Edge: Ten Grand

“From my father,” Edge answered, annoyed that his line of thought had been interrupted. He had been watching Matador, noting the casual way he carried the Turkish gun, the looseness of the Colt in the holster on his side. He thought he could slit Juan’s throat, grab the two guns and blast Matador from the saddle: maybe take 22 two other men with the Colt before he went down under a hail of bullets. There was no chance for survival, of course. But, perhaps in another plan, his life was not so worthless. Just one bandit would die now. Edge decided he had the patience to wait his time for the rest.

“You speak it well,” Matador said in a conversational tone. “Your father was a good teacher of the language.”

“He spoke it like a native,” Edge replied.

Matador looked deep and long at Edge as they jogged along. Then he nodded. “You have the look of Mexico in your face, señor . . . what is your name?”

“They call me Edge.”

“Your father was Mexican?”

Edge nodded.

“Not your mother?”

“No.”

“You do not have a Mexican name.”

“It’s a long story.”

Matador raised his hand and reined in his horse. They had reached a point on the trail south where a dried-up creek bed curved in from the west.

“It is a pity you do not have the time to tell it,” Matador said, glancing back over his shoulder. The horizon was shrouded in a heat mirage which cloaked Peaceville as effectively as a heavy mist. His eyes fastened back upon Edge’s face. “I think you understand why I cannot let you live,” he said and Edge thought he detected a note of apology in the voice. He decided it had to be Matador’s brand of humor.

“Your men wouldn’t like it,” Edge said as Juan tried to break the grip around his waist, anxious to get clear of the agony that was to blast in a wide angle from the evil-looking blunderbuss.

Matador made a deep-throated sound of disgust. “I do not consult this scum when I make a decision,” he said and glowered back at his men to see the effect of this new insult. To a man they grinned at him in a collective parody of good humor. “They represent no threat to me,” he said, turning his attention to Edge. “But you, señor Edge.” He drew in his breath, “You are different. I see in your face a look I could fear if I understood what fear was. I let you live and I think I would spend much, time looking over my shoulder.”

“That bothers you?” Edge asked evenly, getting a forceful whiff of evil origin as fresh sweat broke from Juan to reactivate the staleness of the old.

Matador shook his head. “No, it does not bother me. Except that one time I might not look over my shoulder. And you are a man who would not shrink from shooting an enemy in the back.”

“It’s safer that way,” Edge said as the blunderbuss was raised and leveled. “Maybe I could buy my life.”

Matador halted his movement, narrowed eyes showing bewilderment mingled with suspicion. “We have already taken your money.”

“Not all of it,” Edge said, maintaining his vice-like grip on the trembling Juan.

“How much more you got?”

Edge pursed his lips. “Five hundred dollars. Maybe a few loose bills.”

“Where?”

Edge suddenly released his grip and streaked a hand inside Juan’s shirt, popping buttons. The bandit released a sound of horror as the hand came out holding the block of money. Throughout the ride it had been held pressed against Juan’s sweating side by Edge’s forearm. It smelled of the man.

“Here,” Edge said.  

Matador’s cruel eyes flashed from the money to the face of Juan. Every muscle in the bandit’s body was trembling and his mouth worked soundlessly for several moments as he struggled to hold his leader’s withering gaze.

“I did not know,” he managed to gasp finally. “El Matador, please. As soon as I found it hiding in my clothes I would have given it to you.”

“Give it to me now,” Matador demanded his voice as hard as the rosewood stock he gripped.

Sobbing, Juan snatched the block of dollars from Edge’s hand and reached out towards his leader. Edge looked on without breathing, his eyes narrowed to the merest slits, knowing that a miscalculation by a split second could end his life. Chances were he would die anyway, but self-preservation is an instinct that refused to accept defeat.

At the moment he saw Matadors finger whiten at the knuckle curled around the trigger, Edge pushed himself backwards, his seat sliding over the hind-quarters of Juan’s horse. He heard the gun explode into thunderous sound and felt a searing pain beside his right eye before the sun went out and empty darkness enfolded him. He did not know that a piece of ball shot had smashed into his face, causing a gush of blood: he did not feel his limp body thud into the ground at the edge of the trail and slide down to become an inert, face-down shape in the stream bed.