Edge: Ten Grand

Edge cursed softly as the bandit continued his patrol of the top of the wall. But the man paid him no heed, found something down in the plaza which was a greater source of interest than a bruised and breathless Americana. What he could see was a group of bandits, led by the tiny El Matador, dragging the unfortunate Alfredo from the street into the wide plaza. The one-eyed man was screaming his innocence, the words barely understandable through his racking sobs, and falling upon unheeding ears.  His hands were tied together in front of him, the loose length of the rope held by other bandits.  When the group reached the edge of the plaza, El Matador went to lean against the wall of the Golden Sun Cantina and at a nod of his head the bandits broke into a fast run, shouting and cheering in drunken glee.  Forced to join them, his hands jerked out in front of him, Alfredo found it impossible to retain his balance, so that as the bandits went into a turn at the comer of the plaza, the prisoner stumbled and pitched forward, to be dragged full length over the rough, sun-hardened surface. The bandits completed two circuits of the plaza, their pace slowing and their ebullience faltering as sun and drink took toll on out-of-condition bodies. But the run had been long enough to tear through the clothes and flesh of the wretched Alfredo, who was hauled erect to exhibit a sickening sight of blood, dust and tattered clothing  from chest to knee. His face, too, was lacerated at forehead and jaw where his head had bounced on the hard ground.

Unable to offer resistance, Alfredo stood in meek supplication before El Matador, blinking his single eye and awaiting sentence.

“We are a band of men,” the tiny leader told him, having to raise his head to look up into the bloodied face. “As your chief, I must sometimes act alone. You are not chief, Alfredo.”

Alfredo’s mouth worked, but no words fell from his lips. Matador gave him only a moment, then pointed to the two poles which had been erected for the execution of Edge and Luis.

“Between them,” Matador instructed. “Then get the biggest and the bravest.”

Minutes later, when Edge emerged from the church, it was to see the big Alfredo spread-eagled between the poles, arms held high and wide by ropes hitched at the top, legs pulled into an opposite splay with ropes tied at the bottom. The only other figure in the plaza was that of El Matador who stood in front of and slightly to the left of the poles, hands held behind his back. Edge was puzzled by the scene, then noticed that most of the other bandits had climbed up on to the wall from which they had made their attack earlier. But not all. Miguel was not among them, and when he did appear it was astride a horse, riding fast down the street, wheeling into the plaza as if death itself was on his heels.

And in a way it was, for thundering into the square behind him came an enormous black bull, snorting through his running nostrils and slapping his tail angrily.  The enraged beast followed horse and rider in a wide arc across the plaza to the accompaniment of a huge cheer from the watching bandits. Then Miguel reined his mount into a tight turn and the lumbering bull bellowed his rage as forward momentum carried him past. When he finally halted, his flank slamming into the wall, it was to see horse and fat rider disappearing down the street on the other side of the plaza. As the hoofbeats died, silence descended, for the bandits high above the scene had lapsed into quiet expectation.

Then: “Hi, toro!”

The red eyes of the bull flicked to the source of the sound, saw the tiny figure of El Matador stride to the center of the plaza, bringing forward his hands and unfurling a red cape. The beast snorted and beat on the ground with a front hoof.

Alfredo whimpered.

“Toro! Toro!”

El Matador raised his voice and stamped his heels.  The bull bellowed, lowered his head and charged, the vicious points of his massive horns flashing in the sunlight, hoofs thundering on the ground and resounding between the facades of the buildings facing the plaza.

The bandit chief was skilful in his art, making a graceful pass, having to go up on to his toes to get the height with which to take the cape clear of the horns. Then, as the animal bellowed in a rage of frustration, Matador ran to his former position and all who watched could see the soundless working of Alfredo’s lips.  The bull came about in a lumbering turn and stood pawing the ground once more, searching for a target. Bandits cheered.

“Hi, toro!”

Silence.