The Man With The Iron Fists

by Steve Lee

  To one side of this hell-crew stood Tod, pale and scared. Jim Sloane looked at his son and saw his own fear mirrored in the boy's eyes. Instinctively, Jim's gaze strayed to the rifle propped against the water-barrel, just out of reach. His intention was not lost on the clown. Head cocked to one side, he contemplated Jim with sardonic amusement.

  "Why, brother Sloane," he said, "You look like a man in trouble."

  Jim dashed for his rifle, seized it and swung it toward the intruders. As he did so, the Negro flexed his right arm in Jim's direction and something black streaked toward him, fast as a striking snake. The whip coiled round the rifle's barrel, ruining his aim. The shot blasted sand at Jim's feet.

  "Jim!" screamed his wife. Pitcher and glasses shattered on the ground. The Negro hauled back his arm, yanking the rifle from Jim's grasp and out of his reach.

  "Nice," said the clown.

  The Negro again drew back his arm and lashed at Jim. The blow caught him in the face, ripping open his cheek to the bone. Jim staggered back, clutching at the ragged red tear in his face. Blood splashed bis hands and naked chest.

  Tod watched with horror. It came as a shock to see that his father was vulnerable, that he could be hurt and humiliated by other men. A terrible feeling of disaster oppressed him, chilling his whole body. Vomit rose to his mouth.

  Jim threw up his hands to protect himself as the whip once more snaked towards him. It was useless. The lead-tipped whip ripped his hands, coiled round his bare chest, spinning him round, slicing deep into his flesh.

  "Martha! Tod!" Jim yelled at his family in desperation. "Get in the house! Get the…"

  His words were cut off when the clown leaped into the air and kicked him in the back, knocking him sprawling onto the sand.

  "Pa!" Tod screamed. He wanted to run to his father, to help him up and defend him. But something inside him told him he'd be throwing away his life. Seeing his mother running towards the house, he followed as fast as he could.

  Martha raced for the house like the Hounds of Hell were sniffing at her heels. She knew there was an old flintlock pistol in a drawer somewhere. If she could reach it, maybe…

  The clown watched the woman and boy escaping. He turned to the baby-faced cowboy with the wispy blond hair.

  "Looks like our audience is running out on us," he said. Smiling pleasantly, Lucky Luke spun his lasso over his head then cast it. Martha screamed when it settled neatly over her shoulders and tightened round her. The cowboy let out a whoop as he drew Martha toward him like a fish jumping on a hook.

  Blinded by blood, Jim lurched to his feet. The drying blood caked sand to his torn face and body.

  "Run!" he screamed, "Run!"

  The yellow-skinned giant with the shaven head and slanted eyes stepped up to Jim and knuckled his face, a powerful backhand blow that sent Jim reeling on his back. The clown strolled over to the bleeding man. With his cane he gestured towards the yellow giant, speaking in the voice of a fairground barker.

  "Back in his home country of Mongolia, my friend Khan here is considered a champion wrestler…" The tip of the clown's cane prodded Jim's ribs.

  "If you keep on making a nuisance of yourself, he'll be only too pleased to personally demonstrate to you some of his favorite tricks." At these words, Khan proudly drew himself up, preening like a parakeet. He placed a huge booted foot on Jim's chest and pushed down. Jim squirmed and screamed as pain fired his lungs.

  * * *

  Some instinct of self-preservation had made Tod run straight past the house and continue on out toward the desert, Scamp bouncing alongside. Tod knew it was the only chance he had to save his life — lose himself out there in the hot dry emptiness. Maybe the next day he'd be dying of thirst and wishing for a quick death but at that moment the desert looked to him like the sweetest, most welcoming place on God's earth.

  * * *

  Lucky Luke had his lasso nooselike round Martha's neck, pulling it tight with his left hand while his right gripped the back of her head, forcing her lips toward his. Martha fought to preserve her honor with the strength of a woman demented, slapping and scratching, kicking and hollering. Luke yelped as her hand raked his face and nearly took an eye with it.

  "Luke's always having woman trouble," sympathised the clown, shaking his head. "His trouble is, he don't treat 'em rough enough…" He looked over at the brutish Mongolian.

  "Show him how, Khan," he said.

  With a deep-throated chuckle, Khan stepped over Jim's groaning body toward Martha. She screamed hysterically as the grinning giant drew nearer, fighting to tear herself from Luke's grasp. Khan slapped her hard across the face, making a sound as loud as the crack of the Negro's whip. The imprint of his hand glowed hot on her cheek. A trickle of blood ran from Martha's nose to the corner of her mouth. Something died in her eyes. She stopped screaming and began to sob, making whimpering sounds in her throat. She did not resist as Luke yanked her arms behind her. Khan moved forward and his massive hand closed, groping, over her full breasts…

  Jim Sloane dragged himself along the ground toward his wife, every movement causing a spasm of pain to jerk his tortured body. The dark man dressed like a gambler stooped over him, grabbed a handful of his hair in a black-gloved hand and hauled him roughly to his feet.

  "Careful, Jack," Scarlett said to her brother, glancing up from a close study of her fingernails. "You can hurt a man that way." Jack smiled thinly and pressed the blade of a knife to Jim's throat. Scarlett went back to inspecting her nails. They were long and pointed and as red as her hair.

  Through blood-fogged eyes, Jim saw the youth in buckskin with the crazy eyes raise his rifle and take aim at Tod. The boy was escaping deeper into the desert.

  "Kids an' dawgs… nothin' but noise an' trouble," said the youth in a voice from east of the Mississippi. Jim threw out a hand toward the buckskin youth, a plea forming in bis throat. Jack tightened his grip and the knife blade bit into Jim's throat. A thin stream of blood dripped onto his blood-encrusted chest. Jack said, "Be my guest, Fish…"

  The man called Fish peered along the barrel of the Beecher's Bible and fired.

  Out in the desert, Scamp yelped and jumped. The dog's body rolled over a few times and lay still, — a bloodied lifeless ball of fur. Tod knew better than to even stop and look. He went right on running.

  Fish spat and again took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger. Jim bit into the hand holding the knife to his throat, pushed the dark man aside and threw himself onto Fish, thrusting the rifle upward. The shot went wild.

  Fish tore the rifle free of Jim's grasp, swung it back and smashed the butt into Jim's face. Jim toppled onto his back and lay groaning. Pieces of broken teeth hung from his mouth on threads of red saliva. Jack strode up to him. He hauled back his foot and booted Jim's manhood. Jim's agony roared. He twisted onto his front, beating the ground with his feet. His body curled into a ball of pain.

  "Dear God," he wept, over and over.

  Fish hurriedly returned the rifle to his shoulder. The barrel swung about, seeking a target. There was none. Tod had reached the cover of the dunes.

  "Damnation!" Fish swore, lowering the rifle.

  "Crow, get after him," said the clown, casual.

  The Indian had so far watched the proceedings with stone-faced indifference. Now he sprang into action, vaulting over the corral fence onto the back of one of the penned horses. His heels sank into the horse's soft underbelly and the horse cleared the fence. Trailing dust, the horse and its rider sped out of the yard after Tod.

  The clown looked down at Jim.

  "You haven't been very neighborly, Mr. Sloane. You've done nothin' but try and bring the curtain down on our show…" The clown shook his head with regret.

  "You'll have to learn the first rule in this business of ours — the show must go on." He looked toward the-Negro with the bullwhip. "Teach him, Bull."

  With a fine leisurely sense of showmanship, Bull Wray uncoiled the twenty-foot bullwhip. He drew back bis arm for the fi
rst lesson.

  * * *

  As he ran, Tod heard the steady crack of the whip biting through the desert stillness. He knew what it meant and tears burned his cheeks. His clothes were already drenched with sweat and his whole body ached with effort. His heart pounded, his brain throbbed and he felt every step he ran was timed to the painful beat of a giant drum. But he kept on running because he knew to stop meant death.

  And then, above the roaring in his ears, he heard a new sound and with dreadful fear recognized the relentless pounding of hooves on sand. Without stopping, he turned and saw the Indian crest the brow of the dunes and come galloping down after him…

  * * *

  Jim Sloane lay semiconscious in the dirt of the yard. Blood from his ruined back darkened the sand around him. The slashing whip had cut a hideous patchwork from his skin. In some places bone showed dull white against raw bloody flesh.

  The clown looked down at Bull's handiwork, nodding approval. With his cane he gestured to the big yellow man. "Khan, he's all yours…"

  Khan shoved Martha aside. He'd ripped open her calico dress to below her navel. Her heavy breasts were scratched and purpled from his rough handling. Full of shame, Martha hung her head low.

  Eyes bright, Khan advanced on the bloodied figure lying in the center of the yard. Toying with Martha had aroused the big Mongolian, given him an appetite for still more cruel pleasures. Stooping, he grasped Jim's right hand in his own as if wishing to give him a cordial handshake. He helped the homesteader to his feet. Jim swayed unsteadily. Holding firm his grip on Jim's hand, Khan pushed him. Then, as his victim staggered back, Khan jerked him forward by the arm, swinging him round with all his brute strength. Jim Sloane shrieked and pitched forward, his legs churning sand. His right arm was dislocated from his shoulder.

  "Hot damn!" Fish applauded.

  Khan saluted his appreciative audience. Then he repeated the performance with Jim's left arm.

  Amazingly, life still beat in Jim Sloane's broken body. Blood frothed on his lips as he struggled to speak through splintered teeth. The sounds he made were hardly human.

  "I believe Mr. Sloane has something to tell us," the clown acknowledged. "Help him up so's he can speak his piece." Jim moaned flatly when Khan pulled him upright.

  "Well, what's on your mind, Mr. Sloane?" the clown asked, bringing bis face close to Jim's. "Speak up!"

  Every breath was torture to Jim and the words were a long time coming.

  "Your name…" he said, weakly. "I know… what it is."

  "You do?" The clown was genuinely interested. "Well, tell me, what it is!"

  "The… Devil!"

  The clown laughed, long and hard.

  Then he gripped the handle of his fancy-looking cane and tugged a sharp-edged blade from its wooden scabbard. He held the point of the sword to Jim's throat.

  "Well, who's to say you're wrong," said the clown, ready to put weight behind the point.

  Jim looked toward his wife. Their eyes met. There was shame and despair in her face and she looked away.

  The clown lunged, pressing the sword through Jim's body. The blade emerged dripping from his back. Jim buckled. Khan relaxed his hold, allowing the body to slump to the ground, puddling blood. The clown pulled the blade free and wiped it clean on Jim's trousers.

  Without a further look at the body, Khan returned to Martha. He seized her head in both hands and his thick lips crushed hers in a clumsy kiss. Martha bit his lower lip hard. Bellowing, Khan jerked back his head. His tongue probed his lip and tasted blood. The narrow slits of the Mongolian's eyes became narrower. He showed yellowed teeth in a grinning mouth. Then he dipped his head to Martha's breast and his teeth closed on a plump brown nipple.

  He bit it off.

  * * *

  Tod heard his mother's screams and a sob shuddered through him as he turned once more to face the Indian. For some time Crow had been playing with him, riding circles round him and charging him with wild cries. Again he wheeled the horse round and urged it at the gallop toward the boy. As the trampling hooves bore down on Tod, Crow uttered a savage yell that sent cold fingers of fear crawling up Tod's spine.

  Tod's legs refused to run. He lurched towards a three-pronged cactus and threw himself behind it. The pounding of hooves grew deafening.

  The horse shied back from the sharp spines of the cactus and reared, throwing Crow to the ground.

  Tod picked himself up and limped away as fast as his aching legs allowed.

  * * *

  Between them Khan and Lucky Luke dragged Martha toward the house. Capering enthusiastically, Fish followed.

  "Fish, you ain't gonna fool with no other woman, are you, honey?" Scarlett called after him. Her voice betrayed her concern. Fish turned to her, looking hurt.

  "Why, baby, I'm just havin' a bit of fun… you know it don't mean beans!"

  He blew her a quick kiss and hurried after the others, knowing now he'd have to wait until last.

  Scarlett watched him enter the house, her lips tight together.

  "Lookee what I done found!" shouted Bull Wray running from the house, a green metal box under his arm. He threw the box to the ground near Jim's body. Drawing a Navy Colt, he blasted the lock off the box, then knelt down to open it. The clown took off his derby and held it out for Bull to fill. Bull grudgingly emptied the contents of the box into the clown's hat. He watched the clown pick through an assortment of bills and small change.

  The clown looked scornfully over at Jim's body which had already become a popular meeting place for local flies.

  "Sixty bucks," he announced. "Chickenshit!"

  4

  They tore off the rest of Martha's clothes and spread-eagled her on the wooden table in the kitchen. Luke held down her arms while Fish had to sit under the table, holding her legs apart by the ankles.

  Khan was first. His pants fell around his ankles. Fish snickered from under the table.

  "You may be a yeller heathen, Khan," Luke said, "But there's some things you got bigger'n a Texan!"

  Khan grunted humorlessly and reached over to grip the edge of the table behind Martha's head. He pressed forward against Martha. She bucked and shrieked as the big Mongolian ploughed into her.

  * * *

  Crow charged.

  Tod took a couple more desperate, pained steps. Then his legs gave way and his face hit the hot sand, directly in the path of the galloping horse. Tod had a nightmare glimpse of hooves drumming sand; then there was a feeling of being cracked open and pain beyond pain. Then nothing.

  Crow swung the horse round back toward the boy. He reared the horse and the hooves smashed down again and again until all sign of life had been pulped from the boy's body.

  * * *

  Still smarting with resentment, Scarlett wandered over to the near-completed barn that would now never be completed. Raw male laughter pursued her from the house and she could well imagine what was happening inside. What Fish was up to.

  On the floor of the barn was a collection of bottles and cans. Scarlett picked up one of the bigger cans and sniffed at it. Growing interested, she shook the can gently from side to side and was rewarded by the swish of liquid from inside. Enough for what she had in mind.

  Silent as a shadow, her brother Jack joined her. He looked at the can she was holding. He took it in black-gloved hands and raised it to his nose. He frowned.

  "Kerosene," said Scarlett smiling brightly.

  * * *

  Scarlett noiselessly opened the door and looked into the kitchen. Khan had taken his pleasure and Lucky Luke had replaced him. Whooping and hollering, the cowboy danced his lean body atop Martha's. Martha lay motionless, staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. What Scarlett could see of her pale body was scratched and bruised and bitten and shiny with blood and sweat. Scarlett couldn't tell for sure whether she was alive or dead.

  "This sure beats breakin' in broncs!" Luke laughed.

  "Yeah, well this ain't no rodeo, cowboy," complained Fish, "so you hurry o
n up and make way for others… you just ain't got no consideration for other people!"

  Luke laughed, then reaching his climax, went suddenly cross-eyed and let out a piercing whistle like a train letting off steam.

  "You've had your fun, boy, now let a man into the saddle…"

  Fish shoved Luke aside and took his place. He kept a tight, two-handed hold of his rifle as he positioned himself on Martha. He laid the rifle across her throat, grinning…

  "You an' me, baby, we're gonna get on like a house on fire," he promised.

  Scarlett tilted the can of kerosene. A dark stain spread across the kitchen floor, edging towards the table. She reached behind her and Jack put a match in her hand. She struck the match on a tooth and tossed it into the kitchen. She closed the door. She and Jack and the others stood back and waited.

  They didn't have to wait long.

  The door burst open and Khan and Luke ran out, coughing. Fish wasn't far behind, tripping over his pants. As he emerged from the smoke, Scarlett stuck out her foot. He sprawled headlong into the dirt, his backside bared for all who cared to see.

  "Well, ain't that a pretty sight," Bull guffawed. The Negro's laughter ceased when he caught sight of Martha in the smoke-spewing doorway.

  Tight-faced, Scarlett stepped forward and stretched her arm across the doorway, blocking Martha's escape. Through the smoke, Martha stared dully at the men who had killed her husband and raped her, turning from face to face. Then she looked at Scarlett, searching her eyes in a way that made Scarlett drop her arm and move back. Martha began to laugh, a crazy pathetic laugh of empty despair and they knew she was mad. Still laughing, Martha stepped backward, back into the burning house. The leaping fire licked her naked body and her laughter became screaming. Flames ran up her long hair and a fiery halo circled the face of the screaming woman. She screamed and screamed.