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.
Then he remounted and set off southwards again, not looking over his shoulder as a great flapping of wings told him of the return of the scavengers. The white stallion was strong and willing, experienced in the long, tough rides which are a part of bandit life. He carried his new rider into Montijo just as afternoon was lengthening into evening, the appearance of the big horse with its tall, hard-faced rider giving rise to many curious and suspicious glances. For the town was deep into Mexico, near the boundary between the Sonora and Sinaloa regions, far beyond the area where Americans normally ventured.
It was quite a large town, dependent for industry upon a sawmill and a silver mine, but inhabited mostly by peons who worked in the cane fields spread out to the south and east. There was little sign of activity on the fringe of the town, but as Edge rode down one of the two parallel main streets he could see lights and hear music and singing ahead. He ignored all who turned their suspicious eyes upon him, his own hooded and watching for signs of danger. But then he reined in his horse as a small boy of some ten years ran out in front of him, grinned at him with broken teeth.
“You an Americano?” the waif asked.
Edge looked at his dirt-streaked face, his tattered shirt and pants, guessing the boy’s intention. He nodded and the grin broadened.
“I have a sister, señor,” he said and cupped his hands over his narrow chest, brought them forward in an explanatory movement. “Very big here señor. She like Americanos. Very good with the love, señor.”
Edge injected some warmth into his expression, nodded along the street. “What’s going on?”
“Fiesta, señor. It is the mayor’s birthday. He not a very good mayor, but everybody like him on his birthday cause he makes it a time for fiesta. Many girls in the cantina, señor. But expensive and not big here, like my sister.” Again the gesture with the hands.
Edge dipped into his pants pocket and brought out one of the dollars Gail had given him back in Peaceville. He dropped it to the feet of the boy who snatched it up with a filthy hand, suddenly wealthy by Mexican peon standards.
“Esteban!” a shrewish voice called from the shadow of a building and the boy suddenly laughed and bolted for the opposite side of the street.
The woman came out into the open to give chase for the dollar and Edge grinned. She was big there. Also everywhere else and Edge heeled his horse into motion as the two hundred and fifty pound woman waddled in the wake of her agile young brother.
Both streets emerged into a plaza and exited on the far side, and here was the center of the activities. Light, from torches and oil lamps, shone down upon a raised platform upon which a group of six guitar players provided music for fifty or more dancing couples. The plaza was fringed by ten cantinas from some of which emitted competing music from others merely the shouts and screams of men and women making merry to honor the birthday of the mayor. Drunken figures of both sexes emerged from the swinging doors of the bars to either go into another cantina or join the dancers in the plaza. Grinning, dirty-faced youngsters who might have been cast in the same mold as Esteban, lit and threw firecrackers into the throng, bolting for safety whenever anybody threatened to give chase.
Here, the appearance of a stranger, whether he be a foreigner or Mexican, caused no reaction. Minds, made dull or benevolent by countless draughts of mezcal, tequila and pulque, considered that all was right in world and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to continue with the merry-making. Edge eyed the scene impassively as he tied his horse to the rail fronting the Montijo Hotel, the big white animal looking incongruous among the mangy burros who shared the tether. But those who were most drunk in the throng probably considered the horse a figment of their imagination. Others cared nothing for the sight. Still more noted the expression on Edge’s mean face and knew it would be unwise to question him.
Edge went into the cantina immediately adjacent to the hotel, found the tables packed with drinking men and women, many of them joining in with the song which a pretty young girl was wailing out from one end of the bar, accompanied by a leering young man on a guitar. Edge went to the other end of the bar, which was acting as a support for a line of swaying peons. One of the two sweating barmen came wearily towards Edge, face set in a questioning stare.
“Señor?”
“Beer.”
The barman picked up a dirty glass, smashed the top from a bottle of beer and half poured it, muttered the price in pesos. Edge slapped a dollar bill on the bartop without attempting to touch the drink. A greasy hand covered the dollar and Edge brought the heel of his palm down on top. The barman looked up, fear leaping into his eyes, and found Edge grinning at him. He used his free hand to point at the ring on his little finger.
“That ought to mean something to someone in this town,” he said softly. “The dollar’s yours. If some guy don’t come to see me at the hotel next door before midnight, I come back for my dollar. I also take something else.”
“Señor?” The man’s eyes were wide.
“I ain’t hearing so good with one ear,” Edge said, still grinning. “Yours look healthy enough.”
The man swallowed hard and looked down at the hand which had trapped his, examined the ring.
“I do not know, señor,” he said.
“You better,” Edge told him and released his hand, turned from the bar and headed for the door. “Name’s Edge.”
The peon who had been standing next to him grasped the untouched beer and lifted it, tipped it down his throat.
“One tough hombre,” he said to the barman. “I think he mean it.”
“I know he means it,” the barman muttered as he watched the doors swinging behind the departing Edge.
The tall American unhitched his horse and led him off the plaza, found a livery stable in charge of a sleeping stableman. A boot in the ribs woke him and the sight of a dollar bill got him working. He promised Edge that even if El Presidente himself were to visit Montijo, the royal horse would receive no better treatment. Edge nodded his satisfaction and returned to the plaza, entered the hotel. The clerk announced he was fully booked, but a show of five dollars back
ed up by a narrow-eyed expression of determination enabled him to offer a single at the rear of the building, away from the noise of the fiesta. Edge had left his gear at the stable, and carried only the Spencer repeater he had stolen from one of El Matador’s men. He signed the register and made the clerk repeat his name three times.
“I’m expecting company,” he said. “Unless somebody comes in and asks for me, I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Certainly señor,” the clerk said, nervously, afraid of this tall, lean man with the evil face, knowing he would rather do without the five dollars than have the American in the hotel.
Edge started up the stairs with the rifle his only baggage, his lips pursed as if to whistle, but releasing no sound. He had been given room twenty-three and as he used the key on the lock a church bell tolled six times, far off and melancholy. He guessed it signified the time and wondered if he would have to wait the full six hours until deadline. He hoped not, especially when he lit the spluttering, foul-smelling kerosene lamp and looked at the room. It was little bigger than a closet, furnished with a narrow bed and a dresser with no mirror and two of its three drawers missing. There was one small window which looked out on to the blank face of the building behind the hotel. The floor was bare boards and as Edge crossed to the window two large cockroaches scuttled for the cover of the bureau. When Edge punched the blanket-covered mattress a cloud of dust lifted, raising with it the stink of a hundred bodies which had rested there since the bedcover had last been washed or aired.
Edge grimaced and dragged the whole lot on to the floor, sending more cockroaches scuttling. Then he blew out the lamp and lay on the bare springs, which creaked with his weight. He used his hat for a pillow and did not close his eyes as he relaxed, content that he could see both the square of the moonlit window and the strip of light at the foot of the door. The sounds from the plaza came to him as a muted hum, only occasionally pierced by a loud shriek or burst of laughter. But he had gone too long without proper sleep and the distant, hypnotic sounds of the festivities, aided by the comforting feel of the rifle in his two hands, nudged Edge into a doze, pushed him down the slope into exhausted slumber.
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