Ten Grand (15 page)

“Luis,” Edge said softly.

“Señor?”

“Is there ten thousand, American?”

“There is, señor,” the old man said. “You have saved my life many times for either the soldiers or El Matador would have killed me before this had you not been with me.  You did not do these things for me, I know. But no matter. The money is in the town of Montijo, not ten miles south of this place.   Much good will it do you, but my ring provides the key to the hiding place.”

Edge glanced at the third finger on the right hand of Luis Aviles, but could ask no further questions as a  shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Matador standing over him. The bandit chief stooped to test each knot, nodded his satisfaction at their security.

“You did well, gringo,” he said, gesturing with the blunderbuss. “Come, join us in the shade to drink some cool water.  We will return in an hour to see the healthful effect of the sun upon our compadre.”

It was high noon now and the lips of the old man were already beginning to crust with sunburn.  But he made no further plea for mercy and his expression as he returned the evil grin of the bandit chief was one of iron determination. Edge saw Matador’s expression darken at this new side of Luis’ character. But then the blunderbuss came up and Edge moved across to where the bandits waited, lounging in the tree shade, sucking at the necks of their water canteens. But there were no canteens on Edge’s horse and he was not offered a drink by any of the men.

They sat for perhaps thirty minutes, talking idly amongst themselves at first, but then lapsing into silence. All but one completely ignored Edge, who was concentrating his attention upon Luis Aviles as the old man suffered out in the baking sun.  But the American was aware of the interest of the pock-marked Torres and of the way he continually fingered the knife at his waist.  Finally, the disease-scarred bandit spoke.

“El Matador?”

The bandit chief had been dozing, face hidden by the tilt of his sombrero. But he came awake at his name and pushed up the brim, looked questioningly at Torres.

“It is a long time since I have practiced with my knife.  I am fearful my skill will grow less from neglect.”

The other bandits were suddenly alive with interest, anticipating some entertainment to break the monotony of the wait.  Matador saw the focus of Torres’ attention and his dark eyes locked upon those of Edge. The familiar evil grin spread across his young face.

“I am not sure that the Amerieano knows that which he says he knows,” the chief said slowly.  “But we must keep him alive In case he does—and the old man fries to his death.”

“Obliged,” Edge said.

“But,” Matador continued. “You are right, Torres. You are our most skilled fighter with the knife and your art is most valuable to us.”  His grin broadened. “You may cut him as many times as you like, but he must not die.  If he does, you will die, too.”  He patted the stock of his blunderbuss. “There are other knife fighters in Mexico.”

Edge looked back at Torres, saw from the smile on the man’s face that he did not fear for his life.  He was confident that his skill could reduce Edge to a bloody pulp without causing his opponent to die. Torres drew his knife, a long bladed dagger, honed on both sides and needle sharp at the point.

“What about me?” Edge asked, snapping a quick glance at Matador.

“It is a pity,” the bandit chief said with a shrug. “But we cannot spare another weapon for you.  Try not to get too cut up about it.”

As the bandits laughed at the joke, Torres leapt to his feet and lunged. Edge went sideways fast, springing to his feet.

“A real sharp character,” he muttered as the blade flashed by his head.

“You’ll get the point,” Matador laughed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EDGE’S lithe body weaved from side to side and his feet danced with amazing agility at each lunge of the bandit Torres.  At first the scarred face had been wreathed in a smile, his teeth and eyes flashing as brightly as the polished blade of his knife. But it did not take him many seconds to realize the defensive skill of his adversary and his expression darkened with his awareness. Edge did not smile: his eyes glinted from between narrowed lids, ever watchful for a sign to betray the next move of the man with the knife and his lips were mostly set in a straight, firm line only splitting open to gulp in a fresh supply of air upon each occasion he evaded the lunge of the weapon. The watching bandits, too, underwent an abrupt change of mood. At first they had yelled ecstatic encouragement to Torres, anticipating a spurt of red blood to announce the completion of each thrust.  But, as time and time again the lean, hard body parried the attack they started to chide their fellow bandit, tossing out insults to his skill with a knife.

Edge, his face showing no sign of what he was thinking, welcomed the altered attitude of the watchers. For Torres, already angry at his own failure to make an early strike, was pushed deeper into his rage by the epithets thrown at him.  He began to curse softly under his breath and his lunges became more frequent so that his timing went awry and nine out of ten of the thrusts were such that Edge could avoid them with complete ease. The man’s breathing became ragged and as Edge drew the fight out of the shadow, into the hard brightness of the sun, Torres began to sweat freely, had often to raise a hand and brush the stinging salt from his eyes.

The watching bandits moved with the fight, forming a circle around the two participants, leaving their rifles behind.  Again Edge’s expression gave no sign that this move meshed in with his plan of campaign and to the watchers it seemed that his complete attention was focused upon Torres, his mind fully engaged with measures to avoid the flashing blade. If any had known Edge better, they may have suspected such an assumption was incorrect when the American let his eyes rest upon the figure of Matador a fraction of a second too long, and received a shallow gash on his forearm as punishment.  But the bandits merely shouted with glee at this first sight of blood and again began to yell in favor of Torres. 

Edge considered the wound a fair price, for he had seen that Matador was in position, two yards to his left and not more than six yards from where the horses were hobbled.

He sidestepped once, twice, placing himself within inches of the tiny bandit chief. Torres lunged and Edge brought up his foot. The knife nicked into the flesh of Edge’s shoulder, then fell from nerveless fingers as a toecap found Torres’ groin. The man yelled in agony and doubled up, hands flying to his injured part.  Matador stepped to Edge’s right so that he could see around the big man and Edge leapt into a backwards movement, right hand flashing to his neck.

Matador was quick to sense danger, but not quick enough in taking avoiding action. Before he had even started to reach for his guns Edge had grasped him around the chest, pinning one arm to his side, and raised the open razor to press against the pulsing neck.

“Anyone makes a move, El Matador meets his moment of truth.”

It was suddenly deathly quiet.  Even Torres, still doubled up in his agony, ceased his groaning to look up at Edge and his prisoner.  Like the other bandits in the ragged circle, he was aghast at what had happened, amazed by the speed of the turnabout.

“Do as he says,” Matador said, no trace of fear in his voice.

They obeyed and Edge let out his breath in a silent Sigh.  El Matador was not a popular leader and any of the bandits could have grasped this opportunity to be rid of him. But the little man had ruled with a rod of iron and countless memories of his wrath had a cowering effect on the men. The little chief had led a charmed life and in a shoot out might still survive to return and reap vengeance upon any man who did not bow to his wish.

“I give you your freedom, gringo,” Matador said evenly to Edge.

“Obliged,” Edge said, and lifted the tiny man easily from the ground with the arm around his chest while maintaining the pressure of the razor against his throat.

“You keep the razor in a good place,” Matador congratulated as Edge backed away, keeping the chiefs body between himself and the other bandits.  “I will kill the man who searched you for weapons.”

“You’re optimistic,” Edge told him as he bumped into the flank of a horse, flicked a glance to left and right, spotted Matador’s stallion and sidled over to it.  He kicked the hobble free.  “Open the saddlebag, amigo.”

For the first time, he felt the bandit’s body suffer a tremor. The man apparently valued money more than he did his life.

“We ride together, señor,” he said, and even his voice had a quiver. “We split the money. Also the ten thousand, American.”

Edge applied pressure to the razor, drew a droplet of blood. Life became the more precious and Matador used his free hand to unfasten the catch. It was not easy and his hand moved awkwardly as his feet dangled some twelve inches from the ground.  His men watched with bewilderment replacing their stunned anger. The flap came free and as it did so, three one dollar bills fluttered to the ground.  Several of the watching bandits licked their lips and shuffled their feet.

“Obliged,” Edge said and moved the razor, drawing it in a hard, slashing motion across Matador’s throat.  As part of the single, fluid movement he released his grip on the small body so that it thudded to the ground, and the razor continued on its arc, unhindered until it met the soft leather of the saddlebag. The blade slit with fast ease, tumbling out a shower of bills which continued to flutter to the ground as Edge leapt upon the saddle, snatching a rifle from the boot on a nearby horse. Not a shot was fired at Edge as he heeled the horse forward, galloping towards the amazed bandits, who fell aside only in the last moment, began to scramble towards the fallen money, clawing each other aside in their greed. 

And Edge fired only one round, as the hoofs of his mount lifted clear of the spread-eagled Luis Aviles.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought that just as the rifle exploded into sound, sending death into the old man’s heart, the sun blackened, cracked flesh of Luis’ face formed into a smile of thanks for this release from his agony.  Then Edge reined the horse into a wide circle, drawing out of range to make his turn towards the south. But it was a maneuver for which there was no need. The bandits were too intent upon scooping up the money to spare time on Edge. And the bills in most demand were those stained by the blood still pumping from the gaping throat wound of the dead El Matador.  “I guess that must be what they call Blood money,” Edge said as he galloped away, southwards.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BUT Edge did not ride directly for the town of Montijo.  As soon as he knew he would be lost from the sight of the bandits he swung in a wide circle and headed back towards them from a different direction.  He rode the big white stallion it a slow walk, hid behind an outcrop of rock when he spotted a dust cloud to the north, waited until it had settled and the black specks of the riders had disappeared into the heat mirage before spurring his mount forward, faster than before but still not at a full gallop.

The buzzards lifted their cumbersome, satiated bodies into the still air while Edge was still many yards distant and when he rode up he saw they had dined well.  El Matador was almost headless from the savagery of their tearing bills and they had excavated a great hole in the chest of Luis Aviles.  Edge looked at the bodies impassively, nodded as he stooped over that of the old man, noting that he smelled worse in death than he had in life.  He spent perhaps a full minute endeavoring to force the metal ring off the old man’s finger, but it had obviously been worn for many years, refused to slide over the knob of the knuckle. Edge cursed softly, drew his razor and chopped off the finger neatly just beneath the ring. The ornament slid from the dead flesh easily now, its path greased by blood.

He looked at it through narrowed eyes, saw it was in the form of a short snake, the crudely carved head lapping over the tail to form a complete circle. The design meant nothing to Edge, but the old man had considered it important, so he wiped it free of blood.  The only finger it would fit was the little one and this is where Edge wore it as he crossed to the body of El Matador, stopped and drew the two Colts, checked they had a full load before slipping them into his own holsters.