by Steve Lee
His eyes on Sloane, Ching Lei raised his glass to his lips.
Together they drank.
"Let's go," said Sloane.
Side by side, their eyes full of death, Sloane and Ching Lei rode with cold grim purpose toward the Big Top ranch.
11
The clown was waiting and he wasn't alone.
Outside the adobe ranch house, an army of men was gathered. Khan was there and so were Fang and his Chinese boxers. There were the Mexicans, ranch hands armed with machetes, stilettos and bladed farm tools. There were gunslingers, bounty hunters, bar flies and drifters — anyone who could fire a gun or use a knife or throw a dirty punch and thought five thousand dollars was worth killing a man for. Some were eager, some silent, and some nervously cracked jokes. Gripping their weapons, they watched the empty plain. They waited.
Up on the barn roof a lookout was posted, ready to signal the approach of horsemen. He shook his head when Carmello looked up for a report… nothing yet.
Carmello swung round and, like a general inspecting his troops, walked the length of his men, smiling at them, encouraging them. It made him feel good to see so many ruthless faces. Good and secure.
Further down the line, one of the gunmen was explaining the workings of his rifle to Pepe, Sebastian and Conchita. Stern faced, Carmello bore down on the three children.
"Didn't I tell you kids to stay-in that barn!" he scolded. "Get back in there and don't you dare come out until I tell you to."
The kids scooted back into the barn. Carmello closed the door behind them. Soon Sloane would be dead, he thought, and it would be safe for the children to play again.
"Two riders… comin' this way!"
The lookout's warning lifted heads, raised rifles to shoulders.
"Get ready!" yelled Carmello, hurrying out of the line of fire. Shielding his eyes, he watched a distant cloud of dust separate into two horsemen. It was not difficult to recognize Sloane in his white suit.
Whoever Sloane was, he must be crazy to come riding in like this, the clown decided. Crazy but considerate. He waited until the two riders made nice fat targets; then…
"Fire!"
The rifles thundered.
Both riders jerked as though pummelled by giant invisible fists. They slumped in the saddle, raising a cheer from Carmello's army.
The killers laughed, slapped each other on the back, threw down their rifles. Many of them had scratched their mark onto their bullets so they could claim the blood money for themselves.
Watching the horses gallop nearer with their limp burdens, Carmello felt relief mingled with disappointment. He d expected Sloane to put up a better fight, provide a better show. Somehow he felt almost cheated.
Several men ran forward to grab at the horses' trailing reins. The horses reared and bucked, spilling their lifeless riders. Carmello's complacent grin was ripped from his face by the sight of the straw-bleeding dummies lying in the dust.
The cheers and laughter died. In the silence the sudden scream was eerie.
Carmello whirled round to see the lookout break on the ground, kicked off the roof by Sloane. Sloane leapt down among the panicking army, snapping a rifleman's spine with his foot before he touched ground. Ching Lei dropped onto another's back, disposing of him with a swift neck wrench.
Springing to his feet, Sloane threw three shooting stars in quick succession. One of the gunmen shrieked, his eye pierced by a metal point. Another tore a star from his neck, releasing a fierce spray of blood.
Like a human tidal wave, Sloane and Ching Lei smashed through the ranks of suddenly frightened men. Several gunmen opened fire at them, shooting into the tight packed confusion of bodies. If someone else got in the way, too bad. One less person to share the bounty money with.
Sloane threw himself forward, rolling beneath the angry hum of bullets. Near him, a Mexican screamed, throwing up his arms, blood fountaining from a hole torn from his side. Sloane rolled upright, threw his last shooting star at the nearest rifleman. He had no time to see if his aim was true — to keep moving was to keep alive. But a shrill, satisfying howl followed the throw.
A knife jabbed at his face. Sloane caught the hand that held it, glimpsed for an instant the fear that filled the sweating face of its Mexican owner. Then there was a snapping like dry timber as Sloane's free hand broke the man's arm. Yanking the knife from limp fingers, he hurled it into the solid rank of attacking men, then went down, rolling to whisk a Chinaman off his feet. A bullet smacked the ground inches from his head. He kept on rolling.
Ching Lei zigzagged when he saw a pair of riflemen aim at him and fire. Behind, another Chinese jerked off his feet, brains bursting in a red halo.
"Tsk, tsk, that's the trouble with these chinks," the killer joked. "They all look the same so you gotta kill 'em all to hit the right one."
It was the last joke he ever made because the next instant, Ching Lei's flying kick just about took his head off his shoulders.
Sloane's foot smashed into the chest of an anonymous enemy. The gasping man went down, a broken rib puncturing his lung. Sloane hauled him to his feet, pushing him in front as he advanced on a group of men with blazing guns. Bullets ploughed into his human shield. Sloane picked up the bleeding man and slung him at the gunmen, scattering them. Feet first, he followed, a skull collapsing beneath his weight. Another gunman felt the weight of Sloane's boot in his crotch. A third choked on blood and teeth when a fist filled his mouth.
More bullets whined overhead as Sloane ducked a swinging rifle butt. When he sprang up, one hand tiger-swiped the rifleman's face, the, other flung dust into the eyes of the two men with smoking pistols. Shoving aside the blinded rifleman, Sloane closed in to finish off the pistoleros.
Ching Lei swayed back to avoid the hack of a machete and felt a knife slash across his back — an instant before his elbow knocked the knifeman's adam's apple out the back of his neck. There was no time to stop and lick his wounds. He chopped the Mexican lunging at him, pried the machete from twitching fingers, then swung the weapon round in a wide head-splitting arc.
Releasing his hold on a now limp body, Sloane caught sight of a man with bright burning eyes retreating toward the ranch house, peering anxiously over his shoulder. Sloane had noticed the man issuing orders, taking the part of a leader. Suddenly, he had no doubt that this unimpressive-looking individual was the clown he was seeking to kill.
He moved to follow Carmello but a curtain of men closed between him and the escaping killer. They were mainly Mexicans and Chinese, bristling with knives, machetes and hatchets. Nothing could stop Sloane now that he had glimpsed his prey. He tore into the men, a ravaging wolf amongst disheartened sheep.
One of the Chinese rushed him, aiming a high kick at his head. Sloane split the man's groin with a single chop. When he turned from the writhing man, he found himself looking down the barrel of a Colt. Grinning, the gunman thumbed back the hammer, finger squeezing the trigger. The shot blasted wild. Still grinning, the gunman toppled forward, a machete sunk between his shoulders. Sloane found time to grip Ching Lei's arm in a grateful gesture. For a brief moment, they were blood brothers — the blood belonging to their enemies. Then such sentiments as friendship were swept aside and both men got down to the serious business of killing.
From the veranda, Carmello watched the stranger called Sloane rip through his men like a threshing machine through wheatfields. Even as he looked, Sloane kicked the legs from under a charging Mexican, spun him into the air. Sloane's knee rose to meet the falling man, crunching into his kidneys. That left only four men between him and Sloane. The rest had their hands full with that maniac Chinaman.
Sloane's hands snaked out, his foot leapt up, and then there were two men left between him and the clown. He walked lightly toward the two Mexicans. They looked like they'd prefer to be unarmed in a corrida facing the meanest of bulls rather than Sloane at that very moment. As if the same brain ruled both their bodies, the two men turned and fled.
Sloane wal
ked on toward the man on the veranda. He resisted the desire to run forward. In a moment he would be face to face with the man who had butchered his parents. It was a moment he had dreamt of for eight years. He wanted to enjoy it. He wanted it to last.
Carmello awaited him patiently. He did not seem unduly disturbed by the specter of death walking steadily toward him over the bodies of his men. He waited until Sloane had halved the distance between them, then he opened wide the door and stepped back.
Springing head over heels, Kurt vaulted out of the doorway. Then, like a cannonball, he rolled straight at Sloane, the other five acrobats following behind.
Sloane barely had time to leap over Kurt. He landed in the path of the second acrobat. As he jumped aside, a foot lashed against his leg, slowing him, staggering him. The third acrobat butted into him, full force.
Quick as monkeys, the acrobats were on their feet before Sloane hit the ground. They moved quickly without speaking, their actions smoothed by practice. Kurt cupped his hands together, palms upward. He motioned to one of his troupe. The acrobat raced toward Kurt and somersaulted, landing one foot on Kurt's linked hands. Kurt jerked up, heaving the man high into the air.
The acrobat performed a midair back flip, then plunged downward, feet together pointing at Sloane.
Flat on his back, winded, Sloane saw the acrobat plummeting toward him. His brain raced, seemed to leave his body behind. He managed to roll clear. The acrobat's feet pounded the dust, inches from their target.
Already Kurt had launched another human missile at Sloane. The second acrobat cartwheeled through space, then dropped, one foot aiming for Sloane's face.
Sloane's hands moved with serpent speed. He caught the descending foot in both hands, grunting with effort. He twisted the foot, off-balancing the acrobat into his approaching companions. He barged into three of them, knocking them together. Before they could disentangle themselves, Sloane was upon them.
From the rear of his men, Fang urged them toward Ching Lei. He wanted to claim the bounty money on Sloane but against Ching Lei he nursed a personal grudge that he wanted satisfied. Watching the young Chinaman slapping down his men he knew he was witnessing a master in action, a master whose skill he could not hope to defeat in face-to-face combat. But Fang knew there were surer methods than skill to kill a man.
Despite the three wounds sapping his strength, Ching Lei was managing to hold his own against the circle of attackers. Almost a score of bodies littered the ground as testimonial to his martial artistry. But for every man he smashed down, another appeared behind.
Two men charged him from either side as Fang had instructed. Ching Lei stepped back, guiding their heads together. They met with a brain-rattling crack at the same moment that a third carried out Fang's order to attack from the rear. Ching Lei greeted him with the heel of his foot, glancing over his shoulder at the pain-stricken man — as Fang expected him to. At the instant Ching Lei's head was turned, he sprang forward, striking with his hatchet.
The hatchet bit deep. Ching Lei whirled, a startled expression on his face. He lunged at Fang, then clawed the air, reaching for the hatchet buried in his skull.
He pitched onto his face and lay still.
Hearing the cheers and laughter from behind, Sloane turned, dragging an acrobat with him. The man's neck snapped in his hands. He pushed aside the soulless body and ran over to Ching Lei. One glance told him the hotheaded Chinaman was dead. He'd made a better friend than enemy and that was how Sloane would remember him.
His expression coldly savage, Sloane faced the remaining killers. Panic spread among them, followed swiftly by death as Sloane advanced. He cut mercilessly through them, feeling no more regret for the men he broke and killed than for the poles he had once shattered for practice.
Before him, Fang backed off, his hatchet gripped in a trembling hand.
In three bounds, Sloane closed the distance between them.
"Sloane!"
There was an assurance in the voice that made Sloane pause. Following its direction, he saw Carmello standing on the veranda of the ranch house. Beside him, a frightened prisoner in Khan's iron grip, was Kathie. Carmello held a pistol to her head.
"I suggest you give yourself up, Mr. Sloane," he said. "If not…"
Carmello meaningfully thumbed back the hammer of the.44 pistol.
Sloane had come a long way, been through hell to get the clown, but he couldn't stand and watch Kathie die on his account. He let his arms fall limply to his side.
"Very wise," Carmello called out, lowering the gun. The survivors of his army closed in on Sloane. Apart from the clown and Khan, only eight men remained.
Fang raised his hatchet to finish Sloane.
"No!" yelled Carmello. "I want him alive… I want him to talk!"
Sloane did not resist when he was shoved and prodded over to the corral. Kurt and another of the acrobats tied his arms to the top rail of the corral fence. He hung there, arms spread, like a man crucified.
Fang spat in his face. Kurt kicked him in the groin. Sloane clenched his teeth. He did not give the German the satisfaction of hearing him voice his pain.
Pushing Kathie before them, Carmello and Khan walked up. Carmello stood before Sloane. They sized each other up. Sloane could hardly believe that this small, ordinary-looking man was the face behind the nightmare mask of the clown. To Carmello, Sloane seemed less like a man than a cornered beast.
"Looks a pretty tame dragon now, don't he?"
Carmello's taunt raised bitter laughter. He moved closer to Sloane. From the tone of his voice, he might have been addressing an old and honored friend.
"You know, the one thing that bothers me, Mr. Sloane… the question that's burnin' me up inside is why?"
Sloane stared into the distance as if he had not heard. Smiling patiently, Carmello slapped him hard across the face.
"Why?"
Sloane slowly inclined his head to face the clown. His silent, even gaze expressed his contempt better than any spoken insult.
Carmello avoided the burning eyes. He began to pace in front of his pursuer, thinking hard, thinking back.
"I do believe I recall another Sloane," he said, as much to himself as to anyone present. "Yes, a little homesteader and his pretty wife…"
He rounded on Sloane. "Is that it?" Carmello demanded. "Is that why you're here — are you kin of theirs… Tell me!"
Sloane kept his silence.
Carmello backhanded him harder.
"Who are you?"
Carmello screamed the words at him.
Sloane spat blood from a split lip. Steely-eyed, he looked at Carmello as if, in the whole world, only the two of them existed.
"The one what's gonna kill you," he breathed.
Carmello backed away, his face hot. It was the confidence with which the words had been spoken that riled him most. As if the man really believed what he said. As if he'd been talking facts.
I'm gonna pain you, Sloane," he said. "Not your body… not yet. Most like you can take that. No, I'm gonna pain you where it hurts most — up here!"
Carmello tapped his skull. He turned to Kathie, nodded to the brutish Mongolian behind her. "Khan, she's yours."
With a slobbering grin, Khan circled his big hands round her neck. He began to choke her.
"No!" Kathie cried, "please, no!"
"Let her go," said Sloane.
Carmello laughed. "I'm the ringmaster round here, Sloane… I crack the whip and I say what goes!"
"Let her go," Sloane warned in the same bleak voice.
"You pay attention, Sloane. You watch careful, because you're next!"
Khan slowly tightened the pressure on the girl's throat. It seemed to give him immense pleasure. Kathie's eyes appealed to Sloane for help. She retched…
Sloane watched her slowly die, his entire body quivering with emotion. He strained against the ropes binding him to the corral fence, pulling on them, trying to snap them. The rope scorched into his skin.
Kat
hie's life was ebbing fast. Desperately, she stared at Sloane, trying to tell him things with her eyes, things that might have been. She made noises in her throat, unpleasant thick-tongued noises.
Veins pulsed on Sloane's forehead. His muscles trembled with effort. But the ropes held.
Kathie's young girl prettiness was squeezed out of her face. It became bloodless, bluish… Her tongue pushed from her mouth.
"Kathie!"
Her legs sagged beneath her. The life in her eyes flickered and died.
Khan dropped the limp body like a sack of garbage. He wiped his hands together, showing satisfaction at a job well done.
A gut-rending cry of pain tore itself from Sloane's lips. At the same time there was an explosive crack as he wrenched the railing to which he was tied from the fence.
Arms outstretched, like a mad-eyed scarecrow come to sudden angry life, Sloane charged at the surprised Mongolian.
Hatchet poised to strike, Fang rushed forward to intercept him. Sloane swerved, aiming the end of the broken rail at the onrushing Chinaman. The jagged wood ripped deep into his throat. Blood showered Sloane. He jerked the pole loose and Fang collapsed, gurgling his last liquid breaths.
Carmello scurried back.
"Get him, kill him!" he ordered from a safer distance.
The remaining killers converged on Sloane. He whirled like a Navajo medicine man, his wooden claws swiping the face off a gun-pointing cowboy. Swerving, he struck again, gouging soft flesh from a Mexican, unmanning his victim.
An acrobat leapt for his back. Sloane dipped his head, raising one end of the rail. The jagged tip skewered the flailing acrobat, tearing through skin and entrails.
Sloane pitched the shrieking man to the ground, spinning round as Khan lumbered toward him, huge hands lifted to grip and crush. Khan ducked, the pole whistling over his head. But Sloane continued his spin and, as Khan rose, the other end of the rail cracked against his skull. Khan stumbled back, stunned.
The impact snapped the pole near Sloane's right wrist. Hurriedly, he wormed his hand free of the binding rope. As he struggled to free his other hand, a Mexican raced toward him, aiming a machete. Sloane clubbed the rail against the side of his neck, snapping both. An instant later, his left hand was free.
