Edge: Ten Grand

The ugly head went down and hoofs thudded. Horns moved from side to side with evil menace as, grinning coldly, Matador raised the cape so that it covered the area of Alfredo’s stomach.  The man who was to die watched with his single eye wide, his mouth gaping in a silent scream that did not  erupt into sound until his final moment of life. Timing his move to perfection, Matador jumped to the side with great agility, letting go of the cape. The bull, maddened by the sudden darkness of the blindfold shook his head to try to escape. And at that instant one of his horns gored into Alfredo’s lower stomach, the head movement twisting the needle sharp point into the man’s entrails. The speed and force of the charge tore the screaming Alfredo free, ripping his arms from his sockets and snapping the ropes at his feet. Then, as the massive beast skidded to a halt, he tossed his head and the body of the man sailed skywards, cartwheeled and thudded to death, head first.

“Toro!”

The stunned silence was broken by the single word of taunt and the bull, intent upon his victim, saw a movement and lowered his head to make a charge.

“Unorthodox,” Edge muttered from the doorway of the church.

 Instead of a sword, Matador had supported the cape with a rifle and now as he, stood in the path of the charging bull he raised it with a cool grace, pulled back the hammer and waited.

CRACK.

The heavy caliber bullet found the precise spot where a true matador would have placed the sword at the moment of truth: and the animal fell in its tracks without making a sound. Edge looked up at the bandits on the wall and grinned icily.

“Figure we got beef steak for lunch,” he said.

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

 

THEY rode out at mid-afternoon, El Matador leading the way down the narrow trail from Hoyos. Miguel and Torres followed him and behind were Edge and Luis, with the other bandits taking up single file position at the rear.  Luis was in a particularly good mood. He had spent the day with the teenage girl of his choice and had been given Alfredo’s horse to ride after pointing out to Matador that his burro would slow down the journey south towards the money.  He was a man who lived for the moment and as the group reached the foot of the plateau and the pace quickened, Luis felt good:  rested, well fed, satiated with sex, riding a good horse with a vicious band of desperadoes.  It was like the old days and he almost felt young again.

But there was no such mood of contentment upon Edge. He was thinking of what lay ahead, his mind concerned with the ten thousand dollars and the doubt of its existence. And if it did exist, would the old man be able to find it. If he did find it, how to escape death.  For there was one factor in the future about which Edge had no doubt:  that the bandit chief intended both Edge and Luis Aviles to die. And the tall, lean American had only his razor with which to make a play, Matador having disarmed him of the knife before they set out from Hoyos.

So as the group rode through the hot afternoon and into the cold of the night, Edge’s expression was set into lines of deep thought. Matador did not appear to notice this, or perhaps chose to ignore it in his confidence of dealing with any situation as it arose.  For the most part he himself rode in silence, only occasionally turning in the saddle to ask Luis how much further. And each time he got the same response:

“Some way, El Matador, I will tell you.”

The men of the group who at first had shared the good mood of Luis, their demeanor arising out of their own sense of well being, became noticeably less enthusiastic as the tiring ride took its toll of their good spirits. And there were murmurings of discontent, this new mood created by the realization that they did not know where they were going, or why. That was a secret shared only by El Matador, Luis Aviles and the Americano. But they were persuaded to accept the fact of such a secret by the memory of what had befallen. Alfredo when he attempted to discover it.

It was Miguel’s horse that was shot from under him and a bandit named Juan who was blinded by a bullet creasing across one eye and smashing through the bridge of his nose to gouge out the other. The group was riding below a ridge and the fusillade of shots came from the high ground.  It was followed closely by another as the white clad men slid hurriedly from their saddles and dived behind a scattering of rocks, shouting their shocked surprise and firing blindly.

Edge found himself sharing cover with the terrified Luis, grimaced as this new fear aroused a fresh wave of evil odor from the old man’s body. “Your pa must have been a polecat,” he muttered with distaste.

“Pardon, señor,” Luis answered. “I think I have an accident.”

“That’s all I need,” Edge said and waited for a lull in the shooting, made a dash for another rock and threw himself behind it as a bullet tugged at his sleeve.