Edge: Ten Grand

“I think we have an animal for our amigo to ride,” he called. “Not a horse, but a beggar cannot be a chooser as the gringos say.”  He hauled the dazed man to his feet.  “A pig, he will do, I think.”

The soldier was young. A recently appointed corporal, the freshness of his insignia evidencing the short period of his new rank. He was tall, towering over the tiny figure of Matador. But his fear as he became aware of the menacing expressions of the surrounding bandits  seemed to reduce him in stature.  Matador placed his blunderbuss stock into the small of the man’s back and shoved him forward. As he stumbled to a halt before Luis Aviles, the old man’s grizzled features broke once more into a smile.  There was another, more humiliated than himself and his ego became inflated as a direct result.

“I am a skilled rider of pigs,” Luis said gleefully and made a circling gesture with a finger, instructing the corporal, to turn round.  Then he leapt upon the man’s back, hooking his arms around the soldier’s neck, legs around his middle. “Look, I ride him bareback.”

The bandits burst into raucous laughter and heeled their horses forward as Matador mounted and went out in front, beckoned for the soldier to trot ahead of him.  Matador kept the pace at a walk for several minutes and the only sounds were the mocking, words of encouragement from Luis and the weary breathing of the man to whose back he clung.  Riding in the center of the group, Edge realized that time was running out fast for the corporal. As sport, the sight of a man acting as a horse had quickly lost its novelty and the only one who continued to enjoy the circumstances was Luis.

“Your pig is slow,” Matador said suddenly. “Can you not get more speed from him?”

The soldier’s ragged breathing was suddenly interrupted by a gasp as Luis brought his heel down hard against the man’s stomach. The soldier broke into a run, weaving from side to side, chin banging on his chest.  Luis was small, weighed little, but with each step the burden became heavier.  Abruptly, a cramp stabbed at the soldier’s leg and he pitched forward, hurling Luis over his head. Luis landed with a cry of alarm as the soldier curled into a fetal position, fingers clawing at the pain in his leg.  Matador reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. He stooped over the soldier who cowered beneath him, face twisted by pain.

“I think you broke your leg,” Matador whispered. “Pigs are like horses and we are kind to them. A broken leg, it is no good to any beast.”

He swiveled his holster and fired the Colt through the opening at the bottom, the merciful bullet smashing through the skull and into the brain.  Matador straightened with a sigh and looked around, seeing they were in the moon shade of a bluff, that a stand of yuccas was at hand to provide fuel for a fire.

“How far now, amigo?” he asked Luis as the old man got painfully to his feet.

Luis looked to the south. “Not far now, El Matador,” he said. “Soon I will tell you.”

The bandit chief nodded. “We make camp here.” Then he looked at Edge, recalling the tall man’s comment when he had killed the bull. He grinned and glanced at the dead soldier. “You want pork for supper, señor?”

Edge spat. “Obliged, but there ain’t no R in the month,” he answered.

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

 

 

AT sunup the next morning Edge came awake to see the bandits in a huddle, whispering angrily among themselves as El Matador held his peace in the center of the group. Edge did not move but continued to watch and wait for developments. The camp had been made at the very foot of the bluff and Edge and Luis Aviles were still stretched out under blankets in the deep shade, feet towards the powdered remains of the fire that had kept back the cold during the night. The bandits were several yards away, catching the first warmth of the new day, so that their many-sided conversation which was carried out in tones of low anger reached Edge as just a murmur. He had a strong idea that they were not keeping down their voices for the benefit of the two apparent sleepers.

“All right,” El Matador said at length when his patience was exhausted and he had picked up sufficient of the gist of his men’s complaints. He stood up.  “I will ask.” 

The bandits made sounds of satisfaction and also got noisily to their feet, so that Edge was able to use these sounds as a pretense for waking. And as he sat up and watched the approach of the group he saw their expressions bore out his judgment of their previous tone.  They were angry to the point of collective ugliness and presented a menacing prospect: the bullets slotted into bandoliers glinting in the early sunlight, their eyes flashing in the shadows of sombreros and a threat of death in every one of their many weapons.

“Guess you ain’t come to offer me breakfast?” Edge said, tossing off the blanket and getting to his feet.