The Man With The Iron Fists

by Steve Lee

  "It would be too shocking!" protested the man in the stovepipe hat, "and it wouldn't do for the ladies to see."

  There were, at that moment, several bonneted ladies frantically craning their necks with that very idea in mind. To their annoyance, Ching Lei let the blanket drop.

  The man in the stovepipe hat took a closer look at Ching Lei. He seemed to remember an urgent appointment.

  "Well," he said, "I've got better things to do with my time than stand here all day jawing with a Chinaman!"

  He brushed past Ching Lei and disappeared up the street.

  "Mighty friendly feller!" chuckled the small man from a dirty brown hole inside his beard.

  "What killed him?" Ching Lei asked, motioning toward the covered body.

  "Ah," laughed the small man, knowingly. "What or who?" He stuck a cob pipe in the hole in his beard and clamped teeth on it.

  "Looks like a rattler done him in," he continued, "but Elmer Whateley's boy what found the body saw someone walkin' away from it, whistlin' he said… and this here feller…" he tapped the side of the wagon with his pipe — "he's pretty beat up!"

  "So you know who killed him?"

  The bearded man shook his head. "Nope, but the boy got a pretty good look at him… a pretty good look!"

  Ching Lei waited.

  "It was a stranger," said the bearded man. "A stranger in a white suit."

  * * *

  Claude and Mule-Face had just finished nailing the sign to a tree when Sloane showed up.

  The sign read:

  T-Bone Ranch

  Private

  Trespassers Will Be Hung

  With the look of men waiting to be entertained, the two cowboys watched the man in white ride towards them.

  "Shall I get the rope?" Mule-Face asked. He had a long narrow face and his mouth seemed to have more teeth in it than a mouth should be allowed to have.

  "Not yet," said Claude. "First we'll see what he's got to say fer'imself… Then we'll hang 'im."

  "Howdy," he said cheerfully when Sloane reined in beside them. He was an easy-grinning man.

  Sloane nodded to the two men in long cattlemen's coats. Their wide-brimmed hats shaded their upturned faces.

  "You gentlemen know where I can find Lucky Luke?"

  Chewing on a cigar, Claude contemplated the stranger in dirty white.

  "You a friend of his?" he asked, smoke drifting from his mouth.

  "That's right," said Sloane. "An old friend."

  "Then I reckon he'll be right pleased to see you," said Claude.

  "I'm countin' on it."

  "He's up in them hills, chasin' nags," said Mule-Face, jabbing a thumb toward some red-stone hills rising steeply from the plain.

  "Obliged," said Sloane and nudged his horse past the two cowboys. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, they watched him make for the high-peaked hills.

  "I never heard a' Luke havin' no friends," complained Mule-Face.

  "I'm thinkin' the stranger's gonna feel mighty choked when he runs into his old pal," said Claude. "Mighty choked!"

  He laughed heartily and, just for the hell of it, Mule-Face laughed along with him.

  * * *

  Sloane followed a winding, rock-strewn trail into the hills. Anyone up above could have seen his dust when he was miles away, he thought. The boulders piled up along the trail invited an ambush and on the other side was a steep drop that got steeper the higher he climbed. He rode carefully.

  Not carefully enough.

  A lasso swished from nowhere, tightened round his neck and yanked him from his rearing horse.

  Sloane broke the fall, rolled and scrambled upright. His fingers pried loose the lasso and pulled it over his head. In the same instant, a second lasso snared him round the chest, tightening under his arms.

  Congratulations, Sloane told himself, you walked right into it. Lucky Luke rode Out from the cover of the rocks, the end of the reata wrapped round his hand. In his other hand he held a Dance Bros. 44 pointed at Sloane.

  "Talk fast, mister," he said. "Who are you?"

  "Name's Sloane… That mean anythin' to you?"

  Luke shook his head slowly. The baby-faced cowboy didn't look so babyish anymore. He'd grown plump and his baby-blue eyes had sunken into folds of fat.

  "Piss-all," he said. "What you after out here?"

  "You, Luke."

  Luke pulled on the lasso, jerking Sloane forward. He stumbled but kept on his feet.

  "Why?"

  "Get a few answers…"

  Luke thumbed back the hammer of his pistol. "This answers all your questions, mister," he said and raised the gun to fire.

  Sloane threw himself backwards, gripping the rope in both hands. His weight tugged Luke from the saddle, toppled him onto the ground. The pistol clattered across the rocks.

  Sloane was first on his feet. Running forward, he kicked the gun over the cliff. Luke scrambled upright, backing off, keeping the lasso stretched taut between them. His hand dipped to his belt and came up with a slice of naked sunlight — a Bowie knife.

  The lasso linked the two men in a strange dance of death. Hauling on the reata, coiling more and more of it round his wrist, Luke dragged Sloane within range. He thrust at Sloane's stomach. Sloane whipped his body back, suffered only a nick. As the cowboy's hand followed through, Sloane's crescent kick caught the back of his wrist. The knife flew from his hand.

  Before Luke had recovered, Sloane's other foot rose. The roundhouse kick caught him full in the mouth, sent him staggering back toward the edge of the cliff, spitting blood from a split Up.

  He fought for balance, screamed… and fell over the edge.

  Sloane threw himself flat in an effort to save himself from being dragged over by Luke. The rope tightened, cutting into his ribs, yanking him forward, inch by inch. From over the edge he heard Luke's scream as the cowboy dropped the same distance. Sloane dug in his heels, spread his arms… the movement towards the edge stopped… for the moment.

  Sloane's eyes sought a means of escape. Some of Lucky Luke's luck must have rubbed off on him, maybe all of it, because a few feet away, between him and the cliff, lying where Luke had dropped it, was the Bowie knife.

  Sloane allowed himself to be pulled closer to the edge, nearer the knife. He swore when he slipped too fast. Again, by digging his heels in he was able to halt his progress towards the edge.

  His hand groped for the knife.

  A bullet smacked rock near his fingers.

  He didn't need to see them to guess who the unwelcome visitors were.

  "Claude, Mule-Face! That you?" From over the cliff, Luke's voice sounded desperate. "Goddamit! Get me out of here!"

  Sloane's fingertips touched the knife's blade, dragged the Bowie into his palm. He began to saw at the rope.

  Another bullet kicked dust two feet away. Mule-Face's laughter whooped. Sloane went on slicing at the lasso. With his other hand, he kept hold of the reata. If he could help it, he wasn't going to let Luke slip through his fingers.

  The knife slit through the last strands. The rope came wildly alive, tried to escape. Sloane grabbed it and hung on, jamming his feet against firm rock. The rope skinned his palms but he held on.

  Luke's cries grew more desperate. He jerked and swayed at the other end of the rope.

  Bullets powdered rock around Sloane but the boulder at his back provided cover. Twisting the rope about his left arm, he was able to knot the end. He wedged the chunky knot between the rocks and released his hold, watching with interest. The knot shrank but stayed wedged. Lucky Luke wouldn't fall. Not as long as the reata held.

  "Help," Luke called again, more faintly.

  "I'll be right there, Luke!" shouted Sloane. "Just hang on a minute."

  Sloane began to circle toward Claude and Mule-Face, hugging cover, dashing from boulder to boulder. Rock chips showered his face. The two cowboys were having a lot of fun. Trigger-happy fun. Soon they would have to stop and reload.

  Then Sloane would make his move.r />
  * * *

  Lucky Luke was sweating buckets. The reata wrapped found his hand had torn the flesh bone deep. Blood dripped onto his face. His fingers were blackened, dead. He knew he couldn't hang on for much longer.

  "Holy shit!" Luke wept as the lasso dropped him another inch nearer oblivion. His voice cracked, rose into a shrill scream.

  "What the hell's goin' on up there?"

  Above, a face appeared over the edge and looked down at him. It wasn't a face he wanted to see.

  "Just not your lucky day is it, Luke?" said Sloane.

  Lucky Luke groaned.

  Sloane lit himself one of Claude's cigars and sat down, dangling his legs over the edge. He admired the view. The sun sparked off all the colors of the rocks below.

  "Now where were we," he began. "Oh, yeah, you were gonna tell me where to find the clown."

  Mention of the clown made Luke's eyes wild. "For Chrissake, pull me up!"

  "The clown…"

  "You're crazy… I don't know nothin' 'bout no clowns… I can't take much more of this — pull me up!"

  Sloane nudged the rope with his foot. It made Luke swing to and fro like a pendulum. "Better tell me, Luke… or grow wings fast."

  Eyes locked wide with terror, Lucky Luke watched the rocks sway beneath him.

  "I'm waiting," Sloane reminded him, tapping hot ash down onto the hanging man's head.

  Luke raised his wildly staring eyes to Sloane. He made a quick decision. His last.

  "I ain't tellin' you nothin', you bastard… nothin', y'hear!.. you go to hell!"

  Luke laughed. Laughter as crazy as Martha Sloane's when Luke and his friends had finished with her. With frantic amusement, he unwound the rope from the raw meat of his hand.

  "You hear me, mister?… You go straight to hell!" Luke laughed again.

  Then he dropped.

  "See you there," said Sloane, tossing the cigar butt after him. Leaning forward, Sloane watched him spilling down toward the rocks. Lucky Luke's scream struggled to a high note that died just when it was getting interesting. He added a splash of color to the landscape.

  Luke's luck had run out.

  And so had Sloane's only lead.

  5

  It was a cold night to be on sentry duty but Private Jaimie Patterson had hot thoughts to keep him warm while he paced the outside perimeter of the Auxiliary Territorial Prison. Thoughts about Rose Marie, the quartermaster's wild daughter, two years younger than his eighteen and pretty as a pearl. And she liked him. Three times she'd smiled at him, he was sure. A special smile that said he could have her whenever he wanted, easy as plucking apples off a tree. Then the rest of the guys would quit ribbing him about not having a girl of his own. All he had to do was get her alone one night, say the right words and…

  Footsteps, soft and close!

  Jaimie whirled, bringing up his rifle. The breath rushed out of him, hung like fog in the air. His bayonet grazed the dark.

  "Who goes there?" he challenged. "Friend or foe?" Jaimie was too green to break with regulations.

  A woman's laughter advanced toward him, silk rustling…

  "Why friend, of course, you silly boy," she whispered, emerging from the dark. Her voice was husky and reeked sin. She was beautiful, her body firm, luscious, her hauled as Up paint. Jaimie gaped. His mouth hung loose. Her perfume hazed his brain. She was more woman than a boy could stand.

  "Come here and I'll show you just how friendly I am…"

  She reached for him, the look in her eyes dirty as men's laughter, her mouth open, inviting…? She pushed aside the bayonet. He did not resist. He could not. Her arms encircled him, drew him onto her heat. Her tongue sought his. Hunger pressed him to her warm mouth…

  Pain flared in Jaimie's guts. His body jerked. His eyes swelled. A bubble of blood exploded on bis lips which brushed Scarlett's as he sank to his knees, then lurched onto his face and died.

  Another man stooped and took the offered kiss. When they finally stood apart, he grinned.

  "That soldier boy don't know what he's missin'," Fish said.

  "He'll never know," said Scarlett, wiping clean the knife on the boy's leg.

  * * *

  Dressed black as night, six men slipped unnoticed past Jaimie's body to the timbered wall of the prison stockade. Silently, with practiced ease, they formed themselves into a human pyramid.

  A seventh man joined them, a huge yellow-skinned man with a shaven head. Using shoulders as steps, he climbed to the top of the stockade wall.

  A blue-coated guard was listlessly patroling the palisade. As he passed by, Khan reached for him. Massive hands closed on the man's head. The guard struggled. A savage twist of the neck and he fell limply into Khan's arms. Khan discarded the body over the wall.

  There was another guard.

  Khan rose behind him, wrapping a powerful arm round his neck. The man's legs left the ground, kicking. A moment later, he followed his companion over the wall.

  Khan eased down the stairs to the courtyard below. There was only one guard at the gate and he was dozing on a stool, a rifle across his knee. Khan strolled up to the slumbering guard and chopped him in the neck. The guard fell, his neck broken.

  Khan unbarred the gates.

  The clown was the first to enter. Behind him came Fish, Scarlett, her brother Jack and the acrobats. They scattered across the silent courtyard, each knowing what he had to do.

  * * *

  The pile of poker chips before Warden Greeley was bigger than anyone else's pile and it made him feel very pleased with life in general. He chuckled to himself as his arm swept across the table, adding more chips to the pile.

  "I expect you gentlemen will think I've been picking up some tricks from some of our more accomplished guests."

  The three officers playing with him hid their resentment in a peal of appreciative laughter. All three sported handsome mustaches and their faces looked bright and clean above their high collars.

  The warden rose from the table and walked over to his cigar box to award himself a corona.

  "Yes, gentlemen," he said, lighting up, "I think I can safely say you shall have cause to regret this evening." This time the laughter was less enthusiastic.

  Puffing enjoyably, Warden Greeley moved to the window and opened it to let in some necessary air. Looking down, he saw three men in black run across the courtyard.

  The cigar slipped from his mouth.

  "Well, I'll be…"

  "Damned?" suggested the clown, his grotesque face suddenly appearing at the window behind a heavy caliber pistol.

  "Never give an audience time to think about a bad joke," he added and emptied the gun into the room.

  When the greasy smoke cleared the clown was gone and;the only living thing in the room was an agitated canary bird.

  * * *

  Alerted by the gunshots, guards clutching their weapons tumbled half-dressed from their quarters. The first five ran into knives thrown with lightning accuracy by Jack and Scarlett.

  Khan seized the next two as they emerged through the door and smacked their heads together with a sickening crunch.

  Guns in hand, the remaining guards hesitated on the threshold. Fish slipped noiselessly in through the back door and cut them down with his Winchester.

  A lantern held before him, the clown led the gang down a stone staircase to the cells below. The air was chilling and smelled damp.

  A guard appeared suddenly before them, aiming a shotgun. Fish's slug tore into his face. He stood there for a moment looking like someone had caught him in the eye with a ripe tomato. Then he rolled down the stairs, chasing his clattering rifle.

  They stepped over the body, advancing down a dark cellblock corridor. They passed many cells. There was not a single prisoner in any of them.

  "These cells… they're all empty," Scarlett pointed out as if the rest of them were blind.

  "Yeah, what's goin' on?" Fish demanded. "Where's all the prisoners?" The clown smiled tolerantly like someone
plagued by small children.

  "This place wasn't built to keep people in," he said, "but to keep 'em out."

  He swung the lantern round so its light fell directly into the cell before him.

  "Jezus Christ," Fish whispered like a prayer. The rest of them just stared.

  In the cell, neatly piled in polished rows, was heap after heap of gold bullion…

  * * *

  The humpbacked Negro was getting to look as crisply faded as the heaps of old news piled everywhere in the newspaper morgue.

  "Here y'are," he said, adding another pile to the barrage of paper building up around Sloane. "Them's is the new'uns. Got plenty more for ya when yer done with them."

  "Thanks," said Sloane without enthusiasm.

  "Yessir, we gets every paper in the county sent us here — it's a hysterical record, f'sure!"

  "Just what I was thinkin'," Sloane agreed, getting to grips with the new pile.

  The hunchback watched him flick through the browning papers.

  "What youse wanna look at all that shit fo', anyhow?"

  "For five dollars, I don't have to tell you," said Sloane. "But since you're so interested, I will. I got tired of readin' bad news all the time so I thought I'd dig down and see if there was ever any good news."

  "Good nooze!" snorted the hunchback, turning and shuffling toward the door. "Why there ain't never been no good nooze since as long as I can remember — an' that's too long fo' an'body."

  In the doorway, he turned craftily round, pointing a stubby brown finger at Sloane.

  "An' if there was any," he said, "it wouldn't be nooze, would it?" With a crooked grin, the hunchback swayed out the door.

  Several long hours passed before Sloane found anything to interest him. What he found was an ad for the Alhambra Theater, proudly announcing the appearance for a limited Season of "that sensational knife-throwing duo — Jack Knife and Scarlett Blade."

  Beside the ad was a drawing of Scarlett. The artist must wave a dirty mind, Sloane thought, because he'd done justice to her figure.