Edge: Ten Grand

The watching bandits moved with the fight, forming a circle around the two participants, leaving their rifles behind.  Again Edge’s expression gave no sign that this move meshed in with his plan of campaign and to the watchers it seemed that his complete attention was focused upon Torres, his mind fully engaged with measures to avoid the flashing blade. If any had known Edge better, they may have suspected such an assumption was incorrect when the American let his eyes rest upon the figure of Matador a fraction of a second too long, and received a shallow gash on his forearm as punishment.  But the bandits merely shouted with glee at this first sight of blood and again began to yell in favor of Torres. 

Edge considered the wound a fair price, for he had seen that Matador was in position, two yards to his left and not more than six yards from where the horses were hobbled.

He sidestepped once, twice, placing himself within inches of the tiny bandit chief. Torres lunged and Edge brought up his foot. The knife nicked into the flesh of Edge’s shoulder, then fell from nerveless fingers as a toecap found Torres’ groin. The man yelled in agony and doubled up, hands flying to his injured part.  Matador stepped to Edge’s right so that he could see around the big man and Edge leapt into a backwards movement, right hand flashing to his neck.

Matador was quick to sense danger, but not quick enough in taking avoiding action. Before he had even started to reach for his guns Edge had grasped him around the chest, pinning one arm to his side, and raised the open razor to press against the pulsing neck.

“Anyone makes a move, El Matador meets his moment of truth.”

It was suddenly deathly quiet.  Even Torres, still doubled up in his agony, ceased his groaning to look up at Edge and his prisoner.  Like the other bandits in the ragged circle, he was aghast at what had happened, amazed by the speed of the turnabout.

“Do as he says,” Matador said, no trace of fear in his voice.

They obeyed and Edge let out his breath in a silent Sigh.  El Matador was not a popular leader and any of the bandits could have grasped this opportunity to be rid of him. But the little man had ruled with a rod of iron and countless memories of his wrath had a cowering effect on the men. The little chief had led a charmed life and in a shoot out might still survive to return and reap vengeance upon any man who did not bow to his wish.

“I give you your freedom, gringo,” Matador said evenly to Edge.

“Obliged,” Edge said, and lifted the tiny man easily from the ground with the arm around his chest while maintaining the pressure of the razor against his throat.

“You keep the razor in a good place,” Matador congratulated as Edge backed away, keeping the chiefs body between himself and the other bandits.  “I will kill the man who searched you for weapons.”

“You’re optimistic,” Edge told him as he bumped into the flank of a horse, flicked a glance to left and right, spotted Matador’s stallion and sidled over to it.  He kicked the hobble free.  “Open the saddlebag, amigo.”

For the first time, he felt the bandit’s body suffer a tremor. The man apparently valued money more than he did his life.

“We ride together, señor,” he said, and even his voice had a quiver. “We split the money. Also the ten thousand, American.”

Edge applied pressure to the razor, drew a droplet of blood. Life became the more precious and Matador used his free hand to unfasten the catch. It was not easy and his hand moved awkwardly as his feet dangled some twelve inches from the ground.  His men watched with bewilderment replacing their stunned anger. The flap came free and as it did so, three one dollar bills fluttered to the ground.  Several of the watching bandits licked their lips and shuffled their feet.

“Obliged,” Edge said and moved the razor, drawing it in a hard, slashing motion across Matador’s throat.  As part of the single, fluid movement he released his grip on the small body so that it thudded to the ground, and the razor continued on its arc, unhindered until it met the soft leather of the saddlebag. The blade slit with fast ease, tumbling out a shower of bills which continued to flutter to the ground as Edge leapt upon the saddle, snatching a rifle from the boot on a nearby horse. Not a shot was fired at Edge as he heeled the horse forward, galloping towards the amazed bandits, who fell aside only in the last moment, began to scramble towards the fallen money, clawing each other aside in their greed.