Ten Grand

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Ten Grand Page 9

by George G. Gilman


  The woman who ran the house was as fearful as the girl, certain that Luis’ new-found freedom must indicate an agreement with the bandit chief. So she had dragged the girl up the stairs and into the room, warning her of an even more terrible ordeal should the anger of El Matador be turned against the house. But now the girl’s fear of Luis had turned to disgust for him, her plain young face twisted into a sneer. “You will not enjoy me, old man,” she hissed, fingers nimbly unfastening the buttons.

  “If you are not good, I will ask El Matador to slice you up like a side of beef,” he returned, not seeing her expression, unable to take his eyes away from the firm swells of her breasts as each button came loose.

  But then, just before the girl was about to pull the blouse wide, exhibit to Luis what lay on each side of the deep cleavage he could already see, the door burst open under the crash of a large boot and a drunken bandit swayed in the frame. His name was Alfredo and he was tall and broad enough to almost fill the doorway. His face was scarred and ugly behind the stubble of his beard and he had a twisted mouth and only one eye, the other gouged out in a knife fight. Luis gasped and thought he was the most fearsome man he had ever seen in his life.

  “Ah, the hombre who came back from the dead,” he said gleefully, his lips curling back in an awful grin. “First El Matador saved you from the soldiers and then something saved you from El Matador.”

  Alfredo lumbered into the room as Luis flattened himself against the wall, as if seeking to become part of it, and the girl cringed on the bed, pulling her blouse around her. The bandit reached the bed in two strides, grasped the blouse and ripped it from the girl’s body, laughed as the breasts came free, young, smooth and firm.

  “This is what you want to see, hombre?” he demanded of Luis. “The beautiful secrets of her body. Now you have your wish. I give her to you. But you must tell me your secret.” He shook his head, his single eye fuzzy with too much tequila. “A powerful secret to make El Matador spare your life.”

  “I do not know …”

  “El Matador is interested in one thing only,” Alfredo bore on. “Money. You have told him where there is money. Lots of it, eh?”

  “No, I …” Luis broke off again as the big bandit approached him, caught hold of his poncho in a bunched fist, lifted him and threw him bodily across the room, so that his body thudded on to that of the girl.

  “El Matador, he always keep the money for himself. I, Alfredo, am tired of this. Tell me your powerful secret, hombre, or you die.”

  As he finished speaking, Alfredo drew a revolver from its holster on each hip and leveled both weapons. Luis breathing fast with fear, sweat releasing new odors from his filthy body, scrambled to the far side of the girl and cringed behind her. The bandit laughed and fired both guns, the bullets whining over the top of the shaking bodies to thud into the wall as the girl screamed and Luis whimpered.

  “The money, hombre?” Alfredo demanded. “Your secret, or take it to hell with you.”

  “Tell him, stupid,” the girl cried, trying desperately to wriggle free of Luis’ grip. But Luis found enormous strength in his terror and held her fast, an inadequate shield against the wrath of the big bandit. “He will kill us both.”

  “Do as she says,” Alfredo shouted and squeezed the triggers. Then again, and again. Six bullets skimmed across the bed, the rush of air seeming to get closer to the flesh at each report.

  “Your secret!” Alfredo yelled in fury and loosed off the last two bullets from each gun, aiming lower, so that they all thudded into the bed in front of the girl’s straining body, sending up a shower of feathers.

  Snorting, the bandit hurled away the empty guns and moved towards the bed, drawing his knife. In the shooting and yelling nobody in the room had heard the thud of running footsteps on the stairs. Not until the thunderclap of the exploding blunderbuss filled the room, the oil lamp hung from the ceiling shattered and showered, did Alfredo halt his murderous movement. He turned his single eye towards the darkly glowering face of his leader and realization hit him like a blow in the stomach. He dropped the knife with a clatter and fell to his knees, his hands clasped in supplication as his eye sent out a silent plea.

  “I was joking, El Matador,” he croaked, all signs of his drunkenness gone. “Having some fun with him and the girl.”

  Matador’s mouth set into a grim line, and his eyes glinted. “And now we shall have some fun with you,” he said.

  Edge had reached the top of the wall, was sweating freely from the exertion of the climb, his back and arms moving slowly, as if they were lead weights. He heard the gunfire from the house on the far side of the plaza and ignored it, thought it was probably part of some wild game with which the bandits were letting off steam. Here, in the hot shadows, it was quiet, only his own rasping breath disturbing the silence. At the end of his climb he rested, jammed ten feet above the ground with his back against the church and his feet planted firmly on to the wall. All he had to do now was drop his feet and push himself across the gap, hook his hands over the wall and haul himself up and over. But before he did this, he rested, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight, willing new strength into his arm muscles that would have to take the strain when he jumped.

  “The gringo could hurt himself.”

  Edge snapped open his eyes as a shadow fell across them and the soft words were spoken, found himself looking up at a bandit whose grinning face seemed a mile high as he stood upon the wall.

  “I do this every morning,” Edge said with resignation. “Exercise to keep me fit.”

  “I think you are not so fit, señor,” the bandit replied and swung his rifle, upside down, so that the butt crashed with force into the side of Edge’s legs.

  Edge’s feet came away from the wall and he plunged to the ground, landed with a thud on his back to lay gasping for breath.

  “No, not so fit,” the bandit said with a laugh. “Maybe you should take such exercise in the afternoon as well.”

  Edge cursed softly as the bandit continued his patrol of the top of the wall. But the man paid him no heed, found something down in the plaza which was a greater source of interest than a bruised and breathless Americana. What he could see was a group of bandits, led by the tiny El Matador, dragging the unfortunate Alfredo from the street into the wide plaza. The one-eyed man was screaming his innocence, the words barely understandable through his racking sobs, and falling upon unheeding ears. His hands were tied together in front of him, the loose length of the rope held by other bandits. When the group reached the edge of the plaza, El Matador went to lean against the wall of the Golden Sun Cantina and at a nod of his head the bandits broke into a fast run, shouting and cheering in drunken glee. Forced to join them, his hands jerked out in front of him, Alfredo found it impossible to retain his balance, so that as the bandits went into a turn at the comer of the plaza, the prisoner stumbled and pitched forward, to be dragged full length over the rough, sun-hardened surface. The bandits completed two circuits of the plaza, their pace slowing and their ebullience faltering as sun and drink took toll on out-of-condition bodies. But the run had been long enough to tear through the clothes and flesh of the wretched Alfredo, who was hauled erect to exhibit a sickening sight of blood, dust and tattered clothing from chest to knee. His face, too, was lacerated at forehead and jaw where his head had bounced on the hard ground.

  Unable to offer resistance, Alfredo stood in meek supplication before El Matador, blinking his single eye and awaiting sentence.

  “We are a band of men,” the tiny leader told him, having to raise his head to look up into the bloodied face. “As your chief, I must sometimes act alone. You are not chief, Alfredo.”

  Alfredo’s mouth worked, but no words fell from his lips. Matador gave him only a moment, then pointed to the two poles which had been erected for the execution of Edge and Luis.

  “Between them,” Matador instructed. “Then get the biggest and the bravest.”

  Minutes later, when Edge emerged from t
he church, it was to see the big Alfredo spread-eagled between the poles, arms held high and wide by ropes hitched at the top, legs pulled into an opposite splay with ropes tied at the bottom. The only other figure in the plaza was that of El Matador who stood in front of and slightly to the left of the poles, hands held behind his back. Edge was puzzled by the scene, then noticed that most of the other bandits had climbed up on to the wall from which they had made their attack earlier. But not all. Miguel was not among them, and when he did appear it was astride a horse, riding fast down the street, wheeling into the plaza as if death itself was on his heels.

  And in a way it was, for thundering into the square behind him came an enormous black bull, snorting through his running nostrils and slapping his tail angrily. The enraged beast followed horse and rider in a wide arc across the plaza to the accompaniment of a huge cheer from the watching bandits. Then Miguel reined his mount into a tight turn and the lumbering bull bellowed his rage as forward momentum carried him past. When he finally halted, his flank slamming into the wall, it was to see horse and fat rider disappearing down the street on the other side of the plaza. As the hoofbeats died, silence descended, for the bandits high above the scene had lapsed into quiet expectation.

  Then: “Hi, toro!”

  The red eyes of the bull flicked to the source of the sound, saw the tiny figure of El Matador stride to the center of the plaza, bringing forward his hands and unfurling a red cape. The beast snorted and beat on the ground with a front hoof.

  Alfredo whimpered.

  “Toro! Toro!”

  El Matador raised his voice and stamped his heels. The bull bellowed, lowered his head and charged, the vicious points of his massive horns flashing in the sunlight, hoofs thundering on the ground and resounding between the facades of the buildings facing the plaza.

  The bandit chief was skilful in his art, making a graceful pass, having to go up on to his toes to get the height with which to take the cape clear of the horns. Then, as the animal bellowed in a rage of frustration, Matador ran to his former position and all who watched could see the soundless working of Alfredo’s lips. The bull came about in a lumbering turn and stood pawing the ground once more, searching for a target. Bandits cheered.

  “Hi, toro!”

  Silence.

  The ugly head went down and hoofs thudded. Horns moved from side to side with evil menace as, grinning coldly, Matador raised the cape so that it covered the area of Alfredo’s stomach. The man who was to die watched with his single eye wide, his mouth gaping in a silent scream that did not erupt into sound until his final moment of life. Timing his move to perfection, Matador jumped to the side with great agility, letting go of the cape. The bull, maddened by the sudden darkness of the blindfold shook his head to try to escape. And at that instant one of his horns gored into Alfredo’s lower stomach, the head movement twisting the needle sharp point into the man’s entrails. The speed and force of the charge tore the screaming Alfredo free, ripping his arms from his sockets and snapping the ropes at his feet. Then, as the massive beast skidded to a halt, he tossed his head and the body of the man sailed skywards, cartwheeled and thudded to death, head first.

  “Toro!”

  The stunned silence was broken by the single word of taunt and the bull, intent upon his victim, saw a movement and lowered his head to make a charge.

  “Unorthodox,” Edge muttered from the doorway of the church.

  Instead of a sword, Matador had supported the cape with a rifle and now as he, stood in the path of the charging bull he raised it with a cool grace, pulled back the hammer and waited.

  CRACK.

  The heavy caliber bullet found the precise spot where a true matador would have placed the sword at the moment of truth: and the animal fell in its tracks without making a sound. Edge looked up at the bandits on the wall and grinned icily.

  “Figure we got beef steak for lunch,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THEY rode out at mid-afternoon, El Matador leading the way down the narrow trail from Hoyos. Miguel and Torres followed him and behind were Edge and Luis, with the other bandits taking up single file position at the rear. Luis was in a particularly good mood. He had spent the day with the teenage girl of his choice and had been given Alfredo’s horse to ride after pointing out to Matador that his burro would slow down the journey south towards the money. He was a man who lived for the moment and as the group reached the foot of the plateau and the pace quickened, Luis felt good: rested, well fed, satiated with sex, riding a good horse with a vicious band of desperadoes. It was like the old days and he almost felt young again.

  But there was no such mood of contentment upon Edge. He was thinking of what lay ahead, his mind concerned with the ten thousand dollars and the doubt of its existence. And if it did exist, would the old man be able to find it. If he did find it, how to escape death. For there was one factor in the future about which Edge had no doubt: that the bandit chief intended both Edge and Luis Aviles to die. And the tall, lean American had only his razor with which to make a play, Matador having disarmed him of the knife before they set out from Hoyos.

  So as the group rode through the hot afternoon and into the cold of the night, Edge’s expression was set into lines of deep thought. Matador did not appear to notice this, or perhaps chose to ignore it in his confidence of dealing with any situation as it arose. For the most part he himself rode in silence, only occasionally turning in the saddle to ask Luis how much further. And each time he got the same response:

  “Some way, El Matador, I will tell you.”

  The men of the group who at first had shared the good mood of Luis, their demeanor arising out of their own sense of well being, became noticeably less enthusiastic as the tiring ride took its toll of their good spirits. And there were murmurings of discontent, this new mood created by the realization that they did not know where they were going, or why. That was a secret shared only by El Matador, Luis Aviles and the Americano. But they were persuaded to accept the fact of such a secret by the memory of what had befallen. Alfredo when he attempted to discover it.

  It was Miguel’s horse that was shot from under him and a bandit named Juan who was blinded by a bullet creasing across one eye and smashing through the bridge of his nose to gouge out the other. The group was riding below a ridge and the fusillade of shots came from the high ground. It was followed closely by another as the white clad men slid hurriedly from their saddles and dived behind a scattering of rocks, shouting their shocked surprise and firing blindly.

  Edge found himself sharing cover with the terrified Luis, grimaced as this new fear aroused a fresh wave of evil odor from the old man’s body. “Your pa must have been a polecat,” he muttered with distaste.

  “Pardon, señor,” Luis answered. “I think I have an accident.”

  “That’s all I need,” Edge said and waited for a lull in the shooting, made a dash for another rock and threw himself behind it as a bullet tugged at his sleeve.

  He found himself stretched out beside El Matador. “Hell, the whole thing stinks,” he murmured.

  The bandit chief ignored him, looked around the rock to where the blinded Juan was stumbling about, holding blood soaked hands to his face, screaming for help Matador raised his Colt and shot the man in the back, ending the noise.

  “That Juan, he always had trouble with his eyes,” Matador hissed. “I think he cured now.”

  “Surrender in the name of El Presidente!” a voice called from above. “This is Colonel Adame of the Mexican Republican Army. I have a warrant for your arrest, El Matador.”

  “He talks a lot, does he not?” Matador said to Edge.

  Edge looked to left and right, at the bandits sheltering behind protective rocks. “He don’t only talk,” he answered.

  El Matador spat and looked to his right. “Hey, Miguel.”

  The fat bandit with the ring in his ear gave an answering grunt.

  “We do like at Rosario, amigo,”

  Mi
guel’s teeth flashed in a grin and he turned to pass the word along the line. Torres sent the message in the other direction.

  “Colonel!” Matador called. “Five of our number are dead. We will surrender.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then: “Stand, with arms above the head.”

  Matador lay his blunderbuss against the rock and dug Edge in the ribs as he got to his feet. “You are not among the five, señor.”

  Edge sighed and hauled himself up beside the tiny bandit, glanced to left and right and saw the majority of the other bandits do likewise, resting rifles against the rocks and raising their hands high. Five men, including Miguel and Torres, remained flat on the ground. Up on the ridge stones rattled underfoot as the soldiers came from behind their cover and started down. Edge counted ten of them, clearly visible in the pale moonlight that showed them up as solid black against the bleached rock.

  “You will all move forward,” the officer instructed as the buttons of his uniform glinted in the light.

  The bandits did so, going around to the front of the rocks.

  “I am not one of these …” Luis started to blurt out, snapped his mouth shut as a bullet chipped splinters from the rock behind him.

  “Silence,” the colonel yelled, leading his men down, holding a revolver out in front of him. The men carried rifles.

  “Colonel, my ear itches,” Matador said in a conversational tone as the soldiers reached the foot of the ridge.

  Even as he spoke, the bandit chief lowered his arm and his fingers tugged at his right earlobe. Edge saw the signal and was turning before the first shot rang out. He was hidden behind the rock and looking with hooded eyes from safety before the first five soldiers had even hit the ground. Two of the bandits who had played possum went down under the return of fire and one other who was not fast enough in grabbing his rifle and diving for cover, died with three bullets in his heart. Two more soldiers died as they turned to run, two more as they stood their ground. Colonel Adame caught the full blast of El Matador’s weapon in the stomach before two rifle bullets in the head ended his agony. Incredibly Luis Aviles, who had been rooted by fear to his exposed position, did not even get scratched by a splinter of blasted rock.

 

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