“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.”
The other bandits were suddenly alive with interest, anticipating some entertainment to break the monotony of the wait. Matador saw the focus of Torres’ attention and his dark eyes locked upon those of Edge. The familiar evil grin spread across his young face.
“I am not sure that the Amerieano knows that which he says he knows,” the chief said slowly. “But we must keep him alive In case he does—and the old man fries to his death.”
“Obliged,” Edge said.
“But,” Matador continued. “You are right, Torres. You are our most skilled fighter with the knife and your art is most valuable to us.” His grin broadened. “You may cut him as many times as you like, but he must not die. If he does, you will die, too.” He patted the stock of his blunderbuss. “There are other knife fighters in Mexico.”
Edge looked back at Torres, saw from the smile on the man’s face that he did not fear for his life. He was confident that his skill could reduce Edge to a bloody pulp without causing his opponent to die. Torres drew his knife, a long bladed dagger, honed on both sides and needle sharp at the point.
“What about me?” Edge asked, snapping a quick glance at Matador.
“It is a pity,” the bandit chief said with a shrug. “But we cannot spare another weapon for you. Try not to get too cut up about it.”
As the bandits laughed at the joke, Torres leapt to his feet and lunged. Edge went sideways fast, springing to his feet.
“A real sharp character,” he muttered as the blade flashed by his head.
“You’ll get the point,” Matador laughed.