Edge: Ten Grand

The woman came out into the open to give chase for the dollar and Edge grinned. She was big there.  Also everywhere else and Edge heeled his horse into motion as the two hundred and fifty pound woman waddled in the wake of her agile young brother.

Both streets emerged into a plaza and exited on the far side, and here was the center of the activities.  Light, from torches and oil lamps, shone down upon a raised platform upon which a group of six guitar players provided music for fifty or more dancing couples. The plaza was fringed by ten cantinas from some of which emitted competing music from others merely the shouts and screams of men and women making merry to honor the birthday of the mayor. Drunken figures of both sexes emerged from the swinging doors of the bars to either go into another cantina or join the dancers in the plaza.  Grinning, dirty-faced youngsters who might have been cast in the same mold as Esteban, lit and threw firecrackers into the throng, bolting for safety whenever anybody threatened to give chase.

Here, the appearance of a stranger, whether he be a foreigner or Mexican, caused no reaction.   Minds, made dull or benevolent by countless draughts of mezcal, tequila and pulque, considered that all was right in world and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to continue with the merry-making.  Edge eyed the scene impassively as he tied his horse to the rail fronting the Montijo Hotel, the big white animal looking incongruous among the mangy burros who shared the tether.  But those who were most drunk in the throng probably considered the horse a figment of their imagination. Others cared nothing for the sight.  Still more noted the expression on Edge’s mean face and knew it would be unwise to question him. 

Edge went into the cantina immediately adjacent to the hotel, found the tables packed with drinking men and women, many of them joining in with the song which a pretty young girl was wailing out from one end of the bar, accompanied by a leering young man on a guitar.  Edge went to the other end of the bar, which was acting as a support for a line of swaying peons.  One of the two sweating barmen came wearily towards Edge, face set in a questioning stare.

“Señor?”

“Beer.”

The barman picked up a dirty glass, smashed the top from a bottle of beer and half poured it, muttered the price in pesos.  Edge slapped a dollar bill on the bartop without attempting to touch the drink.  A greasy hand covered the dollar and Edge brought the heel of his palm down on top. The barman looked up, fear leaping into his eyes, and found Edge grinning at him.  He used his free hand to point at the ring on his little finger.

“That ought to mean something to someone in this town,” he said softly. “The dollar’s yours.  If some guy don’t come to see me at the hotel next door before midnight, I come back for my dollar. I also take something else.”

“Señor?” The man’s eyes were wide.

“I ain’t hearing so good with one ear,” Edge said, still grinning.  “Yours look healthy enough.”

The man swallowed hard and looked down at the hand which had trapped his, examined the ring.

“I do not know, señor,” he said. 

“You better,” Edge told him and released his hand, turned from the bar and headed for the door. “Name’s Edge.”

The peon who had been standing next to him grasped the untouched beer and lifted it, tipped it down his throat.

“One tough hombre,” he said to the barman. “I think he mean it.”

“I know he means it,” the barman muttered as he watched the doors swinging behind the departing Edge.

The tall American unhitched his horse and led him off the plaza, found a livery stable in charge of a sleeping stableman.  A boot in the ribs woke him and the sight of a dollar bill got him working.  He promised Edge that even if El Presidente himself were to visit Montijo, the royal horse would receive no better treatment.  Edge nodded his satisfaction and returned to the plaza, entered the hotel.  The clerk announced he was fully booked, but a show of five dollars backed up by a narrow-eyed expression of determination enabled him to offer a single at the rear of the building, away from the noise of the fiesta.  Edge had left his gear at the stable, and carried only the Spencer repeater he had stolen from one of El Matador’s men.  He signed the register and made the clerk repeat his name three times. 

“I’m expecting company,” he said. “Unless somebody comes in and asks for me, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Certainly señor,” the clerk said, nervously, afraid of this tall, lean man with the evil face, knowing he would rather do without the five dollars than have the American in the hotel.