Edge: Ten Grand

He found himself stretched out beside El Matador.  “Hell, the whole thing stinks,” he murmured.

The bandit chief ignored him, looked around the rock to where the blinded Juan was stumbling about, holding blood soaked hands to his face, screaming for help Matador raised his Colt and shot the man in the back, ending the noise. 

“That Juan, he always had trouble with his eyes,” Matador hissed.  “I think he cured now.”

“Surrender in the name of El Presidente!” a voice called from above. “This is Colonel Adame of the Mexican Republican Army.  I have a warrant for your arrest, El Matador.”

“He talks a lot, does he not?” Matador said to Edge.

Edge looked to left and right, at the bandits sheltering behind protective rocks. “He don’t only talk,” he answered.

El Matador spat and looked to his right. “Hey, Miguel.”

The fat bandit with the ring in his ear gave an answering grunt.

“We do like at Rosario, amigo,”

Miguel’s teeth flashed in a grin and he turned to pass the word along the line. Torres sent the message in the other direction.

“Colonel!” Matador called. “Five of our number are dead. We will surrender.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then: “Stand, with arms above the head.”

Matador lay his blunderbuss against the rock and dug Edge in the ribs as he got to his feet. “You are not among the five, señor.”

Edge sighed and hauled himself up beside the tiny bandit, glanced to left and right and saw the majority of the other bandits do likewise, resting rifles against the rocks and raising their hands high.  Five men, including Miguel and Torres, remained flat on the ground. Up on the ridge stones rattled underfoot as the soldiers came from behind their cover and started down. Edge counted ten of them, clearly visible in the pale moonlight that showed them up as solid black against the bleached rock.

“You will all move forward,” the officer instructed as the buttons of his uniform glinted in the light.

The bandits did so, going around to the front of the rocks.

“I am not one of these . . .” Luis started to blurt out, snapped his mouth shut as a bullet chipped splinters from the rock behind him.

“Silence,” the colonel yelled, leading his men down, holding a revolver out in front of him. The men carried rifles.

“Colonel, my ear itches,” Matador said in a conversational tone as the soldiers reached the foot of the ridge.

Even as he spoke, the bandit chief lowered his arm and his fingers tugged at his right earlobe.  Edge saw the signal and was turning before the first shot rang out.  He was hidden behind the rock and looking with hooded eyes from safety before the first five soldiers had even hit the ground.  Two of the bandits who had played possum went down under the return of fire and one other who was not fast enough in grabbing his rifle and diving for cover, died with three bullets in his heart.  Two more soldiers died as they turned to run, two more as they stood their ground.  Colonel Adame caught the full blast of El Matador’s weapon in the stomach before two rifle bullets in the head ended his agony.  Incredibly Luis Aviles, who had been rooted by fear to his exposed position, did not even get scratched by a splinter of blasted rock.

Matador looked along the line of bandits as they stood and made a sound of disgust.  “We are getting slow,” he said. “At Rosario we lost only one and there were fifteen pigs of soldiers.”

“It was only they who were slow,” Torres said resentfully, pointing to the three dead bandits.

The truth of the comment did not lighten the little chief’s mood. “Round up the horses,” he ordered curtly, and glowered at Luis.  “How far now, jellyfish?”

“Some way, El Matador,” the old man answered as before, his voice trembling. “I will tell you.”

Matador spat and sat on a rock to await the carrying out of his order. It took a considerable time, for the loose horses of the bandits had bolted at the sound of gunfire and there were not enough of the soldier’s mounts to go around. But some of the spooked animals were captured and Edge was as relieved as Matador to see that the chief’s mount was among them. The bulging saddlebags on the big white stallion revealed the new resting place for the money taken from the Peaceville bank and sheriff’s office.

But when the animals were counted and assigned, the group was still one horse short. Luis Aviles, standing meekly beside the rock, still recovering from his fear, was the man without a mount. The bandits, high in their saddles, refused to meet his imploring eyes, each fearing he would be elected to carry a foul smelling passenger.  But, as he prepared to mount, Matador heard a groan from one of the soldiers and moved quickly to the side of the prone figure, drawing a knife. He stopped and flipped the man over on to his back, evil eyes searching for a wound.  But there was only a tiny trickle of blood from a graze on the man’s brow where a bullet had creased the skin, stunning him. A diabolical grin spread across Matador’s face.