Edge: Ten Grand

And Edge fired only one round, as the hoofs of his mount lifted clear of the spread-eagled Luis Aviles.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought that just as the rifle exploded into sound, sending death into the old man’s heart, the sun blackened, cracked flesh of Luis’ face formed into a smile of thanks for this release from his agony.  Then Edge reined the horse into a wide circle, drawing out of range to make his turn towards the south. But it was a maneuver for which there was no need. The bandits were too intent upon scooping up the money to spare time on Edge. And the bills in most demand were those stained by the blood still pumping from the gaping throat wound of the dead El Matador.  “I guess that must be what they call Blood money,” Edge said as he galloped away, southwards.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

 

BUT Edge did not ride directly for the town of Montijo.  As soon as he knew he would be lost from the sight of the bandits he swung in a wide circle and headed back towards them from a different direction.  He rode the big white stallion it a slow walk, hid behind an outcrop of rock when he spotted a dust cloud to the north, waited until it had settled and the black specks of the riders had disappeared into the heat mirage before spurring his mount forward, faster than before but still not at a full gallop.

The buzzards lifted their cumbersome, satiated bodies into the still air while Edge was still many yards distant and when he rode up he saw they had dined well.  El Matador was almost headless from the savagery of their tearing bills and they had excavated a great hole in the chest of Luis Aviles.  Edge looked at the bodies impassively, nodded as he stooped over that of the old man, noting that he smelled worse in death than he had in life.  He spent perhaps a full minute endeavoring to force the metal ring off the old man’s finger, but it had obviously been worn for many years, refused to slide over the knob of the knuckle. Edge cursed softly, drew his razor and chopped off the finger neatly just beneath the ring. The ornament slid from the dead flesh easily now, its path greased by blood.

He looked at it through narrowed eyes, saw it was in the form of a short snake, the crudely carved head lapping over the tail to form a complete circle. The design meant nothing to Edge, but the old man had considered it important, so he wiped it free of blood.  The only finger it would fit was the little one and this is where Edge wore it as he crossed to the body of El Matador, stopped and drew the two Colts, checked they had a full load before slipping them into his own holsters.

Then he remounted and set off southwards again, not looking over his shoulder as a great flapping of wings told him of the return of the scavengers.  The white stallion was strong and willing, experienced in the long, tough rides which are a part of bandit life.  He carried his new rider into Montijo just as afternoon was lengthening into evening, the appearance of the big horse with its tall, hard-faced rider giving rise to many curious and suspicious glances.  For the town was deep into Mexico, near the boundary between the Sonora and Sinaloa regions, far beyond the area where Americans normally ventured.

It was quite a large town, dependent for industry upon a sawmill and a silver mine, but inhabited mostly by peons who worked in the cane fields spread out to the south and east.  There was little sign of activity on the fringe of the town, but as Edge rode down one of the two parallel main streets he could see lights and hear music and singing ahead.  He ignored all who turned their suspicious eyes upon him, his own hooded and watching for signs of danger.  But then he reined in his horse as a small boy of some ten years ran out in front of him, grinned at him with broken teeth.

“You an Americano?” the waif asked.

Edge looked at his dirt-streaked face, his tattered shirt and pants, guessing the boy’s intention.  He nodded and the grin broadened.

“I have a sister, señor,” he said and cupped his hands over his narrow chest, brought them forward in an explanatory movement. “Very big here señor. She like Americanos. Very good with the love, señor.”

Edge injected some warmth into his expression, nodded along the street. “What’s going on?”

“Fiesta, señor.  It is the mayor’s birthday.  He not a very good mayor, but everybody like him on his birthday cause he makes it a time for fiesta.  Many girls in the cantina, señor.  But expensive and not big here, like my sister.” Again the gesture with the hands.

Edge dipped into his pants pocket and brought out one of the dollars Gail had given him back in Peaceville.  He dropped it to the feet of the boy who snatched it up with a filthy hand, suddenly wealthy by Mexican peon standards.

“Esteban!” a shrewish voice called from the shadow of a building and the boy suddenly laughed and bolted for the opposite side of the street.