The Man With The Iron Fists

by Steve Lee

  Chang Fung laughed softly.

  "My son, you are beginning to see the world with the eyes of a man. You will learn that there is no one path for all men. Each must find his own path."

  Tod inclined his head in agreement. He could understand that. He wondered what lay at the end of his path.

  "In all things it is the balance we must aim for," Chang Fung continued. "As I have told you before my people believe the world is divided by two forces: the yin and the yang. The yin is all that is dark, weak, and negative; the yang all that is light, strong, and positive."

  "But neither of 'em is good or bad, right?"

  "Correct. When you fight it is as wrong to attack too strongly as it is to attack too weakly. Your attack must be exactly right. So it is with the yin and yang. When they are balanced, everything is in harmony."

  "How about the ruthless man?"

  "It is very hard for a ruthless man to be in harmony — unless he has great merits to balance his ruthlessness. It is hard to reach such a balance and there are few men who achieve it. To be ruthless is the way of nature, not of man."

  Chang Fung flicked the empty sleeve dangling from his left shoulder.

  "Let me repeat to you the story of how I lost my arm, for in this story there is much from which you may learn…

  "As you know, I learned all I know of the fighting arts in Canton. When I left there, I forgot the words of my teachers… all my teachers."

  As he spoke, Chang Fung's face became wistful, took on an expression of infinite regret for the mistakes that could never be corrected.

  "I became too confident, too sure of my skills. There was nothing, I told myself, that could withstand my fists. My friends and I were young. We believed righteous fists could set the empire in harmony once more."

  The Chinaman chuckled wryly. "Rather than meet evil with good where we found it, we began to seek out the evil to destroy it. We strayed away from the center — and lost our balance!

  "And then we had to pay the price. There was a fight. I was lucky. I lost only my arm… my friends were not so fortunate."

  For a moment, Chang Fung was silent.

  "Among those we attacked was an Eastern Ocean man… one from the land you call Japan. It was on his sword I lost my arm."

  "Did you hate the Jap?" Tod asked.

  Chang Fung looked at him sharply.

  "Can it be," he asked, "that your own hatred has so blinded you that you cannot follow what I am saying? It was punishment from heaven for losing the balance my teachers gave me!" His eyes fixed on his empty sleeve.

  "Of course, loss brings pain… and when you are in pain, it is easy to hate. But remember this also," he said, shifting his gaze to Tod, "there is no loss without gain. If I had not lost my arm I would never have found my balance again; and from the yellow devils who robbed me of my arm I learned the care of that which you call the tangerine trees."

  Chang Fung studied Tod for a time before speaking again.

  "Put aside your thoughts of vengeance, my son. They will only bring you evil. Let Heaven punish those that must be punished!" Chang Fung rose and headed back towards the house.

  Tod watched him go. No loss without gain. The clown who'd butchered his Ma and Pa, what had he given in return? Tod sighed. He seemed to be further than ever from reaching any decision.

  * * *

  "The old book, the one Chang Fung looks at when there's trouble…"

  "The Book of Changes?" asked Su Fan.

  "That's the one," said Tod. "Can you read it?"

  "Yes. If you have a question, I will help you ask it."

  Tod followed Su Fan into the small altar room. From a cabinet beneath the serene gaze of the Buddha, she took the old and battered book and three Chinese coins with holes through the center. She handed the coins to Tod.

  "Think of your question," she said, "then throw the coins onto the table, six times. I will do the rest for you."

  Tod carried out the instructions. Su Fan made some rapid mental calculations and started leafing through the book.

  "This book is the oldest in the whole of the empire, perhaps even in the whole world. I often ask it questions." She smiled at Tod.

  "I've even asked it about you.

  "Here it is," she said, looking down, then hesitating.

  "What's the matter?" Tod asked. She raised her eyes to his.

  "I don't want you to hear what it says. I'm afraid you'll leave.""

  "Read it," said Tod.

  In a low trembling voice, Su Fan read from the ancient pages:

  * * *

  "The superior man walks alone to punish the criminal… The rain spatters him and people raise their arms against him… But in the end there is no blame…"

  * * *

  The words made Tod feel shivery inside. It was as if the book had read the doubts in his mind and answered them.

  No blame…

  * * *

  "I'm leaving," Tod announced when Chang Fung opened his eyes. He was sitting in the meditation position. He looked at his stepson and saw he had already dressed to leave.

  "It is as I feared," said the Chinaman gravely. "Tell me why you wish to leave. Are you not happy here?"

  "Sure I'm happy. But now I'm a man I reckon it's time I was doin' what I got to do…"

  Chang Fung rose quickly to his feet and slapped Tod across the face.

  "Do not speak of being a man before you have proved yourself one! I have told you, the revenge you seek is not the way of a man."

  Tod put a hand to his stinging cheek but said nothing.

  "And what of your filial devotion?" the Chinaman demanded. "I feel the years pressing against me to make my body heavy and my one arm slow. Would you leave your mother and sister unprotected?"

  "I'm leaving," Tod repeated, turning to fetch his saddle and gear.

  "I forbid it!"

  Tod went on walking towards the house.

  He was expecting the blow and when it came, he moved fast. Chang Fung's snap-kick glanced off his cheek but the impact was still sufficient to send him sprawling into the dust. A trickle of blood oozed from between his lips. Wiping it away with the back of his hand, Tod watched the angry mask of his stepfather's face, waiting for the next move.

  As the kick hurtled towards his head, Tod's arm lashed upward, blocking the blow with his forearm, his hand curving to grasp Chang Fung's shin. His own foot swept round to attack the Chinaman's supporting leg. Chang Fung rolled as he fell.

  Brushing the dust from his clothes, Tod continued toward the house. He expected Chang Fung to resume the attack.

  But none came.

  * * *

  His saddle-bags slung over his shoulder, Tod closed the door of his room for the last time. Su Fan was waiting for him. They held on to each other, kissing with hungry desperation.

  "I'll be back," Tod promised, when they broke apart. He hoped it sounded convincing.

  Downstairs, Hsiao Yu tugged at his arm.

  "Do not leave us again," she begged. "Stay with us, Chao Yu…"

  "That's not my name," he said and wished the words did not sound so harsh.

  "My name's Sloane."

  * * *

  Solemn faced, Chang Fung was waiting for him by his horse. He carried a rifle case. In silence, the Chinaman watched him saddle the lean-legged Morgan.

  "Here," he said, presenting his stepson with the rifle case.

  "You know what is in it, don't you?"

  "I know."

  Chang Fung next held out a pouch, heavy with coins.

  "You will need money," he said.

  "I don't want your money…"

  "Take it. You have earned it. You worked hard. I saved your share for this day."

  Sloane took the pouch. He tied the rifle case to his saddle, then mounted up and rode out. The fragrance of the tangerine groves reached out and touched him, then was gone.

  He did not look back.

  III

  The Way of the Ruthless Man

 
1

  Soon Sloane had merged with the dusty landscape. Gazing at the vast empty plains around him, he wondered how in hell he was going to find one of the killers, let alone eight. Men whose names he didn't know, whose faces he could hardly remember. They might be in any state of the union, might have drifted south into Mexico or north into Canada. Probably they'd split up and gone different ways years before. They might even have died in the war.

  Sloane suddenly saw his desire for revenge as the impossible dream of a grieving boy. Thoughts of Hsiao Yu and Su Fan warmed him and he felt alone. He fought a desperate impulse to turn round and go back. No, he could not return until he'd proved himself. Then he remembered something Chang Fung had once said, one of his old Chinese sayings, and his resolution grew strong:

  A long journey begins with the first step.

  Sloane rode north.

  He followed the rutted trail into San Berdoo. It looked like any other growing town: a sprawling collection of timbered buildings centered round a wide main street. Riding past saloons and general stores, Sloane caught sight of a stooped, yellow-faced figure crossing the street, moving briskly despite white locks, almost scurrying to avoid horses and wagons. He watched the elderly Chinaman disappear into a small-fronted store, noting the painted sign above the window:

  Ho Wei — Chinese Laundry

  Hitching his horse outside the Golden Girl saloon, Sloane considered how out of place the Chinaman had looked beside the tall westerners, how comical had seemed his flapping black clothes, the squat round hat on his head, and the pigtail trailing limply behind. Sloane realized he must himself appear just as strange in his long jacket with the Oriental style collar and buttons, his wide baggy pants, and with his long black hair, which Hsiao Yu had so loved to braid, hanging loosely over his shoulders.

  Inside the saloon, he was soon made to feel just how strange he looked. The place was nearly empty but the drunken shouts and laughter of the five men at the bar helped fill it out. As Sloane approached the bar, one of the men, a fat Mexican in a wide sombrero, turned, his swarthy face lighting up with malicious delight when he saw the newcomer.

  "Que guappa!" he alerted his companions. "Look at the senorita!"

  Stepping up to the bar, Sloane felt the eyes of the other men turn contemptuously on him. The two saloon girls keeping them company tittered.

  "Looks kinda flat-chested for a senorita, don't he?" yelled a thickly bearded man, bigger and drunker than his fellows.

  "Not like la Lupa here!" he roared, cupping a hand roughly round a partially exposed breast belonging to the younger of the two whores, a dark Mexican girl in a blue silk dress with dirty lace trimming the sleeves and low neckline. The girl laughed with a pleasure not reflected in her eyes and squirmed out of the drunk's grasp.

  "Don't look to me like no senorita at all," spoke a surly looking drinker, quieter than the rest of his companions. "Looks to me like a damn Chink — Chink passin' hisself off as a white man!"

  "Well, which are you, meester?" demanded the fat Mexican in a whining voice neither too friendly nor too hostile. "A Chinaman with blue eyes, or a woman with no bosoms?"

  Sloane ignored the question and the laughter it provoked. Across the bar, a fair-haired boy of about eleven was drying glasses. He watched Sloane impassively. Further along, a bartender with a thick twist of black moustache above his Up was trying to look busy. He knew trouble was brewing and he was keeping out of its way. Until the tension passed or burned itself out in a short clumsy burst of violence. Sloane stared at the man, waiting to be served. The bartender's eyes were elsewhere.

  The Mexican turned to his companions, shrugging expansively.

  "Must be a Chinaman," he said, his voice nudging for further laughs, " 'cause he sure didn't unnerstan' Engleesh!" He got his laughs and loudly added his own.

  Hands on hips, the dark girl called Lupa detached herself from the group of laughing men and swung her body towards Sloane.

  "You like to buy me a drink?" she invited.

  The silence fell like a butcher's cleaver. Sloane turned and looked at the girl. Her beauty was real, not painted. She had to be new at her job because she didn't yet have the world-worn look of the other girls. She made Sloane think of black grapes hanging sweet and ripe in the sun.

  "Bitch!" the bearded drunk grimaced. Lunging, he yanked her back toward him by the wrist and slapped her face. Lupa stumbled back into a table, gripped its edge for support. One hand flew to her lips and found blood.

  Here thought Sloane was an opportunity to test out what Chang Fung had been teaching him all those years. It was one thing to fight an aging one-armed man. Another to take on five men with guns on their hips.

  "You're mine, remember!"

  The bearded one threw the words at the girl like they were clods of earth. "I paid good money for ya an' I'm gonna get its worth, every cent of it!"

  Lupa glanced quickly towards the strangely dressed man at the bar. His back was to her. He had not even turned. She thought she had seen something in him, something special. But she was wrong. As always. She lowered her eyes.

  "Si… you paid for me," she said dully. She even managed a smile.

  The bearded man shifted his glare from her to Sloane. Sloane waited.

  "Lupa… you got it all wrong!" said another of the men, ginger-haired with luxuriant side whiskers that merged with his mustache. He spoke as if explaining something very difficult to a child.

  "Ladies don't buy drinks for ladies… it just ain't done. But a gentleman may buy a drink for a lady… watch close now." Ginger-hair's companions grinned as he beckoned, businesslike, to the bartender.

  "Jake!"

  Jake hurriedly presented himself.

  "What's your pleasure, Mr. Burns?"

  "Jake, I'm buying a drink for my lady friend here…" He nodded toward Sloane. Jake looked uncomfortable.

  "What are you having, my dear?" Burns asked Sloane. Around him, his cronies guffawed. The fifth man, a shifty-eyed fellow with a harelip, heartily slapped his thigh.

  Sloane turned to Burns, smiling evenly at him.

  "Milk," he said.

  "Milk!" the bearded one roared. He and the others shook with laughter. Except for Burns. He saw another way to play this out.

  "Guess I got wax in m' ears but I don't reckon I heard you rightly, stranger."

  "Sure you did," said Sloane.

  "How about a nice glass of sasparilla, mister?" Jake suggested, leaning across the bar.

  "Milk," Sloane repeated.

  Jake leaned further across the bar, lowering his voice.

  "Mister, I got every kind of drink here… what you want milk for?"

  "It's good for you," said Sloane. Jake shook his head.

  "Sure ain't good for you if it's gonna get you killed." He turned to the boy polishing glasses.

  "Duke, go to the kitchen an' fetch some milk." The boy threw down his cloth and moved to carry out the instruction.

  "Hold it," said Burns.

  The boy halted.

  Burns moved nearer to Sloane. "When I ask a man to drink with me," he said, "I s'pect him to drink like a man — not a tit-suckin' kid!" He snapped his fingers at Jake.

  "Now open us up a bottle of ole snake-eye…"

  "Yessir!" said Jake, hands moving fast. Sloane's blue eyes met those of the boy. He winked.

  "Make mine milk," he said.

  This time it wasn't at Sloane that the saloon girls laughed. Burns stared at the stranger, disbelieving, enraged. He dropped his hands to his side, fingers spread. He took several paces back, the others fanning out behind him. The laughter ceased.

  With a sigh, Jake unhooked his best mirror from the wall and disappeared from view behind the counter. The boy joined him.

  "I ain't a body to be trifled with, mister," said Burns. "Now you better get ready to draw that gun because I'm gonna kill you."

  "I won't need a gun," said Sloane, facing him. Burns mistook the words for cowardice. His face showed his contempt.

>   "What's that gunbelt for?" he accused, pointing. "Keep your pants up?"

  "How'd you guess?"

  "Why you sonova…!"

  Burns's hand moved fast, streaking for his gun.

  Sloane moved faster.

  Burns gasped. Blinking stupidly, he gripped his pain-racked right hand with his left. He couldn't understand it. One moment he was bringing up his gun to settle this Chink who didn't look like a Chink. The next his gun was clattering down the other side of the saloon and his hand hurt like blazes. And the Chink was just standing there like he was taking in the sights. Burns made a fist of his hand and charged.

  Sloane moved again.

  This time it was the turn of the others to gasp as Burns sailed past them, crashing down onto a hastily emptied table. The table collapsed and he vanished from sight in a confusion of splintering wood and breaking glass. He didn't reappear.

  The sound of a fight brought people running breathless into the saloon. They bunched up near the swinging doors, unwilling to press too closely forward in case they get in the way of a stray fist or bullet. Among the crowd, Sloane noticed a young Chinaman, balancing a heap of towels in his arms.

  "Get him!" yelled Harelip and in a pack they rushed him. Sloane awaited them, like a statue unmoving, expressionless. Then, when they were upon him, the statue sprang startlingly to life. Sloane's high-kick shattered Surly's jaw, his right fist smashed the bearded one's nose, his left hand chopped Harelip in the temple and, as he dropped his right arm, Sloane shot back his elbow, sinking it deep into the Mexican's soft belly. The Mexican grunted and careened into the bar. Harelip fell senseless on the spot. Surly landed in a gambler's lap and began to snore. Arms flailing, the bearded one cannonballed through a row of tables, donating samples of his blood to everyone he passed. Lupa clapped her hands delightedly when it splashed over her.

  The Mexican launched himself off the bar at Sloane, his hand emerging from inside his poncho with a long-bladed knife. He slashed at Sloane's throat. Sloane danced out of reach. Moving with a speed surprising for his size, the Mexican followed. Again the blade sliced the air towards Sloane. Again Sloane wasn't where he was supposed to be. The third time the Mexican lunged, Sloane gripped the man's wrist and applied pressure to certain nerves. The Mexican threw back his head and screamed. His fingers clawed open. The knife slipped from his numbed grasp and embedded itself in the polished floor. Maintaining his grip, Sloane spun the Mexican round, doubled his arm high up his back and spun him squealing over the counter onto a shelf of bottles. He collapsed heavily onto a bed of broken glass.