Edge: Ten Grand

The sun had not yet showed itself over the mountain range far in the east and no citizen of Peaceville was even close to stirring in preparation for the new day. The only living thing which moved on the street was a large white dog, which growled a token threat and then returned to its scavenging as the trio of Mexican bandits ducked into the alley beside the bank, whispering softly to their horses to prevent them being spooked by the surrounding silence. In the alley, Miguel handed the reins of his mount to Matador, then took up a position from which he could survey the sheet, his Colt Revolving rifle cocked and ready.

Behind the bank building, Matador led all three horses towards a tall cactus and hitched the reins over a side shoot. Then he watched with glinting eyes as Torres moved towards the bank wall, drawing a large pouch from under his shirt. He placed this at the foot of the adobe wall, grunted and moved it a few inches to the left. Then he stood and backed away, began to whisper quietly to the horses. Matador nodded to him and withdrew one of the Colts, pursed his lips to emit a low whistle. Down at the mouth of the alley Miguel raised his free hand to signal that the men were in position.

Matador crouched and fired and the powder-filled pouch exploded with a roar, sending flames and, dense smoke skywards, tearing great chunks of adobe from the wall. The horses panicked but were held fast by the cactus as Matador and Torres moved through the reeking smoke, began tearing aside loose masonry to enlarge the hole. Out on the street hoofbeats began to resound between the facades of buildings as the two groups of riders galloped into town from each end, firing without aiming at windows and doors as the rudely awakened citizens scrambled from their beds. One bullet smashed through a cabin window and imbedded itself harmlessly into the dirt floor but a shard of flying glass skimmed across the room, buried its pointed end into the side of a man’s neck, severing an artery and drawing a gush of blood. A whore threw open a window on the second floor of the Rocky Mountain Saloon and as she craned out to see what was happening had the whole left side of her face blown away when a heavy caliber shell tore into the flesh. Her naked body fell through the window, bounced off the roof of the sidewalk below and landed on the street to be trampled by galloping hoofs. Norman Chase, who had been rocked from sleep with the certain knowledge that his bank was the source of the explosion, rushed from the New York Hotel in his nightshirt, firing wildly with a pepper-box, screaming abuse at the invaders. A laughing bandit, shirt wide open to reveal a heavily scarred chest, steered his horse into a wide turn, drawing his ivory-hilted sword. The blade flashed in the first rays of the morning sun and sliced off the crown of Chase’s head like a knife peeling an apple.

Edge came awake with the roar of the exploding powder, hand going instinctively to the twelve shot Henry repeater rifle beneath the bunk in the open cell at the back of the sheriff’s office. But before he was halfway across the office feet thudded on to the sidewalk outside as two bandits leapt from their horses. The door was kicked open and two shots whined through the gap, clanged against the cell bars. Edge dived for the floor as the town drunk died with a ricochet burning a course through his open mouth and into his brain.

“We will kill you if you so much as blink an eyelid, señor,” a flat voice said in accented English.

Edge stayed flat against the floor. “My nose itches,” he said, against the racket of gunfire from the street, punctuated by the death scream of Norman Chase.

“Scratch and you won’t itch nowhere no more,” came the reply, and the footfalls came into the office. Three dollars a day wasn’t worth dying for, so Edge did not move as the men approached him, one taking the Henry from his hand, the other lowering a rifle muzzle to nudge him behind the left ear. It was hot from firing and singed Edge’s neck hair.

“Get up slow, señor,” he was told. “Like you were in a tub of black treacle.”

Edge did so, heard a grunt and felt the knife snatched from its sheath at the back of his belt. Edge only removed his clothes and weapons when he took a bath or made love. He looked into the grinning face of each Mexican, saw in their dark eyes the enjoyment they were deriving from the violence and their triumph. They were hopeful he would make a play. One of them took a cigarillo from behind his ear, ignited it: took a fresh one and lodged it in the resting place vacated by the first. “We are robbing the bank,” the other one said in a conversational tone as the shooting died down outside, finally ended.

“Never did trust those places,” Edge said. “Bankers ain’t going to do much to protect other people’s money.”

“You’re the law, you should protect the bank,” the man with the cigarillo pointed out.

“How many are you?” Edge asked.

“Twenty, led by El Matador.”