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.