Ten Grand

by George G. Gilman

  Matador looked along the line of bandits as they stood and made a sound of disgust. “We are getting slow,” he said. “At Rosario we lost only one and there were fifteen pigs of soldiers.”

  “It was only they who were slow,” Torres said resentfully, pointing to the three dead bandits.

  The truth of the comment did not lighten the little chief’s mood. “Round up the horses,” he ordered curtly, and glowered at Luis. “How far now, jellyfish?”

  “Some way, El Matador,” the old man answered as before, his voice trembling. “I will tell you.”

  Matador spat and sat on a rock to await the carrying out of his order. It took a considerable time, for the loose horses of the bandits had bolted at the sound of gunfire and there were not enough of the soldier’s mounts to go around. But some of the spooked animals were captured and Edge was as relieved as Matador to see that the chief’s mount was among them. The bulging saddlebags on the big white stallion revealed the new resting place for the money taken from the Peaceville bank and sheriff’s office.

  But when the animals were counted and assigned, the group was still one horse short. Luis Aviles, standing meekly beside the rock, still recovering from his fear, was the man without a mount. The bandits, high in their saddles, refused to meet his imploring eyes, each fearing he would be elected to carry a foul smelling passenger. But, as he prepared to mount, Matador heard a groan from one of the soldiers and moved quickly to the side of the prone figure, drawing a knife. He stopped and flipped the man over on to his back, evil eyes searching for a wound. But there was only a tiny trickle of blood from a graze on the man’s brow where a bullet had creased the skin, stunning him. A diabolical grin spread across Matador’s face.

  “I think we have an animal for our amigo to ride,” he called. “Not a horse, but a beggar cannot be a chooser as the gringos say.” He hauled the dazed man to his feet. “A pig, he will do, I think.”

  The soldier was young. A recently appointed corporal, the freshness of his insignia evidencing the short period of his new rank. He was tall, towering over the tiny figure of Matador. But his fear as he became aware of the menacing expressions of the surrounding bandits seemed to reduce him in stature. Matador placed his blunderbuss stock into the small of the man’s back and shoved him forward. As he stumbled to a halt before Luis Aviles, the old man’s grizzled features broke once more into a smile. There was another, more humiliated than himself and his ego became inflated as a direct result.

  “I am a skilled rider of pigs,” Luis said gleefully and made a circling gesture with a finger, instructing the corporal, to turn round. Then he leapt upon the man’s back, hooking his arms around the soldier’s neck, legs around his middle. “Look, I ride him bareback.”

  The bandits burst into raucous laughter and heeled their horses forward as Matador mounted and went out in front, beckoned for the soldier to trot ahead of him. Matador kept the pace at a walk for several minutes and the only sounds were the mocking, words of encouragement from Luis and the weary breathing of the man to whose back he clung. Riding in the center of the group, Edge realized that time was running out fast for the corporal. As sport, the sight of a man acting as a horse had quickly lost its novelty and the only one who continued to enjoy the circumstances was Luis.

  “Your pig is slow,” Matador said suddenly. “Can you not get more speed from him?”

  The soldier’s ragged breathing was suddenly interrupted by a gasp as Luis brought his heel down hard against the man’s stomach. The soldier broke into a run, weaving from side to side, chin banging on his chest. Luis was small, weighed little, but with each step the burden became heavier. Abruptly, a cramp stabbed at the soldier’s leg and he pitched forward, hurling Luis over his head. Luis landed with a cry of alarm as the soldier curled into a fetal position, fingers clawing at the pain in his leg. Matador reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. He stooped over the soldier who cowered beneath him, face twisted by pain.

  “I think you broke your leg,” Matador whispered. “Pigs are like horses and we are kind to them. A broken leg, it is no good to any beast.”

  He swiveled his holster and fired the Colt through the opening at the bottom, the merciful bullet smashing through the skull and into the brain. Matador straightened with a sigh and looked around, seeing they were in the moon shade of a bluff, that a stand of yuccas was at hand to provide fuel for a fire.

  “How far now, amigo?” he asked Luis as the old man got painfully to his feet.

  Luis looked to the south. “Not far now, El Matador,” he said. “Soon I will tell you.”

  The bandit chief nodded. “We make camp here.” Then he looked at Edge, recalling the tall man’s comment when he had killed the bull. He grinned and glanced at the dead soldier. “You want pork for supper, señor?”

  Edge spat. “Obliged, but there ain’t no R in the month,” he answered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AT sunup the next morning Edge came awake to see the bandits in a huddle, whispering angrily among themselves as El Matador held his peace in the center of the group. Edge did not move but continued to watch and wait for developments. The camp had been made at the very foot of the bluff and Edge and Luis Aviles were still stretched out under blankets in the deep shade, feet towards the powdered remains of the fire that had kept back the cold during the night. The bandits were several yards away, catching the first warmth of the new day, so that their many-sided conversation which was carried out in tones of low anger reached Edge as just a murmur. He had a strong idea that they were not keeping down their voices for the benefit of the two apparent sleepers.

  “All right,” El Matador said at length when his patience was exhausted and he had picked up sufficient of the gist of his men’s complaints. He stood up. “I will ask.”

  The bandits made sounds of satisfaction and also got noisily to their feet, so that Edge was able to use these sounds as a pretense for waking. And as he sat up and watched the approach of the group he saw their expressions bore out his judgment of their previous tone. They were angry to the point of collective ugliness and presented a menacing prospect: the bullets slotted into bandoliers glinting in the early sunlight, their eyes flashing in the shadows of sombreros and a threat of death in every one of their many weapons.

  “Guess you ain’t come to offer me breakfast?” Edge said, tossing off the blanket and getting to his feet.

  “I wish to know when we will reach our destination, señor,” Matador said coldly, and the men at his back nodded to indicate this had been a collective decision. Edge moved his tongue, trying to dislodge a piece of meat trapped between two teeth. “You want to speak to my amigo,” he said, stooped to pick up a rock and tossed it towards the still sleeping form of Luis Aviles. The missile hit without force, but the old man yelled as if from great pain and sat up with a show of injury. “Time to answer the ten thousand dollar question,” Edge said, ignoring the dangerous flash of Matador’s eyes. It was obvious the little chief had still not told his men of their objective.

  “It is a manner of the Americano’s speech,” Matador said hurriedly, stepping forward to stand over Luis. “How far?”

  The question was lashed out and Luis winced just as if a whip had stung him. “I said last night,” the old man answered quickly. “Not far now, El Matador.”

  “Today?”

  Luis shrugged, looking miserable. “Perhaps, if we ride fast.”

  Matador nodded and spun on his heels to glower at his men. “We ride fast, no?”

  The bandits made a token show of consulting one another, whispering among themselves. Then they all nodded but without enthusiasm.

  “When we get there, you will see our ride has been worthwhile,” Matador tossed at them, but the group broke up and went across to saddle their horses without responding to their leader’s remark. The little man spat angrily and stooped low over the cowering Luis. “Old man,” he said, cold and low. “My men are restless and tired of this journey. If we do not reach
the end of it before noon, I will cut off that which makes you a man and push it down your throat so that it chokes you.”

  Luis looked at Edge, found the tall American grinning at him, offering no comfort. “I think I’ll skip lunch,” he said.

  Matador suddenly laughed harshly. “Hey, I think maybe I have to think of something else. Such a small thing would not fill such a big mouth.”

  Still laughing, he turned and strode away towards his horse.

  “Señor,” Luis said plaintively, and Edge looked at him. “I do not think we can get there when he says.”

  Edge shrugged. “Tough.”

  He went to saddle his horse and Luis to find a partner so that it was not many minutes before the group was on the move again, continuing to strike south, taking advantage of the coolness of early morning to make good time. But as the sun hauled itself higher to burn down with a merciless disregard for human and animal life, the pace slowed. Men and horses sweated freely and there was precious little shade for the group while it continued to move. Matador was again in the lead, but now Luis rode beside him and as they made slow progress through a deep arroyo Edge, immediately behind the leaders, could hear their conversation.

  “How you know about this money?” the bandit chief demanded.

  “I was one of them that stole it,” Luis answered and there was a note of pride in his reedy voice. Once again his dull mind had forgotten the threat that hung over his life. Now he was not only riding in a bandit group, but was alongside the leader at the head of the column, mounted behind Miguel.

  “You really were a bandit?” Matador asked in a tone of disbelief.

  Luis nodded. “Many years ago. We were the most feared band in all Mexico. We killed many, stole much.”

  “Where this ten thousand, American come from!”

  “From a stage, El Matador,” came the reply. “In Texas in the United States of America. Our chief led us in an attack on a stage carrying the payroll from San Antonio to an army fort on the Rio Grande del Norte, El Matador. There were soldiers guarding the stage and we lost many men. But we killed all of them.” The old man smacked his lips at the memory of the carnage.

  “And what was left of you rode south?”

  “Yes, El Matador. We rode hard and fast for the word spread about our great feat. There were many other bandits who thought they could take the money from us. And Indians, too, El Matador. The theft made us famous. We killed hundreds—thousands—as we rode south. And we lost many more, until there were just three of us left.”

  “So you hid the money?”

  “That is right.” His tone became secretive and Edge had to strain forward in his saddle to pick up Luis’ words. “At night we hid it in a safe place and were to wait until the time was right. But we were betrayed. One of us was killed when they came for us and another died in the prison in Mexico City. Only I survived to know the hiding place. But I was in the prison for many long years.” He tapped a finger at the side of his head. “My mind, it suffered as well as my body from the beatings I was given. Sometimes I do not remember too good, El Matador.”

  “But you remember now,” Matador said, his voice suddenly loud in its harshness.

  “Oh yes,” Luis came back quickly. “Now I not forget. I went north when I was released. I knew it was in the north we held up the stage. But I found the village of San Murias …” He shrugged. “Time went by. I was getting old and often it seemed too troublesome to make another long journey. But then, El Matador, I see what you did at San Murias. I recall the old days when I was like you, and I remember the place.”

  Matador nodded and grunted with satisfaction. Suddenly he slid his foot from the stirrup and raised his leg, kicked sideways. The toe of his boot found Luis’ rib cage and the old man went out off the horse with a cry of alarm and thudded to the ground. Edge heard a series of clicks behind him and knew that more than a dozen rifles were trained upon his back, anxious fingers curled around sensitive triggers. He halted his horse and watched through hooded eyes as Matador stood over the old man, aiming the Turkish scattergun.

  “It is noon,” the bandit chief said coldly. “Time has run out for you, amigo.”

  Every muscle in the old man’s body had begun to tremble and saliva was bubbling out of the corners of his mouth to trickle down into his beard. Although he was not close enough to catch the scent, Edge wrinkled his nostrils as his imagination created the stink that would be rising from the quivering flesh. He turned his attention to the bulging saddlebags on the horse ahead, figuring his chances. A glance over his shoulder at the concerted menace of the bandits told him the odds were long enough to verge upon the impossible.

  “Hey, gringo!” El Matador called, and captured the American’s attention. “I think your amigo is cold, he shivers so much. It would be good for him to sunbathe a little, I think.” Edge sighed and slid from the saddle.

  “Miguel, the pegs.”

  The fat bandit with the ring in his ear delved into his saddlebag and came out with four iron pegs, tossed them to the feet of Edge.

  “To sunbathe with the clothes on is not so healthful,” El Matador was muttering to Luis. “You will disrobe, amigo. Then lay on the ground thus.”

  The tiny bandit spread his legs apart and raised his hands above his head.

  “El Matador!” Luis pleaded, the words bubbling in his throat.

  A crack across the head from the blunderbuss put a full stop to the entreaty.

  “If you do not remove your clothes, I will do it for you. I will cut them, from you and I too am cold. My hand may shake.”

  Matador laughed as Luis’ trembling fingers tore at the buttons of his shirt. During this exchange Miguel had unhooked a lariat from his saddle horn and had cut four pieces of rope about twelve inches long. These he tossed on top of the pegs.

  “This ain’t something you just thought up then?” Edge asked softly.

  Miguel grinned, his bulbous features taking on many new rolls of flesh. “There is nothing new under the sun, señor,” he said.

  Luis, menaced into silence by the threat of Matador’s face, took off his final garment to expose the full nakedness of his frail body to the heat of the blazing sun.

  “Down!” he was ordered and he sat and then stretched out full length, wincing as the burning hardness of the ground touched his bare flesh.

  “Gringo!”

  Edge drove in the pegs, using the heel of his boot to hammer them into the unyielding earth, then tied the lengths of rope around the bare wrists and ankles, hitched the ends to the pegs. Matador had gone with the others, leading the horses into a patch of shade from a stand of yuccas, and Edge was able to talk to Luis without being overheard.

  “Sorry about this, amigo,” he said softly, hardly moving his lips, and with no sincerity in the words.

  There were tears in the old man’s eyes, perhaps of regret, perhaps because the sun was already making its heat felt on his vulnerable, crinkled flesh. “I will not tell them,” he said and the vehemence of his tone caused Edge to glance at his face. He saw that, despite the moisture in the eyes, the old man’s face was set into an expression of grim determination. Edge could see in the face, behind the wizened lines of age, something of the character of Luis Aviles in his heyday. He had been tough and mean and as brave as any other. But life had dealt him too many blows, pummeling the strength out of him. But while he lacked his former physical potency, there was still, below the surface of his weakness, a reserve of stamina which now fed his resolve to outwit the evil El Matador.

  “Luis,” Edge said softly.

  “Señor?”

  “Is there ten thousand, American?”

  “There is, señor,” the old man said. “You have saved my life many times for either the soldiers or El Matador would have killed me before this had you not been with me. You did not do these things for me, I know. But no matter. The money is in the town of Montijo, not ten miles south of this place. Much good will it do you, but my ring provides the key to
the hiding place.”

  Edge glanced at the third finger on the right hand of Luis Aviles, but could ask no further questions as a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Matador standing over him. The bandit chief stooped to test each knot, nodded his satisfaction at their security.

  “You did well, gringo,” he said, gesturing with the blunderbuss. “Come, join us in the shade to drink some cool water. We will return in an hour to see the healthful effect of the sun upon our compadre.”

  It was high noon now and the lips of the old man were already beginning to crust with sunburn. But he made no further plea for mercy and his expression as he returned the evil grin of the bandit chief was one of iron determination. Edge saw Matador’s expression darken at this new side of Luis’ character. But then the blunderbuss came up and Edge moved across to where the bandits waited, lounging in the tree shade, sucking at the necks of their water canteens. But there were no canteens on Edge’s horse and he was not offered a drink by any of the men.

  They sat for perhaps thirty minutes, talking idly amongst themselves at first, but then lapsing into silence. All but one completely ignored Edge, who was concentrating his attention upon Luis Aviles as the old man suffered out in the baking sun. But the American was aware of the interest of the pock-marked Torres and of the way he continually fingered the knife at his waist. Finally, the disease-scarred bandit spoke.

  “El Matador?”

  The bandit chief had been dozing, face hidden by the tilt of his sombrero. But he came awake at his name and pushed up the brim, looked questioningly at Torres.

  “It is a long time since I have practiced with my knife. I am fearful my skill will grow less from neglect.”