appeared only by a miracle could they remain clinging to his dirt-encrusted feet. Pancho's face filled with anguish at the sight, anguish and incomprehension as if he could scarcely believe that it was his own feet he was looking at and not those of some hopeless and diseased beggar.

  'How can a man have pride,' he asked, as if speaking directly to the Almighty, 'when he looks down and sees his feet in these stinking huaraches through which all men may see his toes?'

  As proof of his words, Pancho furiously wiggled his toes which protruded like black stubs of mud from the grisly remains of his huaraches. Then he raised his eyes to Joe, a look of childlike eagerness taking possession of his face.

  'When I see your boots, señor, I think to myself how fine it would be to feel those wonderful boots on my feet. And I say to Totnas and to Pablo and to my other companeros, I say to them, that Americano with the fine boots, he has such a kind face that one, you may be sure he will not mind if I go over and speak to him. He will surely permit to me the honour Of wearing his wonderful boots, just for a few moments, just long enough to walk around the cantina a few times and get the feel of them on my feet!'

  As Pancho spoke these last words, Joe's face had grown red as a blood blister. Now the blister looked about ready to burst. 'Away with you, you impudent rascal!' he bellowed. 'I'll not share no boots a' mine with no thievin' bandit!'

  A change came over Pancho Gonzalez. It was as if a different man was standing there beside the table. He seemed to have grown taller, broader. Suddenly he was no longer the humble peasant. The servile mask slipped from his face and behind was something dangerous. It was the face of a cunning man who has put out his bait, waited patiently and now springs his trap. He glowered at Joe. At Sloane. At all three of them.

  'A bandit!' He had to repeat it several times before he could bring himself to believe it. 'You call me a bandit — me, Pancho Gonzalez?'

  He turned to share a piece of his indigation with his companeros at the other table.

  'You hear what this stinkin' gringo calls me?' he appealed. 'He dares to call Pancho Gonzalez a bandido!'

  The six men at the table contrived to look grossly outraged. Some hid their grinning mouths behind their hands. They shook their heads at such an injustice. That a lousy gringo should call Pancho Gonzalez this terrible thing! Pancho turned the heat of his indignation back on the three Americans.

  'I am a humble man, gringos,' he told them, 'but I am also proud. And you have hurt my pride. You have hurt me very much. You have wounded my great heart — mi gran corazón — which is full of love for all men.'

  A second man from his table joined Pancho. It was Pablo, a tall lanky indito. Pablo looked very sternly at the three gringos before him, looking at them as might a man who has come to demand satisfaction from the fiends who raped his sister; yet he too held his hat politely in his hands.

  'This is a very bad thing you have done,' Pablo said to them reproachfully. 'To call this decent man a bandit. You have hurt him very much I can see. You have hurt his great heart. And now you must show him you are truly sorry for what you have done. You must give to him your wonderful boots.'

  Joe's mouth moved up and down but it was a while before he could get the words out. 'Give him my boots!' he exploded. His hand slid across the table, reaching for the Colt at his hip. But at the same instant, the three Mexicans standing by the table raised their humbly-held hats and behind each one appeared a heavy calibre pistol. Joe's hand stopped dead as if suddenly nailed to the table.

  Pancho's upper lip peeled back from yellow teeth in a broad grin of pleasure. It felt so good to see the foolishness of the three gringos sitting helpless beneath the barrel of his big gun.

  While Pancho had been exercising his jaws, Sloane sat with his eyes turned from the Mexican, leaning his tilted head languidly on his arm with the air of someone who has far better things to think about than the unwashed feet of a peasant Now, he suddenly, grudgingly became interested in what was happening around him. He raised his frosty gaze to the three gun-pointing Mexicans, straightened up and waited to make his move.

  'I think I will take those boots now, gringo,' said Pancho with great enjoyment. 'You whose mother is a female dog and your father a goat with no name. And then I will take your money. And then I think maybe I will also take your lives…'

  The humour of it appealed to Pancho. It made him remember what a helluva clever guy he was. Only someone very smart indeed could have baited the gringo into insulting him as he had done. Now no one would blame him for killing the foolish gringos and taking the boots and money from their bodies. Even the Federates understood m
atters of honour. Pancho threw back his head and laughed a braying jackass laugh.

  Then the table hit him. It was a wide table and it also hit Tomas and Pablo. It was the first thing that hit them but it wasn't the last. Right behind the table came Sloane. He followed in a high leap, one foot descending to push Pablo's teeth down his throat, the other kicking the gun from his hand. Sloane landed neatly on both feet and instantly pivoted, his right foot rising in a roundhouse strike that sent Tomas' pistol spinning from a broken hand. Pancho had dropped his gun at the moment of impact with the table. Now he made a grab for it.

  'You wanted boots,' Sloane reminded him, closing in, 'try these for size!'

  Pancho's hand was an inch short of his pistol when Sloane's boot stamped down on it. Sloane ground his hand into the floor like it was an old cigar butt. Screaming an oath, Pancho tore free his hand. Sloane kicked the gun aside and the same foot leapt up in a flashing arc that caught Pancho under the chin and slammed him against a table. Sloane pursued him with a flying kick, his left boot biting into the pit of Pancho's belly. Pancho crashed over the table then flopped onto the floor, gasping like a fish out of water.

  All this happened in less time than it takes most men to blink five times. The men drinking in the Saloon El Cimarróne had watched in disbelieving silence as a wild-looking, empty-handed gringo demolished three armed men of dangerous repute. Now all Hell broke loose. Many made a dash for the doors to escape this obvious madman whilst others took refuge under tables. Many more, attracted by the ever-seductive sounds of a fight tried to push in from the plaza outside and watch the fun. The result was a brawling mass of confusion around the doorway. The remaining five friends of Pancho Gonzalez still sitting at their table had been as stunned as everybody else. Probably a lot more. Now they sprang up, sharpened metal glittering in their hands. They charged, overturning chairs in their eagerness to reach this damn gringo and avenge the honour of their comrades. Joe levelled his Walker Colt to blast the charging men. But Billy laid a hand on his arm and winked. Sloane seemed to be doing fine all by himself.

  The first Mexican to reach Sloane swung a machete down to cleave his skull. Sloane chopped aside the descending arm with rigid fingers. The man's mouth fell open. Sloane filled it with his boot. The next to reach him favoured a long-bladed knife. Sloane retreated before the slicing blade. Laughing, the man lunged. Sloane's finger's circled his wrist in an iron grip. He squeezed certain nerves. The man shrieked and dropped his blade. Maintaining his grip, Sloane swung the man's body round like a club and cracked his skull against that of the next man. Before they fell, Sloane thrust back his elbow and jabbed it into the eye of Tomas who was trying to aim his gun left-handed. Tomas staggered back, clutching his eye. Sloane helped him on his way with a jarring snap-kick high in the spine. The fourth man was already having second thoughts when he hacked at Sloane's back with his machete. Sloane spun to meet him, catching the blow with a cross-arm block. His left swiped aside the machete whilst his right backfisted the man's groin. The Mexican screamed his agony and doubled up, as if politely bowing to receive the dragon's head punch that spread his nose across his face.

  The last man wasn't the impetuous kind. He preferred to keep in the background as he was doing now with a big Starr .44 tight in his fist. He aimed the long barrel dead in the centre of Sloane's belly and eared back the hammer, finger tightening on the trigger. He was thinking what a big hero he was going to be in the morning, when Billy Wang's flying kick crunched into his kidneys. The shot blasted glasses from a table. The Mexican tried to get off another shot. Billy high-kicked. The pistol flew from his hand and, with it, his trigger finger. A furious flurry of punches and the Mexican hit the floor. Billy sprang over his body and treated Pablo to a fast-moving demonstration of snap-kicks. Sloane watched and liked what he saw. But he didn't get much opportunity to admire Billy's style because Pancho was back on his feet raising his pistol towards him. Sloane's spinning kick tore the gun from his hand. With a snarl of pain, Pancho dipped into his pocket and came up with a knife. He moved towards Sloane, thrusting the knife back and forth before him. It weaved a deadly pattern in the air. Sloane danced around the flashing blade. His foot leapt up and hammered the knife-hand. The knife flew from Pancho's grasp. Mad with pain and fury, Pancho rushed at Sloane, his hands curved like the claws of a beast. Sloane's fist impaled him, stopped him dead in his tracks. A front through-the-heart-kick rattled his rib cage. And then another. The great heart of Pancho Gonzalez shook in its cage. It beat against its bars. It fluttered and failed and grew still as death. Pancho swayed… Sloane's high-hooking kick lifted him clear from the ground. His body cannon-balled across the room. Pancho left the saloon without using the door. He crashed through the wooden wall taking a big chunk of it with him into the plaza outside.

  Sloane swivelled round, fists raised for more. Then he lowered his arms. There was no one left to hit. Billy had taken care of Pancho's friends that needed taking care of. Most of the saloon's customers had found refuge over by the door where Joe kept them corraled with his pistol. Sloane looked from their open-mouthed faces to the man-sized hole punched through the wall.

  'Looks like Pancho's made quite an impression on this place,' he said with a feather of a smile.

  'Let's be gettin' the Hell outa here!' Joe urged. The crowd was getting restless and there were more and more of them pushing into the saloon all the time. Pretty soon some hero with a girl to impress was going to start throwing lead in their direction.

  Sloane and Billy stepped out through the back-door thoughtfully provided by Pancho. Joe followed, retreating backwards from the crowd.

  'Kung Phooey!' he guffawed. 'Why didn't you tell me it was just another name for fightiri dirty!'

  He kept his pistol handy as they made for the horses. People shrank from the hurrying men, females uttering shrill cries of alarm at the sight of a man brandishing a gun. Angry shouts pursued them from the saloon.

  'Think they were El Muerte's men?' Billy asked as they plunged headlong through a gathering crowd.

  'No,' said Sloane. 'Small-timers who tried the wrong game with the wrong people.'

  By the time they reached their mounts an angry mob was surging in their direction from the saloon. From the other direction a solitary, familiar figure bore down on them with the same determination. It was the dapper American who'd greeted their arrival. Only he didn't look so dapper any more. His hat was tilted, his suit rumpled and he seemed to be having difficulty walking. Sloane would have been prepared to bet good money that his wallet was empty — if he still had one.

  His face wrapped itself around a glassy smile he had trouble getting rid of. 'Enjoy your stay, boys?' he asked cordially.

  'You bet!' said Billy Wang, swinging into the saddle.

  The angry crowd was closer now, much closer. Some of them were chanting 'Maten los gringos — kill the gringos!'

  'Don't talk,' Joe snapped.' Ride!'

  They took his advice. The three of them swept out of town like bats fresh out of Hell. Seconds later the mob, goaded to fury by the sight of their quarry escaping, closed around the dapper American like hungry wolves converging on a lost sheep.

  * * *

  They came across the old man two days later. He was sitting patiently cross-legged by the side of the trail. When they drew closer they saw he was blind, his eyes boiled white like eggs.

  'Buenos tardes, Señores gringos' he greeted them. 'I have been awaiting you.'

  'Waiting for us?' Joe asked sharply. He glanced around with thoughts of an ambush. He saw no one.

  'Are you not the gringos who killed Pancho Gonzalez the famous bandit and crippled his cousin José and many others also?'

  Their silence answered his question.

  'Yes, I thought it was you,' the old man chuckled. His blindness made his smile seem something intensely personal not meant to be shared with them.

  'Good news travels fast,' Sloane observed.

  'Death travels fast,' said the old man pointedl
y.

  Sloane understood his meaning. 'How fast?' he asked. The trail they were following was cold.

  'Faster than you can catch him,' the old man laughed. 'A man may look for death all his life and never find him. And yet when death comes looking for that man, he finds him very fast.'

  'We're looking for El Muerte,' said Billy. 'Can you tell us what he looks like?'

  Again the old blind man laughed his grating laugh. 'How should I be able to tell you what he looks like, señores? If death were to touch me on the shoulder I would not know him from another, but for the coldness of his touch.'

  'I'll know him when I clap eyes on him,' Joe promised. 'And the rest of the murderin' bastards!'

  'My people were great princes once,' the old man told them. 'And they will be again. Soon, very soon. We have thrown the French back into the sea from which they came. Now my people grow proud once more. Next it will be the turn of the Americanos. We will throw them out as we have done with the French ones. California will again belong to Mexico. And Texas also.'

  Flies crawled over the old man's face but he did not seem to mind.

  'The land beyond here is known as Miction, the land of the dead,' he said, pointing in the direction in which they were headed. 'That is the land of El Muerte!'

  'We'll find him,' said Sloane, laying heels to the Morgan. He led the others loping past the old man.

  'You will not find El Muerte — but death will find you!' the viejo called out after them.

  His laughter chased them down the trail.

  'Just a crazy old fool!' Billy spoke the thought aloud, his face troubled.

  'Maybe so — but I've heard tell some queer tales 'bout these parts,' Joe told his companions. 'The Mexes make out it's full a' evil spirits, make it sound like there's one under every rock in the whole damn place… They say there's this one devil grabs ahold a' folks passin' through and eats the meat off a' their bones, picks 'em neat as a wish-bone if you please! Then off he goes an' builds hisself a house with the bones… Of course, them Mexes'll believe anythin',' he added lightly.