Edge: Ten Grand

Matador did not like the single negative. Then he shrugged. “No matter. We do not care where the money comes from. Just so long as it comes to us. Dinero has no allegiance.”

Edge did not answer, and Matador didn't like this, either. He leaned forward to open the mouth of the sack and indicated that Juan should bring his find and deposit it with the money from the bank. As he did so, several of the bandits on guard duty shuffled their feet restlessly and licked their lips, greedy eyes watching the bills fall into the sack. Others paid no attention, but maintained their concentration on the street. It was too quiet: there was hanging over the town the kind of silence that portends danger and the more sensitive members of the band could feel this and it made them nervous. Edge watched the money going into the sack: old, loose bills that fluttered in the still, morning air. Juan stepped back with a finality of movement, grinning and waiting expectantly for a word of praise. Matador merely waved him away as he pulled the cord to close the mouth of the sack. Edge ran his, eyes over the figure of Juan, trying to spot where he had concealed the solid block of five hundred dollars which had been his bounty for killing his brother's murderers. He decided it had to be in the folds of his loose fitting shirt.  

Matador turned his back upon Edge and looked to left and right along the street, between the ring of bandits. His voice was loud, his English heavily accented, but good.

“You people got nothing to gain from causing us trouble,” he shouted. “We’re leaving now ‘cause we got what we came for. We take your sheriff and anyone shoots, we blast him to hell. Then we set fire to every building in this town and we take every woman who don’t look like a horse. We rape them, then we slice them up. You figure out if that’s worth the lives of a few lousy Mexican bandits.”

Several bandits who understood English laughed, perhaps to prove to themselves they were unmoved by their leader’s easy insult. “Bring the horses,” Matador called in Spanish and two of the band came from the rear of the Rocky Mountain Saloon, leading the mounts of the rest. The men mounted in small groups, so that there was always a number of guns primed for trouble. There was no horse for Edge. Torres swung astride his mount, hefting the sack in front of him. Then Matador.

“Out to the head of the line,” the leader instructed, drawing and waving a Colt.

Edge sighed and stepped down off the sidewalk, went to the center of the street and halted, looked over his shoulder to see his personal guard mount. Matador holstered his revolver and pointed the foreign scatter gun.

“Now you walk, lawman,” the leader commanded. “This gun is not new, but it has lost none of its power. Anybody else who tries to stop us, I will blow off your head with it. If you attempt to escape, I will aim lower and death will be much slower. Move.”

Edge began to walk and Matador allowed him a space of ten yards before urging his horse forward. His men followed as a group behind him, eyes roving the buildings on each side, glancing ahead and back it might have been a ghost town. In front, nothing. Behind, the settling dust raised by the many hoofs: until a shape broke from cover and the bandit at the end of the line raised his rifle, finger shaking so much he missed the trigger. Then a nervous giggle erupted from his lips as he saw the big white dog dash across the street.

CRACK.

The shot seemed to tremble the air over the whole town and Edge tensed his entire body for the stinging impact of whatever was loaded into Matador’s blunderbuss. But no bandit had fallen and they did not break stride as they glanced back down the street. The big white dog lay on its side, its snout still buried into the bloody pulp inside the opened skull of Norman Chase. A wisp of smoke rose from an open second-story window of the hotel.

“I thought Americans loved dogs,” Matador said. “You live a little longer, señor,”

When they had ridden clear of the town by some two hundred yards, Matador called a halt. Edge turned to face the band.

“You ride now,” the leader told Edge.

“Why we not killed him here,” Juan said. “They will not come after us.”

Matador’s eyes narrowed. “Who is your leader?” he asked softly and Juan’s expression became sullen under the steady stare.

“You are, El Matador,” he answered, hanging his head.

Matador nodded, looked at Edge and pointed to Juan. “You ride with him. Here, beside me.”

Juan heeled his mount forward, halted her so that Edge could. swing up behind him. Matador raised his hand and the band moved off again, heading south in no haste. One of the men at the back began to whistle tunelessly. Edge rode with his arms wrapped around the waist of the man in the saddle, but kept his face averted, diminishing the effect of Juan’s rancid smell.

“Where did you learn to speak our language?” Matador asked suddenly after they had rode in silence for some time.