The Man With The Iron Fists
by Steve Lee
"GET HIM!"
In a pack they rushed him. like a statue, Sloane awaited them, 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 Hare-lip 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. Hare-lip fell senseless on the spot. Arms flailing, the bearded one cannon balled into the crowded tables, splattering blood on the horrified customers. The Mexican launched himself 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. Again the blade sliced the air toward Sloane. Again Sloane evaded it. The third time the Mexican lunged, Sloane gripped the man's wrist and applied pressure to the 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… It was a waste, These were not the men Sloane was seeking. Only fools who felt they could taunt a lone blue-eyed "Chink." He smiled at the idea of being thought of as an Oriental. True, he would always remember Chang Fung and his family. They had literally plucked his broken body from the jaws of death when he was only twelve. But now he was ready find the vicious killers of Jim and Martha Sloane, two God-fearing homesteaders who had scraped the blistering desert with their bare hands to give their son a chance at a better life…
In a pack they rushed him. like a statue, Sloane awaited them, 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 Hare-lip 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. Hare-lip fell senseless on the spot. Arms flailing, the bearded one cannon balled into the crowded tables, splattering blood on the horrified customers. The Mexican launched himself 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. Again the blade sliced the air toward Sloane. Again Sloane evaded it. The third time the Mexican lunged, Sloane gripped the man's wrist and applied pressure to the 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… It was a waste, These were not the men Sloane was seeking. Only fools who felt they could taunt a lone blue-eyed "Chink." He smiled at the idea of being thought of as an Oriental. True, he would always remember Chang Fung and his family. They had literally plucked his broken body from the jaws of death when he was only twelve. But now he was ready find the vicious killers of Jim and Martha Sloane, two God-fearing homesteaders who had scraped the blistering desert with their bare hands to give their son a chance at a better life…