The Man With The Iron Fists

by Steve Lee

  The desert had tried hard to erase the memory of the Sloanes. It had thrown itself savagely at the traces of their existence, left its dead piled high in sloping yellow ramps against the wall of the unfinished barn. The rest of the place had been overwhelmed. Except for a couple of blackened beams straining awkwardly to lift themselves out of the clutching sand, the house was gone.

  Sloane walked towards the graves, his breath coming shallow. The graves had been swallowed up. The ground was smooth, flat, unbroken. He didn't search for the graves. He didn't like the feeling he might be walking over them.

  Beyond, the desert looked like it always had. Big, hot, empty… permanent. They had been crazy ever to think they could beat it.

  He left.

  Silver City looked to Sloane just like any other dusty three-saloon town he'd drifted through in the past weeks. Except for the white banner stretched across the head of Main Street with its brightly painted message that read:

  SILVER CITY

  GRAND CARNIVAL AND FIESTA

  Sloane stalled his horse at the stables, giving a sleepy-eyed boy a dollar for a brush and feed. Slapping the dust from his clothes, he joined the colorful tide of people, mostly Mexicans in a loud festive mood, heading towards the carnival.

  He felt little hope of finding the killers there. This was the third carnival he'd been to in a month. He was beginning to hate them.

  Silver City's Grand Carnival was no different from the others. Hucksters hustled their wares, barkers touted for customers and medicine showmen extoled the virtues of their cures. Children ate sticky things. They shrieked. People danced. People sang. They laughed a lot. Only Sloane did not laugh.

  He passed among the happy people like the stalking shadow of death. His eyes scanned the bright-eyed faces, searching. Those who saw him hoped he wasn't searching for them.

  Sloane visited each sideshow, each gaudy tent. He shook his head at baked apples and candy skulls. He watched tumblers tumble and jugglers juggle. He declined kisses for a dime, admired a lion in a cage.

  The sun was warm, the beer plentiful, and the music loud. Sloane felt himself loosen up. His mood grew mellow. Hunger pushed him toward a stall claiming home-baked pies. As he drew near, a shadow blocked the sun, the moment grew dark.

  Sloane looked up. Fire exploded in his brain. For above him, head bobbing in the sky like a colored moon, his face mocking Sloane with a red painted grin, was the clown.

  Sloane moved almost before he knew he was going to. He darted toward the clown, roughly shoving aside those who stood in his path. The clown looked down at him. His top hat touched the heavens. He was a giant.

  This'll bring him down to size, Sloane thought, his right fist punching a hole clear through one of the clown's legs. His left flashed out and snapped the other leg like it was straw.

  The clown screamed. The stilts collapsed beneath him, hurtling him down into the crowd. Shouting people leapt aside as he hit the earth. Sloane watched him roll, the long trousers twisting. The clown had handled the fall well. He wasn't badly hurt. Dazed, he raised himself. Sloane ran forward and delivered a front snap-kick to the clown's chin. The clown's head flew back and his body followed. He lay on the grass spluttering blood.

  Sloane grabbed him by checkered lapels, jerked him upright, supporting him under the chin with his left while his right arched back to punch the grinning head. Sloane felt fury rushing into the tightened fist and he knew the blow would be a killer, a goodbye punch. The clown knew it too. Sloane could see it in his face, in the trembling lips and wide-eyed screaming terror. Then he saw something else. Beneath the greasepaint, beneath the mask of terror, he saw the face of a boy. A boy younger than himself.

  Sloane lowered his fist. He laid the boy down on the grass. The boy was shaking. He closed his eyes and began to sob. Sloane straightened up, becoming aware of the crowd of people that had gathered round. They were angry. Some of them reached out for Sloane but drew back when he looked at them. He pushed his way through the crowd. A couple of people yelled at him in Spanish but no one tried to stop him.

  Sloane needed to get away. His thoughts were all running after each other, colliding, piling up. He had come within a reflex of killing a boy. An innocent young boy he'd never seen before in his life. That was bad. That was very bad. They could have hung him for that. Or put him to pounding rocks for the rest of his life. Either way he would never have been able to find the real clown or any of the others… never have tasted the sweet relief of vengeance. And that was worse. Very much worse.

  Shouldering his way through the carnival crowd, Sloane became aware of a sound intruding on his thoughts, a sound that cut through the music and laughter around him. A sound he knew…

  Sharp and regular it came — the cracking of a bullwhip.

  * * *

  "See the world's greatest master of the deadly bullwhip in action before your very eyes! Step right up, gentlemen, with your money in your hand and see Bull Wray, the wildest whip in the west!"

  Behind the barker on his box, a canvas screen enclosed the show, shielding it from the eyes of those without fifteen cents to spare. Hanging from the canvas were paintings of Bull Wray performing his tricks. The paintings were crude but Sloane had no difficulty in recognizing the man who had whipped the flesh off his father's back. He paid his money and entered the enclosure.

  Bull Wray had aged well. He was a little heavier maybe, a bit fuller in the face but otherwise very much as Sloane remembered him. He was even dressed similar in a black leather outfit.

  A coiled bullwhip in his hand, the Negro prowled the enclosure, waiting for it to fill with paying customers.

  Teeth gritted, Sloane watched him. He fought back a hot desire to kill the man right there before the waiting crowd. It would be a neat touch but also foolish. He'd learned his lesson. Hasty action led to mistakes. Chang Fung probably knew a smart way of saying the same thing: Let the man choose the time and not time the man.

  Sloane could afford to bide his time after eight years. Time wasn't important. What was important was that he'd found Bull Wray and, sooner or later, Bull Wray was going to die.

  Bull swung round, looking in Sloane's direction. He looked directly at him. Sloane's chest tightened. He had a wild feeling that he was recognized. But he knew that was impossible. He made himself calm and the Negro's idle gaze passed him over.

  Soon there were twenty people in the enclosure. On a table at one end of the enclosure Bull had set up a row of tin cans. Unfurling his whip, the Negro took up position about eighteen feet from the table.

  "Please move back," he cautioned the spectators. "I wouldn't want any of you nice people to get theirselves hurt…"

  He cast the whip toward the table. One of the cans flew in the air, rattled across the ground. One after the other in quick succession, he thrashed the cans from the table. Applause rippled through the audience.

  Next, Bull set up three candles on the table and lit them. Moving back, he took up his position. He cracked his whip, sent the lead tip streaking toward a candle. The flame was snuffed out. The candle remained standing. He did the same for the other two candles. Again the spectators demonstrated their approval.

  Acknowledging the applause, Bull traded his whip for another, one only seven feet long. He strolled down the line of spectators, the whip trailing behind him. He passed by Sloane and came to a halt beside a youth of about twenty who was trying to look as mean and like Jesse James as he could. The youth wore his Colt in a showy holster on his left side, the pearl handle of the gun curving in for a cross-draw.

  "You look pretty handy with that shootin' iron," Bull remarked.

  The youth stuck a thumb in his belt and half his mouth twisted upwards.

  "Reckon I am," he said, drawing himself up. "What's it to you?"

  Bull stepped back a couple of paces. "Reckon you can take me?" he asked.

  The youth looked sharply at Bull to see if he was being made a fool of. He relaxed.

  "Sure," he said, gr
inning lop-sidedly.

  Bull raised his syrupy voice so they could all hear him loud. "Ten dollars says you can't."

  The youth lost his smile. He crooked his right elbow, fingers stretching…

  He made his move.

  Bull cracked the whip.

  The youth clawed at an empty holster. He stared foolishly at his gun lying in the dirt. Shamefaced, he retrieved the gun and jammed it back into its holster. He strode out of the enclosure, pushing aside amused spectators, nearly breaking into a run. The audience clapped heartily. Except for Sloane.

  Bull watched the audience trickle out of the enclosure. He felt content. He'd put on a good show. That cocky would-be gunfighter had been a perfect choice. The audience had enjoyed the performance, he could tell. Except for the man in the dirty white suit. The man who hadn't clapped. It wasn't often that Bull got a paying customer who didn't clap.

  Bull walked up to the man as he was about to leave.

  "Didn't like the show, huh?" he asked, not too unfriendly. The man looked at him coldly.

  "I've seen worse," he said.

  "Can't please everybody," said Bull and, shrugging, he turned his back on the man in the dirty white suit.

  * * *

  From his vantage point, Sloane watched Bull Wray in the quarry below. The big Negro was practicing bis act, lashing cans off of a rock with expert strokes of his whip. The crack of the whip sounded loud as gunshots.

  Sloane turned his attention to the rattlesnake. He had it pinned down in the V of a long forked branch. The rattler weaved and twisted, shaking its rattle angrily. But it couldn't reach Sloane.

  Keeping his arm outstretched, Sloane carefully lifted branch and rattler. He swung back the branch and pitched the rattler down into quarry.

  Bull moved fast. The same second the rattler hit the ground at his feet, he jumped back, cracking his whip. The whip caught the rattler, flung it into the air. It landed about seven feet away and lay noiselessly writhing, straining to lift its head in a peculiar way. It looked broken.

  Breathing fast, Bull stared at the snake. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A noise behind him made him turn and he saw Sloane scrambling and sliding down the rocks towards him. He didn't recognize the man in the dirty white suit.

  "You crazy bastard!"

  He moved towards Sloane, shaking the handle of his whip at him. "I oughta skin your hide!"

  "You're fast," Sloane admitted. "I wanted to see just how fast you were before…"

  "Before what?" Bull demanded.

  "Before I kill you."

  The big Negro stared at Sloane in amazement. The man had to be crazy. Crazy or pig-ignorant. Bull shook with laughter.

  "You see this?" he laughed, holding up the bullwhip. "Why I could pluck the eyes out of your head with this 'fore you could blink…" He shook his head, eyes full of amusement. "You kill me… Why, boy, you don't know who I am… I'm Bull Wray!" The way he said it, he expected to make an impression.

  "Bull shit!" said Sloane.

  Bull stopped laughing. He looked at Sloane in a new way. Then his lips parted again, teeth glinting. This time it was no smile but the grimace of a beast, a hunting beast.

  Slowly, he moved closer, judging the distance… Then, cobra-fast, he struck, the lead-tipped whip snaking toward Sloane's left eye.

  But to Sloane, it was slowness itself. He had followed the blow from the first glint in Bull's eyes, the tautening of his muscles, the flick of his wrist. Almost casually, Sloane moved a couple of inches to the right. The whip snapped straight by his ear with a sound like a pistol shot.

  Sloane saw the shock in the man's eyes. Bull wasn't used to surprises like that. The whip lashed out again and Sloane avoided it just as casually. He could see the Negro's confidence draining away like water from a punctured canteen.

  "Trash! I'll have yer balls off!"

  The whip circled above Wray's head, then lashed round toward Sloane's groin, once, twice, three times…

  Sloane's series of handsprings carried him over each castrating blow, the snapping motion of his body perfectly matching the cracking of the whip.

  Sloane landed on his feet, jumping clear of the rushing whip. He spun to face the Negro.

  Too late. Bull had already moved forward and struck out again. Off balance, Sloane hurled himself backward. The bullwhip tore a chunk from his flapping jacket as he fell.

  Sloane rolled when he hit the ground, but not as Bull expected. He rolled straight toward the Negro. Bull lashed at him. The blow bruised him but it came from the body of the whip, not the deadly tip. The impact was blunt.

  Before Bull could strike again, Sloane was on his feet, a cry ripping from his throat that shocked the Negro for a precious second, long enough for Sloane to leap forward and deliver a flying srtap-kick, the bony edge of his foot thundering into Bull's stomach. Both men sprawled to the ground.

  Sloane leapt to his feet. Bull followed, staring, incredulous, one hand massaging his belly. Sloane saw the desperation in his eyes. He took up his fighting stance, ready to move in for the kill.

  Again the whip lashed out'. With pleasure Bull felt it connect — pleasure that quickly became sweat-dripping panic. For Sloane had caught the end of the whip a few inches from the lead tip, the hardened skin of his hand taking the snap out of it as the whip coiled round his wrist.

  Bull yanked on the whip but could not pull it loose. Sloane suddenly ran forward, his knee catching Bull in the gut. The Negro doubled in pain.

  Sloane slipped behind him, looping the whip round his neck and yanking him upright again. Bull wheezed then choked as Sloane tightened his grip. Both hands scrabbled at his throat, releasing the whip handle. Sloane grabbed the loose end and pulled it tight.

  "The clown… where is he?" Sloane demanded.

  A new fear entered Bull's eyes. "Clown? I dunno no clown… Please!"

  Grimacing, he jerked with pain when Sloane applied more pressure.

  "Where?" Sloane repeated.

  "Dunno… Ahh!"

  The whip cut deeper into his neck. Bull howled from deep in his throat.

  "They'll kill me… if I tell…" He spoke through clenched teeth.

  "Then you got yourself a problem," snapped Sloane. " 'Cause if you don't tell, I'm gonna kill you!" He jerked the ends of the whip again and Bull howled louder.

  "Please…" he rasped.

  Sloane slackened his hold. Bull gulped air hungrily.

  "Him an' the others… ran out on me… only know where Lucky Luke is…"

  "Who's Lucky Luke?"

  "Used to do rope tricks…"

  Sloane nodded. He had vague memories of the baby-faced cowboy.

  "Where is he?"

  "T-Bone Ranch… near Sonora."

  Sloane brought his face close to the Negro's. "I hope you're lying," he said with slow emphasis. "Because if you are, I can come back and finish you!"

  Sloane jerked on the two ends of the whip like he wanted it to cut clean through Bull's throat. Bull screamed, his tongue hanging from his mouth.

  Sloane relaxed the whip and the Negro pitched forward, coughing and clutching at his bloodied neck. Looking down at him, Sloane felt as much sympathy as for a vulture sick with indigestion.

  He turned and walked away, heading back into town.

  Bull watched him. His hand strayed to a rock the size of a pineapple. Silently, he picked up the rock and heaved it at the back of Sloane's head. Just as Sloane expected him to.

  Sloane ducked. The rock flew overhead. In the same fluid movement Sloane plucked something from the ground, turned and flung it by its tail.

  The rattler.

  The snake hit Bull in the face, wrapped itself round his neck. Dumb with horror, the Negro watched the snake weaving inches from his face, tongue quivering. He made a sudden move to flick it away. The snake struck. Three times it punctured him before he crushed its head under a rock — once in the face, twice in the hand. On his knees, Bull swayed. Very slowly, he looked towards Sloa
ne.

  His sweat-lathered face was stretched tight as drumskin. His eyes bulged without seeing.

  "Why?" he asked.

  His voice was a hoarse whisper as if he was already speaking from out of his grave.

  Sloane smiled without humor. "You can't please everybody," he said.

  The Black's eyes became opaque. He fell forward, twitched a few times and lay still. Something white oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  Sloane enjoyed the leisurely walk back into town.

  4

  They were taking down the big welcome banner across Main Street when Ching Lei rode into Silver City. That wasn't the only excitement in town. Over by the sheriff's office, a buzzing crowd was clustered round a wagon. Ching Lei nudged his horse towards the excitement.

  A blanket had been thrown over the load on the back of the wagon. Beneath it, Ching Lei had no trouble in recognizing the outline of a man.

  He hitched his horse to a rail and returned to the crowd.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  A sallow-faced individual in a stovepipe hat and long coat turned to him, anxious to impart the favor of his knowledge.

  "One of the carnival people got hisself killed… and no wonder, I heard he was a knife-thrower!"

  "Nope, he was a whipman," said a voice close at hand and Ching Lei turned to see a small bright-eyed man standing nearby, his weathered face partially obscured by an overgrowth of smoky white beard.

  "And a good one too," the small man added. "Seen 'im myself."

  "That's as maybe," said the man in the stovepipe hat, casting a distasteful glance at the face behind the beard, "but it just goes to prove they oughta put a stop to this yearly farce. It's too dangerous with ail the children there and anyway only the Mexes get any fun out of it. And it's not like it brings any money into the town like some folks make out. People go out there and spend all their money and… No, no, no!"

  This outburst was aimed at Ching Lei, who was in the process of raising a corner of the blanket to get a look at the body.