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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 the 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.