Ten Grand

by George G. Gilman

  “You move, Americano, and you’re as dead as everybody else in this accursed place.” Edge froze at the sound of the voice, speaking in slow Spanish, coming from over on his right. But he continued to drink, swiveling his eyes and tipping the bucket slightly. Reflected in its surface he saw the blurred shape of Luis standing in the barn doorway, aiming a rifle.

  “I’ve drunk my fill,” he called.

  “Your horse looks thirsty, señor.”

  Edge straightened, then stooped to place the bucket on the dusty ground. The chestnut mare pushed her snout into it. Edge looked across at the old man, saw him as a slight figure in tattered pants and scuffed boots, the top half of his body draped in a much torn poncho.

  “You kill them?” he asked.

  Luis shook his head sadly. “Many times have I wanted to, but a man needs much speed to do such a thing. I am an old man and slow.” He sniggered. “But fast enough to shoot one man,”

  “Why kill me?” Edge asked.

  “That is a fine animal you have, señor,” Luis replied. “There is nothing more for me in San Murias and I must travel. A horse, she is much better than a burro. There are only burros here.”

  There was no shade in the center of the square and Edge was beginning to tire of the direct heat of the sun and of the old man. He sighed.

  “If you just put the rifle down, old man,” he said, “I may not kill you. If you do not drop it I am going to count to three and: then I will kill you. I’m not old, and I am very fast.”

  His tone was low and easy, his voice just carrying to the barn where the old man strained his failing hearing to make sense of the words. Age, the effects of the tequila, and a fear of Edge caused his hands to shake, so that the rifle muzzle wavered.

  “You talk tough, Americano,” he said, and the shake was audible in his voice.

  “One,” Edge called and drew in a blur, squeezing the trigger of the Remington.

  With a yell of alarm Luis threw the rifle into the air and in the instant the revolver’s firing mechanism slid into movement Edge altered his aim. The bullet smashed into the rifle’s stock, kicking the big gun into a spin before it thudded to the ground.

  “You said three,” Luis called, affronted.

  “Sometimes I tell lies,” Edge answered, holstering the revolver, kicking the bucket into the well as his horse finished drinking.

  “Americanos have no honor.”

  Edge grinned coldly, lifted the chestnut’s reins and led her towards the shade of the barn. “Honor is for the young who want to die that way. I figure to live a long time.”

  He grimaced when he smelled the man, moved to one side of him and glanced out of the shadow into the body littered square.

  “El Matador?”

  Luis nodded. “That is what his men called him. Very small.” He held up a hand, indicating the height of the bandit chief. “But a big leader. Many men. They come quietly, like mountain lions stalking prey. Then, boom, boom. The people do not know what is happening until they are dead,” He grinned. “Except for, the girls. The bandits, they let the girls live for a little longer. For just long enough, you know?” He winked and leered knowingly.

  Edge eyed him coldly and the look withered the old man’s enjoyment of the memory, “You’re all that’s left?”

  Luis spat. “Like you, señor, I wish to live many more years, I hide and I watch. I know the ways of bandits. Once I was a bandit. We were the most feared in all Mexico. Fast, like you, I was. I have killed many men. Had many women. More than El Matador will enjoy, for he is careless. After a thing like San Murias, nobody should be left alive to tell the tale.”

  Edge did not appear to be listening. He had drawn his knife and was idly paring his nails. Then his eyes found Luis’ face. “What’s your name?”

  “Luis Aviles, señor,” came the reply. “I rode with …”

  “You saw it all?”

  “Everything, señor.”

  “And heard?”

  His eyes shone. “The shooting. And the screams of the girls.”

  “Must have been fun,” Edge said drily. “Did you hear any words?”

  “Words, señor?”

  “Did they say where they were headed when they left here?”

  An enthusiastic nodding of his head. “They ride for Hoyos, señor. I heard El Matador say this. For Hoyos. Señor, you wish to follow the bandits?”

  “I ain’t in Mexico for my health,” Edge replied, speaking more to himself than to the old man. “Where is Hoyos?”

  Luis pointed a crooked finger towards the south. “Many miles, señor. In the mountains, high up. An evil place where many bandits have lived. I lived there once. Sometimes the soldiers come and there is much fighting. But always the bandits return. A man has to be a brave one to go to Hoyos alone.”

  “I ain’t going alone, Luis,” Edge said and turned on an icy grin when he saw the look of bewilderment on the other’s face.

  “Señor?”

  “Following tracks is tiring work, Luis,” Edge explained. “You know where Hoyos is, so you can take me.”

  Luis shook his head emphatically. “I do not want to go, señor. It is a bad place. El Matador is a bad man.”

  Edge finished working on his nails and held the knife out in front of him, turning it so that the blade flashed sunlight. Luis squinted his eyes against the dazzle.

  “My Spanish ain’t so, good, I guess,” Edge said. “You don’t understand, Luis. I wasn’t asking you to come along … I was telling you, amigo.”

  “Please …?” Luis implored.

  Edge looked about the square. “There’s nothing here for you. I couldn’t leave you here like this. In a village of the dead there is no place for a man who lives. I’d feel obliged to kill you, Luis, You coming?”

  “I think I come with you, señor,” Luis answered, and now his nod was as emphatic as the head shaking had been. “I will lead you to Hoyos and then you will be grateful and release me to go my own way.”

  “Where would you go, Luis?”

  “To a place I know where there is much money, señor,” came the reply, and again a memory animated the crinkled face. “Money that is all mine.” Then something triggered a stronger recollection and he stared with glowing eyes at a crudely designed ring on the third finger of his right hand. “Ten thousand, American,” he said in a hushed tone of reverence.

  Edge swung himself into the saddle and looked down at the old man without emotion. “Get your burro, old man,” he said. “When we get to Hoyos I will decide whether to let you go in search of your dream.”

  Luis looked up at the tall, lean American, resenting the remark. “It is not a dream, señor,” he replied. “The money is mine and when I get it, I will be almost as rich as El Presidente himself,”

  “Get the burro,” Edge snapped at him. “Or I ride to Hoyos alone.”

  The old man suddenly grinned his approval of this arrangement, but the cold look on Edge’s face thrust into his dull brain the knowledge of what would happen to him if the tall man left San Murias alone. He scuttled around the side of the barn, with Edge behind him, to where a half-dozen mangy burros were tethered. He cut out the best of a bad bunch and mounted, bare-backed.

  Edge nodded toward; the south. “You lead, Luis. You know the way and also I will be upwind of you.”

  “Señor?” Luis was bewildered.

  “Move,” Edge barked. “Find a friend to tell you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  AFTER many attempts to start a conversation with the taciturn Edge, the Mexican peasant lapsed into a disgruntled silence, except when he had to drive his mount forward on the many occasions when the animal became reluctant to continue the journey. For his part, Edge was content to jog along at what was a snail’s pace compared to the hard riding he had been doing to this point. He knew his destination and he believed what Luis had told him about Hoyos as a refuge for El Matador and his men. It seemed to grow hotter with every mile they traveled south and the slow pace set by th
e irascible burro was therefore to be welcomed in terms of conserving strength and energy for whatever lay ahead.

  They provided an odd sight as they traversed the parched, sun-bleached terrain of northern Mexico. The old man hunched over the small burro, chin resting on .his chest, head hidden beneath the wide-brimmed sombrero, body lost under the drape of the poncho, legs hanging low on each side so that his feet often hit the ground where it humped. Behind him high and erect on the back of the big chestnut horse, the tall, lean American riding with a blank expression of his bearded face, just the top half in shadow from his hat brim. In this shadow gleamed the two slits which were his eyes, watchful out of narrowed lids, reconnoitering the country ahead

  Luis had spoken the truth when he said that Hoyos was many miles to the south, for they had to ride throughout the entire day and it was long after nightfall when the old man pulled in his rope reins and slid to the ground, looked back at Edge.

  “You tired?” Edge demanded, his tone warning that an affirmative answer would signal a violent reaction.

  “Señor,” Luis said. “Hoyos is up there.”

  He pointed, and Edge looked in the direction indicated. They were in high country now, had been climbing steadily since before the sun slid behind the western horizon. They were in the Sierra Madre range which reached down the western side of Mexico and through the length of Central America to link the Rockies in the north to the Andes in the south. Often, Luis had hesitated as they climbed, apparently undecided upon the direction to take when more than one route was revealed. But the skills learned in his violent younger days stood him in good stead and when he finally called the halt there was confidence, tinged with pride, in the fact that he had led the American where he wanted to go.

  Looking up, Edge could see a narrow trail winding across the face of what at first appeared to be a sheer cliff of rock, towards a plateau at the top. But the rock face had a slight incline sufficient for the trail to zigzag to the top, only wide enough to allow passage for one rider.

  “You see why the bandits like it, señor,” Luis said. “The mountains beyond are impassable. This is the only way into the town. The soldiers are able to attack only when the fools above are too drunk to watch for attack. My good wishes, señor. El Matador will surely kill you, but it is customary to wish an amigo luck, even when he attempts the impossible.”

  Luis urged his burro to the side of the trail and gave Edge an exaggerated bow to usher him by.

  “Luis,” Edge said softly, without moving forward.

  Luis looked up, the tone in which his name had been spoken raising fear to his face. “Señor?”

  “It is customary for me to kill men who do not do what I ask,” Edge said.

  “But my money? My ten thousand, American.” His voice was plaintive.

  “Your life is not worth more?” Edge asked easily.

  The old man seemed on the verge of arguing the point, but then he sighed. “Truly, you have no honor, señor.”

  Edge grinned. “Truly I have not,” he agreed and heeled his horse forward after Luis had mounted and started up the narrow trail.

  The going got steeper as they rose higher, the unprotected edge of the trail presenting a terrifying prospect of an unhampered drop to a crushing death should burro or horse put a foot wrong.

  “Señor?” Luis called from ahead.

  Edge grunted a response.

  “What if El Matador has a guard posted?”

  “You are in front,” Edge told him laconically. “The guard will kill you first.”

  He heard the old man swallow hard, and there was no further talk from him. At the top the trail broadened a little, just before it reached up for the final stretch to the lip of the plateau. Edge dismounted and unbooted the Henry. Luis remained seated on the burro, trying to control the trembling which shook his body as he watched the American creep forward, peer around a clump of brush that grew thick and thorny at the top of the trail. Once he glanced over his shoulder, contemplated making a run for it. But he knew he would be either shot or fall off the edge before he could make more than a few yards on the slow beast between his legs. He spat.

  Edge looked at Hoyos, his face showing no sign of how he felt about the prospect before him. It stood back from the lip of the plateau, some five hundred yards, concealed from below. And, as Luis had said, the mountains towered behind it, making it impossible to approach from the south. The terrain to the east and west was hidden in darkness, but Edge thought it possible that sheer rock faces fell away to form other natural defenses for the town. But the pioneer citizens of Hoyos had not been content to leave their protection from attack entirely to the good fortune of nature. All Edge could see of the town was a twenty-feet-high wall of adobe, gleaming white in the pale moonlight, with a yawning gap of darkness which was an open gateway. Through and. beyond he could see nothing, and there was a silence hulking over the walled town, almost tangible in its completeness.

  Edge drew back and turned to Luis. “Get off,” he demanded.

  The old Mexican did as he was bid and when Edge snapped his fingers, led the burro forward. The tall man took the rope reins and urged the beast to the top of the trail. Then he walked behind the animal and jabbed the rifle muzzle hard into its rump. The burro snorted with injured rage, kicked out viciously with its hind legs and bolted across the open ground towards Hoyos. Crouching behind the brush, Edge peered towards the gateway and then flicked his eyes along the flat top of the walls on either side. The only sign and sound of life in the whole vista was the angry burro, which bolted through the gateway and was suddenly lost from sight. Soon, too, the sound of its hoofs disappeared.

  “There is nobody in Hoyos,” Luis said in a hoarse whisper as he squatted beside Edge.

  “You wanna bet?” Edge asked without breaking his concentrated examination of the town.

  “Señor?”

  “Maybe they all got tired and went to sleep,” Edge said absently.

  “No, señor,” Luis said in all seriousness. “Hoyos never sleeps. It has cantinas with much tequila, many girls. When the bandits ride in there is a fiesta. Much noise … Drinking, women, some fights. Knives and guns. Sometimes there is killing. If some sleep, there are always others who are awake.”

  “How long since you been here?” Edge asked.

  “Many years,” Luis said with a shrug.

  “Maybe the reformers have moved in.”

  “Maybe,” Luis allowed without conviction,

  “Let’s try again,” Edge muttered. “On your feet, amigo.”

  “Señor?”

  “Nobody’s going to waste a bullet on a burro. A man, that’s different.”

  “You would not make me do it,” Luis said, beginning to tremble again.

  Edge Sighed. “Put it this way, amigo. You take a slow walk over to the gate and there’s a chance you won’t be killed. Keep squatting here and there ain’t any doubt of it.”

  There was a rustle of movement and Edge was holding the knife, its point pressed against the old man’s grizzled throat.

  “I do not like you, señor,” Luis said.

  “When I run for mayor, I won’t count on your vote,” Edge told him. “Move it, amigo.”

  Luis, every muscle in his body trembling as from a great cold, got shakily to his feet, hesitated and then stepped from the cover of the brush, began to drag his feet towards the gate. Edge watched him for a few moments, then flicked his attention to the town.

  “I am unarmed!” the old man suddenly shouted, and thrust his arms out on each side of him. “See. My burro he bolted from me and now I come to claim him. Do not shoot an unarmed man, amigos.”

  Edge’s lips tightened in a snarl. If the people of Hoyos were asleep the progress of a runaway burro would cause them no alarm. But the whining pleas of the old man were a different matter. However, the impassive walls of Hoyos with the chasm of blackness at their center offered no response to the shouting, beyond acting as a sounding board to throw back the frig
htened wails.

  “Hold it there, amigo,” Edge called suddenly when the old man was within twenty yards of the gateway.

  Luis halted abruptly, body still trembling, teeth chattering against each other as he strained his eyes to peer into the darkness above. Behind him he heard Edge cluck to his horse, then the sounds of footfalls and hoof treads as man and animal approached him.

  “Maybe El Matador got randy again,” Edge whispered to Luis. “Reckon you been asking the dead not to kill you?”

  “I can feel a thousand eyes watching me, señor,” the old man said throatily.

  “They all belong to your guilty conscience,” Edge told him and jabbed him in the back with the rifle muzzle.

  The two men went forward, reached the dark opening and entered. After the moonlight which had bathed the plateau outside the walls, it was like entering a dark cave on a sunlit day. Luis heard Edge halt behind him, to take time to adjust his eyes, and he did likewise.

  “Señor?”

  Edge grunted.

  “I cannot see any bodies.”

  “Don’t feel bad about it,” came the reply, punctuated by the crack of a rifle shot. The bullet kicked dust a few inches in front of Luis’ boots, but he yelled as if it had pierced his flesh. Edge tightened his grip on the Henry as his eyes flicked over the dark shapes of buildings. He had seen the flash of the shot, knew the exact point from where it had been fired. But the sharpshooter was obviously not alone. Equally obviously, he could have shot to kill had he wanted to.