The Man With The Iron Fists

by Steve Lee

  Turning, Sloane saw, as his senses had already warned him, the bearded one bearing down on him, a chair raised high in both arms to smash out his brains. The man's beard was bright with blood from his broken nose. As he swung the chair downward, Sloane jabbed his index finger lightly at a point on his attacker's abdomen, then briskly sidestepped. In agony, the man jackknifed, smashing the chair into his own shins. The chair proved to be the stronger of the two and the bearded man's shriek rose in pitch. He rolled across the floor, clutching at his broken legs. One hand made contact with another chair. He grasped hold of the chair, struggling to pull himself upright. Nearby, Lupa watched him. She smiled encouragingly. Face twisted in pain, the bearded man pulled himself to his knees — the moment for which Lupa had been waiting. She broke a bottle over his head. He slumped down, his face splashing into a pool of red-tainted whiskey.

  The sound of someone running spun Sloane round and into a defensive stance, elbows close to the body, hands outstretched, palms upwards.

  Duke ran in, triumphantly bearing a pitcher of milk from the kitchen. Seeing the expression on Sloane's face, he slowed to a cautious walk. Relaxing, Sloane approached the bar.

  As the boy set the pitcher down on the bar top, Jake slowly raised himself from his refuge. When he saw the damage to his saloon, he looked about ready to weep.

  Duke hurriedly polished a glass and placed it alongside the pitcher of milk. He looked up at Sloane, smiling in anticipation. With trembling hands, Jake picked up the pitcher and filled the glass.

  Sloane took the glass, raised it to his lips. Pausing, he turned. The saloon was filled with silent people, staring at him with a kind of awe. Turning his back on them, he raised the glass to Duke in a toast.

  "Must be a rare sight to see a man drink a glass of milk in this town," he said.

  And drank.

  When he put down the empty glass, Jake was staring at the Mexican lying behind the counter, his moans interspersed with rapid spurts of cussing and praying in Spanish.

  "The boys was just… havin' a bit of fun, mister…" Jake said haltingly.

  "So was I," said Sloane. He reached over and tapped a finger lightly on the tip of Jake's nose.

  "And if I hear tell of you not servin' a stranger fast enough on account of the way he looks or dresses, I'll be back… for some more fun."

  Nodding frantically, Jake stepped back fast. There was the splintering sound of breaking glass. Too late, Jake remembered the mirror he'd put aside for safety.

  Sloane slapped a coin on the bar.

  "Good milk," he said to the boy, smiling. Then he turned and headed for the doors.

  Someone stepped in his way. Sloane halted, tensing. Before him, arms arrogantly folded, a defiant look on his face, was the young Chinaman he'd noticed before. In spite of his scornful expression, the Chinaman was handsome, his features clear, regular. Beneath loose black clothes, his body was lean and sinewy, the kind of body which to the Chinese suggests inner strength.

  The Chinaman looked him slowly up and down, seeming to take note of every detail of Sloane's appearance. Sloane stared through the human obstacle, letting his arms rest easy by his side, relaxed but ready. He had no quarrel with this man and less reason to fight with a Chinaman than any other breed of man.

  Completing his scrutiny, the young Chinaman lifted his head and uttered a short bark of contempt, a sound like a man makes when he clears his throat, ready to spit. Sloane smiled distantly. He could not so easily be goaded into an unnecessary fight.

  The Chinaman studied Sloane, searching for a weak point that could be worked upon, enlarged. For a fleeting moment the mask of contempt slipped revealing something like grudging admiration. Hastily replacing the mask, the Chinaman began to circle round Sloane, shifting his weight from side to side in a lordly swagger.

  Sloane patiently waited until this tour of inspection was over. The Chinaman resumed his position between him and the doors. Again he threw back his head and uttered his challenging bark of defiance. Sloane knew that unless something happened fast to break this standoff, he was going to have to either step past the Chinaman or through him…

  Something happened.

  The swing doors burst apart and a man ran in, ahead of the others. He had a gun in his hand and a star on his chest. When he saw the damage and the broken men on the floor, he whistled appreciatively. Then he caught sight of Sloane. His Colt jerked up to cover him. The Chinaman stepped obligingly out of the line of fire.

  "You do this?" the sheriff asked Sloane. The barrel of his pistol swung briefly round to encompass the damage before returning to a point roughly in line with the center of Sloane's chest.

  "Yes," said Sloane.

  The sheriff eyed him coldly, looking him over. Then his craggy features opened up into a smile.

  "That bunch have had it comin' to 'em for a long time," he said. "Thanks for savin' me the trouble."

  Sloane inclined his head modestly. He stepped past the sheriff, past the Chinaman and out of the saloon.

  2

  Lupa caught up with him in the street.

  "I wanted to thank you," she said.

  Sloane smiled at the girl in the faded silk dress. Her long blue-black hair and sloe eyes put him strangely in mind of Su Fan.

  "For what?" he asked. "Those men were chasin' trouble — they would've found it if you'd been there or not."

  "You sure took care of that big bearded bastard!" She smiled, relishing the memory. Cruelty flared in her large dark eyes, bright as polished oak.

  "What is your name?" she asked, resting a hand on his arm.

  "Sloane."

  Frowning…

  "Is that all — Sloane?"

  "It'll do."

  "I don't care!" she shrugged. "I am used to men with no names and one name is better than no name."

  Sloane looked sharply at her. Then he felt anger at himself for leaping at straws. How could she know anything about the clown with no name?

  "You got some money, Sloane?" she asked. She saw the way he was looking at her and added, "No, not for that, for you — for your new clothes…"

  He looked down at the Chinese jacket, the flapping pants. They weren't the height of fashion but they'd last.

  "You think I need new clothes?"

  "You want to have to fight every time you need a drink?" she asked, hands on hips.

  Sloane shook his head.

  * * *

  Every store Lupa took him, they got a discount.

  "Regular customers," she explained. From one of her regulars they bought a white suit with wide lapels, a suit as dazzlingly, as brilliantly white as vanilla ice cream on a sunny day. From another they bought a couple of black shirts and a white bandana. And from another, a shallow-crowned stetson with a snap-down brim, a hat as white as the ice-cream suit.

  Then Lupa took him back to her small room above the saloon. It wasn't the kind of room where you could do a lot of pacing. There was a dressing table weighed down by face paints and perfumes and a plaster figure of the Holy Mother. And there was a mirrored wardrobe crammed with dresses fallen from favor. But mostly there was the bed, a huge, well-seasoned monstrosity that spanned the room like a barricade.

  Lupa lay stretched across the bed while Sloane inspected his new image in the mirror. Pulling on the low brim of the hat, he had to admit it was quite an improvement. The white suit made him look respectable but the cut of the cloth was rakish.

  "No one will call you senorita dressed like that!" Lupa declared from the bed.

  "Clothes make the man," Sloane agreed.

  In a flurry of petticoats, Lupa sprang up from the bed and hugged him. "You look like a caballero," she said admiringly, "a conquistador, a knight in white armor!" She began to chew on his ear.

  "Lupa, you know somethin'…"

  Being an experienced ear-chewer, Lupa knew better than to talk with her mouth full.

  "…I'm not gonna take these clothes off until I've found them I'm lookin' for…"

&nb
sp; Lupa stopped chewing. Her eyes filled with suspicion.

  "What?"

  Sloane repeated his threat. "It's kind of a promise I'm makin' to myself…"

  "Not at all?" Lupa demanded.

  "No."

  "Not ever?"

  "No."

  "Not for anything?" Lupa marveled, pouting.

  "Well… maybe just a few exceptions…" he admitted, his arms closing round her.

  They kissed, swayed and, after a time, fell onto the bed.

  "Nombre de Dios!" Lupa cried, springing back up instantly.

  "Huh?"

  "I forgot the Holy Virgin."

  Lupa grabbed the plaster effigy off the dressing table and placed it with hasty care on a heap of shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe.

  "This is where she sleeps when I… work," Lupa explained, closing the wardrobe.

  "Is this work?" Sloane asked.

  Lupa crawled back across the bed towards him, a tigress ready to pounce.

  "For you… mucho trabajo… a lot of hard work!"

  She pounced.

  * * *

  Afterwards, they lay close together, sweat between them. Sloane was surprised at the violence of his passion. Their love-making had been savage, carnal. There had been no delicacy. No gentleness. No battle of the flowers. Only raw hungry lust. Sloane wondered if the violence of the afternoon had given him a taste for this other kind of violence.

  "Que macho," sighed Lupa contentedly. She stretched her lean tawny body, then rolled over and rested her head on one arm, watching him. Her other hand trailed idly over him, kneading his flesh, gripping him.

  "How old are you, Sloane?" she asked. "Twenty-five, twenty-six?" Sloane shook his head, amused.

  "Older?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "Younger!" There was surprise in her voice. Her hand traveled up his body, touched his cheek.

  "You have an old face, Sloane… older than your body." Leaning over, she kissed his cheek.

  "And your eyes too, they are old. They have seen life." She kissed both his eyes in turn. When she raised her face, her own dark eyes were misted with tears.

  "No," she said. "They have seen death."

  Without speaking, Sloane pulled her head down onto his chest, coaxed the black hair that was so like that of Su Fan.

  "Lupa, where would you look for a clown?"

  "A clown?"

  Surprised, she half-raised her head, then lowered it again and bit playfully into his chest.

  "You crazy boy! I don't know… a fiesta maybe… a carnival? Why do you look for this loco?"

  "A carnival…" Sloane repeated. "Lupa, when is the carnival?"

  "When!" She laughed, her breath warm against his skin.

  "You forget this country was once Mexico. There is always a carnival somewhere. So many saints to honor, even the priests cannot remember them all!"

  Sloane gripped her joyfully. "Thanks, Lupa!"

  "De nada," she teased, pulling a schoolgirl face. She looked suddenly very young. Sloane looked down at their entwined bodies, his pale skin against her darker sunnier body. Silver on gold…

  She sighed, the slow rush of breath becoming a shuddering moan as he pressed into her.

  * * *

  Sloane dressed in silence. Lupa lay on the bed, her knees drawn up, her face hidden beneath her arms.

  "So long, Lupa," he said when he was ready to go.

  "You are going," she said. It was not a question. Very slowly, she turned to him, lowering her arms so he could see the tears and anger and hurt in her face.

  "What is it?"

  In the same flat voice she replied. "My name is not Su Fan…"

  * * *

  Penned horses snorted and shuffled as Sloane entered the murky light of the livery stable, carrying his saddle and rifle case. He threw the saddle on his horse, waiting for the man hidden in the shadows to speak.

  "You don't think you're leaving that easy, do you?" the man obliged.

  "Unless the horse objects," said Sloane.

  The hidden speaker stepped forward. As Sloane expected, it was the young Chinaman, looking all hotted up about something.

  "You and me, we've got business to finish," said the Chinaman.

  "I don't know what your business is, but I don't think I'm buying," said Sloane.

  The Chinaman glared at him. Then he leapt into action — kicking, punching, turning, and thrusting, a fast-footed display of his martial artistry for Sloane's benefit. None of the blows connected but some came close enough to cause most men discomfort. Sloane went on tying his rifle case to the saddle. He showed no sign of having noticed the Chinaman's demonstration.

  The Chinaman finished the performance with a high kick and sprang back into a fighting stance, fists aimed at Sloane.

  "I am Ching Lei," he announced, "and I am better than you are!"

  "You ever spoken to a doctor 'bout these suicidal notions of yours?" Sloane asked.

  Ching Lei flushed with anger.

  "You are yellow!" he accused, taking a step forward.

  Sloane glanced briefly at the Chinaman's yellow face. "You don't look in the pink of health yourself," he said. Ching Lei's chest heaved. Darting forward, he shook his fist under Sloane's nose.

  "I challenge you!" he shouted.

  "Why don't you just run along and wash some shirts," said Sloane. Turning his back on the Chinaman, Sloane put one foot in the stirrup and started to climb into the saddle.

  Ching Lei grabbed the tails of his jacket and pulled them apart with a loud ripping sound.

  Sloane slowly swung down off the Morgan. Ignoring the Chinaman, he took off his new jacket and inspected the damage. The tear ran up the center seam, halfway along the jacket. Very carefully, he folded the jacket and laid it to one side. He faced Ching Lei.

  The Chinaman uttered a penetrating laugh. Then attacked. Sloane nimbly sidestepped the flying kick. It had been one of Chang Fung's favorite attacks and he knew how to handle it. But he could see from the way the man landed that he too was a trained fighter.

  Ching Lei turned rapidly, ready to attack again. There was no way to sidestep the roundhouse kick that hurtled towards Sloane's head and he knew it. But Sloane dropped before he was expected to and the kick whistled over his head. Off balance, the Chinaman had no defense against the kick that swept his supporting leg from under him.

  He hit the ground hard, scattering straw, rolled quickly out of range. Arms folded, Sloane waited for him to get up.

  More cautiously, Ching Lei advanced again, fingers curled in a tiger claw. Sloane saw his shoulders droop, announcing another kick. The Chinaman found a foot blocking his shin, a fist snapping into his face… then another, and another. He barely managed to deflect the fourth punch as he stumbled backward.

  Ching Lei's head cleared rapidly when a thick, pungent smell rose to clog his nostrils. Sloane allowed himself a brief smile as he watched the Chinaman struggle out of the dung-filled stall. He struggled, slipping and sliding, to his feet, then hurled himself forward, his foot rising in a high side-kick.

  He found the foot expertly caught and held, at the limit of the thrust. With his other hand, Sloane snapped a back-fist to his attacker's unprotected groin. Not too hard — he didn't want to cripple the man for life — but hard enough to bring a ragged cry to his lips as he fell, clutching at his bruised manhood. Agonized, he rolled in the straw. It hurt almost as much as his bruised ego.

  "Wo… wo sha ni!"

  Sloane turned his back on the death threat and walked back to his horse. He kept his back turned when he heard Ching Lei rise to his feet and stagger after him.

  Then he spun round, right foot rising, the outside edge of his boot catching the Chinaman full in the face. Before his right foot hit the ground, his left was also rising, sweeping round to complete the deadly one-two to the head.

  With annoyance, Sloane saw the man was still standing. Then he noticed the thin trickle of blood seeping from his mouth, the blankness in his eyes… Stepping forwar
d, he pressed one finger against Ching Lei's chest. The Chinaman crashed to the stable floor.

  When Ching Lei came to, Sloane and his horse were gone. The young Chinaman shook his head, wiped blood from his face. He staggered out of the stable.

  Down the street, he saw Sloane riding out of town, his torn jacket flapping behind him. Ching Lei shook his fist at the departing figure.

  "Go on," he shouted, "run, you coward, run! Wherever you run to, I'll find you… and when I do, I'll kill you!"

  Sloane rode out of town at a leisurely pace.

  * * *

  Ho Wei's beard trembled. His reedy voice rose higher. He argued, he forbade, he protested, raged, begged, pleaded… bis cracked face filled with tears.

  It was no good. Ching Lei did not even seem to hear the old Chinaman. He went right on filling his carpetbag, throwing in his belongings like a man on the run, a minute ahead of the posse.

  Ching Lei grabbed the bag off the bed and clattered down the stairs. Ho Wei trailed behind, cursing the ungrateful son of ungrateful ancestors, offering him a raise, two dollars, five dollars.

  The door slammed.

  Ho Wei followed him into the street, saw him striding off toward the livery stable. Ho Wei slumped down on the sidewalk. He put his hands over his head, feeling old as only the old can.

  3

  It was as hell-hot as he remembered, but standing there where his folks had lived and died Sloane felt only the coldness squeezing his guts.