Edge: Ten Grand

“Oh yes,” Luis came back quickly. “Now I not forget. I went north when I was released. I knew it was in the north we held up the stage.  But I found the village of San Murias . . .” He shrugged. “Time went by.  I was getting old and often it seemed too troublesome to make another long journey.  But then, El Matador, I see what you did at San Murias.  I recall the old days when I was like you, and I remember the place.”

Matador nodded and grunted with satisfaction.  Suddenly he slid his foot from the stirrup and raised his leg, kicked sideways. The toe of his boot found Luis’ rib cage and the old man went out off the horse with a cry of alarm and thudded to the ground. Edge heard a series of clicks behind him and knew that more than a dozen rifles were trained upon his back, anxious fingers curled around sensitive triggers.  He halted his horse and watched through hooded eyes as Matador stood over the old man, aiming the Turkish scattergun.

“It is noon,” the bandit chief said coldly. “Time has run out for you, amigo.”

Every muscle in the old man’s body had begun to tremble and saliva was bubbling out of the corners of his mouth to trickle down into his beard. Although he was not close enough to catch the scent, Edge wrinkled his nostrils as his imagination created the stink that would be rising from the quivering flesh. He turned his attention to the bulging saddlebags on the horse ahead, figuring his chances.  A glance over his shoulder at the concerted menace of the bandits told him the odds were long enough to verge upon the impossible.

“Hey, gringo!” El Matador called, and captured the American’s attention. “I think your amigo is cold, he shivers so much. It would be good for him to sunbathe a little, I think.” Edge sighed and slid from the saddle.

“Miguel, the pegs.”

The fat bandit with the ring in his ear delved into his saddlebag and came out with four iron pegs, tossed them to the feet of Edge.

“To sunbathe with the clothes on is not so healthful,” El Matador was muttering to Luis. “You will disrobe, amigo. Then lay on the ground thus.”

The tiny bandit spread his legs apart and raised his hands above his head.

“El Matador!” Luis pleaded, the words bubbling in his throat.

A crack across the head from the blunderbuss put a full stop to the entreaty.

“If you do not remove your clothes, I will do it for you. I will cut them, from you and I too am cold.  My hand may shake.”

Matador laughed as Luis’ trembling fingers tore at the buttons of his shirt. During this exchange Miguel had unhooked a lariat from his saddle horn and had cut four pieces of rope about twelve inches long. These he tossed on top of the pegs.

“This ain’t something you just thought up then?” Edge asked softly.

Miguel grinned, his bulbous features taking on many new rolls of flesh. “There is nothing new under the sun, señor,” he said.

Luis, menaced into silence by the threat of Matador’s face, took off his final garment to expose the full nakedness of his frail body to the heat of the blazing sun.

“Down!” he was ordered and he sat and then stretched out full length, wincing as the burning hardness of the ground touched his bare flesh.

“Gringo!”

Edge drove in the pegs, using the heel of his boot to hammer them into the unyielding earth, then tied the lengths of rope around the bare wrists and ankles, hitched the ends to the pegs.  Matador had gone with the others, leading the horses into a patch of shade from a stand of yuccas, and Edge was able to talk to Luis without being overheard.

“Sorry about this, amigo,” he said softly, hardly moving his lips, and with no sincerity in the words.

There were tears in the old man’s eyes, perhaps of regret, perhaps because the sun was already making its heat felt on his vulnerable, crinkled flesh.  “I will not tell them,” he said and the vehemence of his tone caused Edge to glance at his face.  He saw that, despite the moisture in the eyes, the old man’s face was set into an expression of grim determination. Edge could see in the face, behind the wizened lines of age, something of the character of Luis Aviles in his heyday.  He had been tough and mean and as brave as any other.  But life had dealt him too many blows, pummeling the strength out of him.  But while he lacked his former physical potency, there was still, below the surface of his weakness, a reserve of stamina which now fed his resolve to outwit the evil El Matador.

“Luis,” Edge said softly.

“Señor?”

“Is there ten thousand, American?”

“There is, señor,” the old man said. “You have saved my life many times for either the soldiers or El Matador would have killed me before this had you not been with me.  You did not do these things for me, I know. But no matter. The money is in the town of Montijo, not ten miles south of this place.   Much good will it do you, but my ring provides the key to the hiding place.”