Edge: Ten Grand

Edge grinned coldly. “I figure the money’s yours,” he said.

They both grinned. “I think this is a wise man, Juan,” one said.

“Wise men live longer,” replied the second. “But not very much longer.”

They both laughed. Then, while the smoker leaned his rump against the desk and kept his rifle trained steadily upon Edge’s chest, the other started to search the office, opening drawers and cupboards and spilling their contents haphazardly across the floor. With each discovery of what was to him worthless rubbish, his expression darkened. Even after he had found the key to the safe his mood did not return to its former humor. For there was only a half-empty bottle of whiskey inside and when he had taken a long pull at it, was no nearer finding any money.  

So he ceased the search and came to stand directly in front of Edge. He was shorter than the big, lean man, but his fellow bandit’s rifle more than compensated this physical disadvantage.

“You don’t trust banks, señor,” he said softly, hardly moving his lips. “So where you keep your money?”

Edge treated him to a mean grin. “I’m a lawman,” he said. “Not a bandit. I don’t have any money.”

The Mexican’s hand lashed out and the back of it thudded into Edge’s face. Edge did not so much as blink an eye.

“Not so wise, señor, I think you are going to die. Maybe it could be easy, or maybe hard. You get wise again, and we make it easy.” He reached up a grimed finger and prodded Edge just above the ear. “Here a bullet is good. Here, not so good.” He jabbed Edge with a short, powerful fist into the lower belly.

Escaping air whooshed out of Edges mouth, but he made no other sound. The Mexican rubbed his knuckles, bruised by the hard ridge of stomach muscles. The other bandit, while he kept the rifle leveled, allowed his gaze to wonder about the office and his face was suddenly wreathed by a grin again as his eyes fastened upon a loose board high on one wall.

“Juan,” he called softly.

The other looked at him with irritation, saw him motion with the cigarillo towards the board.

“What you think?”

Juan snapped his attention back to Edge, caught a sudden angry narrowing of the slit eyes.

“I think we found it,” Juan said and moved quickly, dragging a chair across the floor and climbing on to it. He tore aside the board and gave a yell of delight as he saw the bills stacked on a joist. “Such a rich lawman,” he said, clawing the money from its hiding place. “I think when I retire from being a bandit I become sheriff in a gringo town.”

Even two thousand five hundred wasn’t worth dying for in Edge’s book. But Jamie had died for two thousand of it, and the death of his kid brother put the matter in a different light. Not to die for. But to take the risk. At a time when the risk was worth taking.

“What are you doing in there?”

The voice came from the now quiet street, authoritative, speaking the kind of Spanish Edge had learned from his father.

“We found the sheriff had a bank of his own,” Juan shouted in reply.

“Outside.”

The smoker dropped his cigarillo and mashed it beneath his boot, jabbed the rifle muzzle viciously into Edge’s side.

“You heard what El Matador said,” he commanded. “Move.”

“And I guess he ain’t talking bull,” Edge answered, and moved.

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

 

 

THE bandits were formed into a half circle of defense across the front of the sheriff’s office, menacing an otherwise empty street. The dead Norman Chase was inside the defenses, the trampled saloon whore outside. Also inside was El Matador and Torres each with a bulging canvas sack at his feet. Edge, emerging in front of the guns of the two men who had disarmed him, took in the scene at a glance, had to do a double take at the bandit leader to check that he was not a child, so small was he. But he saw in the dark brown face a kinship with the set of his own features and he knew this was a man who had lived with violence.

Matador also sensed an affinity and he seemed to find it confusing. His dark eyes fastened on the face of Edge for a short moment, flicked to Juan.

“How much you find?” he demanded.

Edge looked over the heads of the half circle of bandits, searching for a sign of retaliation from the town. He did not expect it, but one had to take account of the unexpected. At the first sign of trouble the sheriff would be blasted, so Edge figured he had to anticipate the moves if he wanted a chance of survival.

“Many hundreds of dollars,” Juan said with pride, pulling a handful of samples from inside his shirt. “Maybe thousands.” The exchange had been in Spanish. Now Matador looked at Edge with a kind of respect, and spoke English. “You are a crooked lawman?” he asked.

“I am not a lawman,” Edge replied in Spanish, his knowledge of the language providing the bandit leader with another jolt of surprise. “Somebody killed the real sheriff. I killed the killer. The town gave me a job.”

“At such a salary?” In Spanish.

“No.”