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 the 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.”