Fistful of Hate

by Steve Lee

  'Where I put it,' said Sloane. 'Where you'll never find it.'

  Don Luis stiffened, his hopes of finding the skull in the room fading.

  'I want that skull,' he said.

  'Too bad. You should've kept that in mind 'fore you put this bullet in me.'

  'Tell me where you have hidden it…' Don Luis spoke the words slowly and firmly, an edge of menace creeping into his voice.

  Sloane looked bored.

  Don Luis took a quick step towards him, raising his pistol. 'I must have that skull, Señor Sloane… Without it the gates of Heaven are closed to me forever!'

  'I'll be sure an' wave to you from the other side,' Sloane promised.

  'Where is it? Tell me, señor… If not — ' Don Luis pushed the pistol in his hand meaningfully forward. Sloane eyed the Deringer with contempt. 'You kill me and you're never gonna find that skull,' he said.

  Don Luis looked exasperated. He swung away from the American, unsure of his next move. Then his gaze fell on the coiled reata hanging from a nail. He snatched the rawhide rope off the wall and thrust it at Manolo.

  'Tie him,' he instructed his servant. To Sloane he said, 'If you give Manolo any trouble — I shall be regrettably forced to kill you.'

  'Looks like you got me right where you want me,' said Sloane. He let Manolo push him into a chair and tie his arms behind his back whilst Don Luis kept him covered.

  'Good,' said Don Luis when Sloane was sitting helpless before him. 'Now you will please tell me where is the skull…

  'Funny, I can't seem to remember,' said Sloane after considering the question.

  Don Luis controlled his anger with difficulty. 'Perhaps this will remind you,' he said. He slapped Sloane across the face a few times. When he'd finished he blew on his heated hand.

  'Now maybe you remember?'

  Sloane shook his head. 'Nope, it's gone clean out of my mind,' he said.

  Don Luis' hand gripped Sloane's bloodied shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the raw wound and savagely twisted the skin. Sloane's whole body jerked with the agony that shot through him. He sucked on his teeth, his tight-pressed lips holding back the scream fighting to escape from inside. Don Luis withdrew his hand and wiped it clean on a lacy handkerchief.

  'Please, Señor Sloane,' the aristocrat appealed, 'tell me where is the skull and spare us this unpleasantness… Spare yourself further pain…'

  'Guess you win,' Sloane mumbled resignedly after he'd taken a few welcome gulps of air. 'Left it by that cannon of yours — all nicely wrapped up for you.'

  Don Luis' face lit up. He nodded for Manolo to go and fetch the skull. The servant hurried from the room on his mission. Smiling down at Sloane, the thin aristocrat puffed himself up like a cock getting ready to crow.

  'You know, of course, that once I have the skull — there is no more reason for me to permit you to live?'

  'I know,' said Sloane.

  Manolo was not gone for long. He returned breathless, triumphantly bearing the velvet-wrapped bundle. Don Luis snatched it eagerly from him and opened it up. When he saw what was inside he gave a cry of disgust and dropped it, stepping back quickly.

  At his feet lay a severed head, its neck a ragged twist of meat. It was the head of El Muerte.

  His face shocked bloodless, Don Luis rounded on Sloane.

  'What does this mean?' he demanded. He had difficulty keeping his voice steady.

  'It means now you know for sure I've got the skull,' Sloane coolly answered. 'And that your friend the late Mister El Muerte won't be workin' for you no more…'

  Don Luis stiffened. 'Working for me?'

  'Sure, it didn't take much brains to figure out you hired him to go raidin' across the border and kill a lot of gringos. People round here plain love a bandit who kills gringos. Then when he was a big enough hero you were gonna join up with him against Juarez and make a big deal about gettin' back California and Texas for the Republic. That's what the people want to hear. They'd really go for a man who made them kinda promises, wouldn't they? They might even make a man like that President…'

  'Who told you this?' Don Luis demanded, dropping his eyes to the gruesome object on the floor. 'Him?'

  'No,' said Sloane. 'He didn't tell me nothin' that made any sense because nothing made any sense to him. Maybe the skull did talk to him or maybe he was just crazy — but he got to believing the part he was play-actin' for you. It got so as he thought he really was Death. And then he set out to prove it. Suddenly gringos weren't enough — he wanted to kill everyone! That's when you figured it was high-time you was rid of him.'

  'Which you have done very conveniently for me, Señor Sloane,' said Don Luis.- 'I am very much grateful to you. When the people hear that the great El Muerte was killed by a gringo, they will come in their thousands to avenge his honour — a whole army of them! First we will chase out that traitor Juarez. Then we will make war on the United States — and take back the land that rightfully belongs to Mexico!'

  'Sounds like you're gonna have yourself a lot of fun playin' soldiers, Don Luis. But I don't plan to be around when it happens.'

  'Nor do I plan for you to be around,' said Don Luis.

  'You want the skull. I want my life,' said Sloane. 'Put up or back off…'

  His smile cruel, Don Luis reached out and laid a hand on Sloane's shoulder — the one with his bullet in it.

  'You speak strong words for a man who is my prisoner,' he said, his hand closing in a firm grip on Sloane's shoulder. 'I have patience. I could make you talk…'

  'I can shut up tighter'n a clam,' Sloane promised him.

  Looking into the American's cold eyes, Don Luis could believe it. He took his hand from Sloane's shoulder.

  'What terms do you suggest?' he asked.

  'Only that you let me ride out of here after I've given you the skull.'

  'Very well, you have my word.'

  'Your word as a gentleman?' Sloane asked wryly.

  'Of course!'

  'All right, I'll take you to where I left it… but first I want a cigar.'

  Don Luis made an impatient gesture.

  'Got a couple right here,' Sloane told him. 'In my shirt pocket.'

  Don Luis motioned his servant to help the American. Manolo obligingly dug into Sloane's pocket and came up with one of Joe's stogies. It was a very battered-looking cigar.

  'It'll do,' said Sloane.

  Manolo lit it for him and placed the cigar between his lips. Sloane clamped it between his teeth and took a puff. He nodded his satisfaction.

  'You understand, of course, that I cannot permit your arms to be untied until I hold the skull in my hands,' said Don Luis. He moved his shoulders in an impeccable gesture of regret.

  Sloane blew smoke. 'You'll need shovels,' he said.

  Sloane led them to the cannon that overlooked the grounds of the hacienda. He slumped down beside its monstrous black body, pointing.

  'Over there,' he told Don Luis, 'six paces from the tip of the barrel… That's where I buried it.'

  Manolo positioned himself against the cannon's yawning mouth, then counted out the six paces. He marked the spot in the ground with his heel. Don Luis joined him. They put aside their guns and each took a shovel in hand ready to dig.

  Sloane leaned his aching body against the cannon, watching them. They didn't know it but he was nearer to the crystal skull than they were. He had rammed the skull down the muzzle of the cannon earlier.

  'You're too far,' he shouted, squeezing the words out past the cigar clamped between his teeth. 'Come back a step!'

  Don Luis and Manolo obliged. They were sharply etched against the glow of the dying fire behind them. Sloane contemplated the two men as a painter contemplates the subject of his picture.

  'Manolo, you're just a little too far to the right,' he said critically. 'Move in some… That's much better!'

  'And you, Don Luis, if you want to get your hands on that skull you're gonna have to move in about a foot from the left.'

  Shovel in han
d, Don Luis glared irritably at the American telling him what to do.

  'If this is some trick, señor, I promise you a very long slow death… slow and painful!'

  Sloane swivelled the cigar in his mouth indignantly. 'Why should I trick you?' he asked, innocence offended. 'Haven't you got me right where you want me?'

  Reassured, Don Luis moved to the position indicated by Sloane. 'Here?' he asked, jabbing the earth with his shovel.

  'There is just fine,' said Sloane taking a final look at the two men standing perfectly in line with the barrel of the cannon.

  'Just fine,' he said and dipped his head low, ramming the cannon's touch-hole with the glowing tip of his cigar.

  The big gun's fiery roaring belch tossed him over onto his back. He lay there on his back for some time waiting for the thunder to leave his ears, watching the smoke drift towards the stars.

  Then he struggled up onto his feet. It wasn't easy because his hands were still tied behind his back. He walked over to the two broken dolls that lay twistedly smouldering on the ground. The first one he came to was Manolo. He knew it was Manolo because he recognised his shoes. Then he noticed that Don Luis was somehow still alive.

  Don Luis had wanted the crystal skull of Lascara so bad. And when he had a chance to grab it — he'd let it slip through his fingers. It had slipped through the rest of him too, leaving a hole that was more like an open window than a wound.

  When Don Luis saw Sloane standing over him, he feebly tried to lift his head and speak. That took a lot of guts, thought Sloane. But then Don Luis had a lot of guts. Some of them he was holding. Sloane leaned down to hear what a man who'd just been blasted by a cannon had to say. The words came in a hoarse croaking whisper but he understood them.

  'Now I'll never get to Heaven,' said Don Luis.

  Sloane shook his head sympathetically. 'Too bad,' he said. 'I heard it was a nice place.'

  He stood there a while and watched Don Luis die. Then he turned away and headed back to the hacienda. He had to cut the ropes that held his hands behind his back. He had to get away before the vaqueros returned.

  Someone was waiting for him in the darkness, someone who stepped suddenly out towards him. It was Billy Wang. In his hand he gripped Chang Fung's sword. The sword flashed towards Sloane, splitting the dark. It cut through the ropes that bound his hands. Billy thrust the sword quivering into the ground. Then he stepped back, snapping into a horse stance, ready to fight.

  Sloane rubbed his chafed wrists. He looked at the young Chinaman and waited for him to speak.

  'She never loved me,' said Billy. 'It was you she loved all along. I lied to you because I wanted to get her back, because I was afraid of losing her. Tonight I was gonna ride out and find her. I was gonna tell her you were dead.'

  'Why didn't you?' Sloane asked tautly.

  'I knew one day you'd show up. That's the kind of man you are… You'd come riding in out of the past — and then I'd lose her again.'

  Sloane watched him, his eyes narrowed, his face a clenched fist. He had an idea he wasn't through fighting yet.

  'There's only one horse out there,' said Billy. 'One horse and two of us. Only one of us is gonna ride out of here after Su Fan…'

  'Looks like you've got a long walk ahead,' said Sloane stepping forward to move past the Chinaman.

  Billy's ram-headed blow knocked him staggering back. He managed to catch his balance, swayed…

  'Remember that fight we had when we first met up?' Billy asked. 'We were evenly matched then. Now you're weak, Sloane… You've been fighting too many people for too long. You've lost a lot of blood and now you're gonna lose some more… You know which one of us is gonna be going' after Su Fan, don't you, Sloane? It's gonna be me!'

  'I've wasted enough time listenin' to you,' said Sloane, moving forward again. He didn't get very far. The lightning kick he didn't even see slammed him to the ground.

  Billy looked down at him, pity in his face. 'You should have listened to Chang Fung,' he said. 'He was right. He warned you against the Way of the Ruthless Man. But that was the path you chose. This is where it's led you and this is where it ends. Look at you, you're just about through. You're finished, Sloane… And I'm the one's gonna finish you…'

  Sloane raised himself painfully. Maybe the Chinaman was right, he thought. It looked like he'd reached the end of the trail. His wounds were bleeding afresh and his body was racked with pain through and through. He felt very tired — more tired than he had ever felt before. He closed his eyes, summoning what Inner Strength remained. His needed time to rest. Time for his wounds to heel…

  'You gonna die down there in the dirt, Sloane — or standing like a man?'

  Sloane had no time left. But he had knowledge. Knowledge Billy Wang did not share. He opened his eyes and saw Billy moving purposefully towards him. There was no pity in the young Chinaman's face now. No pity, no mercy. Only a cold determination to kill.

  Sloane climbed to his feet. 'You remember that kick Chang Fung was gonna teach you?' he asked.

  'I remember,' said Billy, closing for the kill. "The Grand Ultimate Kick… Tears a man's head right off his shoulders, they say…'

  'That's the one,' said Sloane. 'Watch real careful now, Billy, this may be your last ever chance to see how it's done…'

  Sloane's right foot leapt up in a high flashing arc as Billy hurled himself forward…

  * * *

  Dred Jefferson chuckled richly as he loaded his wagon with dead things. The bone-picking business sure had picked up good since Sloane showed, he thought. So good he'd been seriously considering taking Sloane on as a partner. But then he'd heard how Sloane was seen riding away, heading north and looking like a man who needs to get places in a hurry.

  Sloane had gone but not without keeping his promise. He'd promised Dred a head and he'd been as good as his word. Better. Over by the big cannon, beside the pyramid of sleek black cannon-balls, the bone-devil had found another smaller pyramid — of human heads all neatly stacked and waiting for him.

  Naturally, Don Luis was top of the pile. He'd always wanted to be head man and he'd finally made the grade. Beneath him, Dred recognised some other old familiar faces — Toro and Aguilar and El Muerte himself. And the young Chinaman whose name he'd forgotten. Dred wondered what a Chinaman's skull was selling for at current market prices.

  When he'd finished loading the wagon, Dred took a quick look around in case he'd missed any small items worth having. His face lit up when he caught sight of a flash of white amongst the green of a bush. He plunged his hand down into the bush and scrabbled around until he got a grip on the object. The shape of it brought a grin to his face. It was a skull.

  Triumphantly, he hauled out his prize and examined it. Then disappointment drooped his face. It was a skull all right but not a good honest bone skull. It was made of some kind of shiny glass. The jaw-bone was gone and the dome of the forehead badly chipped. Worse, the skull had no soul to it.

  Dred glared at the counterfeit skull. He knew he'd never get two bucks fifty for no imitation. He felt cheated. What good was a skull to a bone-devil if it wasn't made of bone, he wanted to know. What good was it to anybody? He shook his head in disdain. Then, turning back to the wagon he flipped the skull scornfully over his shoulder.

  And never looked back;