Edge: Ten Grand

As the horses were brought up and the food and drink packed away there was just one thing which nagged at Luis’ mind. The bandits had done something wrong, or perhaps had neglected something.  Luis’ face took on even more creases as he puzzled over the irksome doubt, but as the men in the square swung astride their mounts and prepared to ride out, Luis had to shake his head in perplexity.

Matador, mounted at the head of the column of bandits, suddenly took off his sombrero with a sweeping gesture and bowed in the saddle to three sides of the square, across the untidy litter of dead bodies.

“El Matador thanks the people of San Murias for their hospitality,” he said in sardonic tones.

“Especially the ladies,” Miguel put in and the night was suddenly noisy with laughter, to be drowned by the thud of hoofbeats as the horses were heeled into a canter.

Dust rose in clouds as the riders went south, and Luis remained in concealment until the sound had died into the distance and the dust had settled. Then he pulled himself to his feet, his movements slow with age, and went down through a hole in the loft floor, using a ladder to descend to ground level.  He opened the barn door just a crack to peer outside. Nothing moved and after he had waited for a full minute, he went out.   Excitement shone in his features again as he moved among the bodies.  He smiled with satisfaction as he looked into the dead face of the cantina owner who had paid him so cheaply; he kicked the head of the ugly woman who charged him a week’s wages to come into the loft and spread her flaccid body beneath his; he showed a parody of regret as he stooped over the headless body of a young girl and cupped his bony fingers over a breast that was already cold and beginning to set into rigor. 

Not until he had finished his exploration, went to sit with his back against the cantina wall and lift to his lips a bottle of tequila that the bandits had dropped, did his mind lock on to the reason for the stab of anxiety he had experienced as the raiders took their leave. He, Luis Aviles, was the only citizen of San Murias left alive.  For several moments his body trembled at the realization.  But then he spat and his mouth took on a grin.

“El Matador,” he shouted aloud.  “I no longer admire you.  In the old days we would have made sure nobody was left to tell the tale.”    

Then he raised the bottle and drank long and deep, enjoying the warmth of the liquid as it combated the cold of the night.   It had been many years since he had been able to drink a whole bottle and now, as he took advantage of his good fortune, the fire inside him burned bright, was not extinguished until it consumed his mind and he toppled sideways into drunken oblivion.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

 

 

WHEN Edge rode into San Murias just as the sun of the new day was beginning to reach the full promise of its heat,  Luis Aviles was no longer against the cantina wall.  Thus, the hooded eyes of the lone rider saw only death in its many forms spread across the square. He looked at the scene impassively, giving his horse free rein to pick her way among the scattered bodies, offered no command until he reached the well, when he called a halt and slid to the ground. The big mare stood obediently as Edge spun slowly on his heels, his eyes fastening momentarily upon each open doorway, moved on when nothing could be seen beyond. Only when he was satisfied that San Murias was a village of the dead, did Edge step up to the well and begin to haul on the rope to bring the water filled bucket to the top. Just as El Matador had drunk only hours before, Edge pushed his face into the bucket and sucked up the cool, refreshing liquid.

“You move, Americano, and you’re as dead as everybody else in this accursed place.” Edge froze at the sound of the voice, speaking in slow Spanish, coming from over on his right. But he continued to drink, swiveling his eyes and tipping the bucket slightly.  Reflected in its surface he saw the blurred shape of Luis standing in the barn doorway, aiming a rifle.

“I’ve drunk my fill,” he called.  

“Your horse looks thirsty, señor.”    

Edge straightened, then stooped to place the bucket on the dusty ground. The chestnut mare pushed her snout into it.  Edge looked across at the old man, saw him as a slight figure in tattered pants and scuffed boots, the top half of his body draped in a much torn poncho.

“You kill them?” he asked.

Luis shook his head sadly. “Many times have I wanted to, but a man needs much speed to do such a thing. I am an old man and slow.” He sniggered. “But fast enough to shoot one man,”

“Why kill me?” Edge asked.

“That is a fine animal you have, señor,” Luis replied.  “There is nothing more for me in San Murias and I must travel.  A horse, she is much better than a burro. There are only burros here.”

There was no shade in the center of the square and Edge was beginning to tire of the direct heat of the sun and of the old man. He sighed.