“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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EDGE’S lithe body weaved from side to side and his feet danced with amazing agility at each lunge of the bandit Torres. At first the scarred face had been wreathed in a smile, his teeth and eyes flashing as brightly as the polished blade of his knife. But it did not take him many seconds to realize the defensive skill of his adversary and his expression darkened with his awareness. Edge did not smile: his eyes glinted from between narrowed lids, ever watchful for a sign to betray the next move of the man with the knife and his lips were mostly set in a straight, firm line only splitting open to gulp in a fresh supply of air upon each occasion he evaded the lunge of the weapon. The watching bandits, too, underwent an abrupt change of mood. At first they had yelled ecstatic encouragement to Torres, anticipating a spurt of red blood to announce the completion of each thrust. But, as time and time again the lean, hard body parried the attack they started to chide their fellow bandit, tossing out insults to his skill with a knife.
Edge, his face showing no sign of what he was thinking, welcomed the altered attitude of the watchers. For Torres, already angry at his own failure to make an early strike, was pushed deeper into his rage by the epithets thrown at him. He began to curse softly under his breath and his lunges became more frequent so that his timing went awry and nine out of ten of the thrusts were such that Edge could avoid them with complete ease. The man’s breathing became ragged and as Edge drew the fight out of the shadow, into the hard brightness of the sun, Torres began to sweat freely, had often to raise a hand and brush the stinging salt from his eyes.
The watching bandits moved with the fight, forming a circle around the two participants, leaving their rifles behind. Again Edge’s expression gave no sign that this move meshed in with his plan of campaign and to the watchers it seemed that his complete attention was focused upon Torres, his mind fully engaged with measures to avoid the flashing blade. If any had known Edge better, they may have suspected such an assumption was incorrect when the American let his eyes rest upon the figure of Matador a fraction of a second too long, and received a shallow gash on his forearm as punishment. But the bandits merely shouted with glee at this first sight of blood and again began to yell in favor of Torres.
Edge considered the wound a fair price, for he had seen that Matador was in position, two yards to his left and not more than six yards from where the horses were hobbled.
He sidestepped once, twice, placing himself within inches of the tiny bandit chief. Torres lunged and Edge brought up his foot. The knife nicked into the flesh of Edge’s shoulder, then fell from nerveless fingers as a toecap found Torres’ groin. The man yelled in agony and doubled up, hands flying to his injured part. Matador stepped to Edge’s right so that he could see around the big man and Edge leapt into a backwards movement, right hand flashing to his neck.
Matador was quick to sense danger, but not quick enough in taking avoiding action. Before he had even started to reach for his guns Edge had grasped him around the chest, pinning one arm to his side, and raised the open razor to press against the pulsing neck.
“Anyone makes a move, El Matador meets his moment of truth.”
It was suddenly deathly quiet. Even Torres, still doubled up in his agony, ceased his groaning to look up at Edge and his prisoner. Like the other bandits in the ragged circle, he was aghast at what had happened, amazed by the speed of the turnabout.
“Do as he says,” Matador said, no trace of fear in his voice.
They obeyed and Edge let out his breath in a silent Sigh. El Matador was not a popular leader and any of the bandits could have grasped this opportunity to be rid of him. But the little man had ruled with a rod of iron and countless memories of his wrath had a cowering effect on the men. The little chief had led a charmed life and in a shoot out might still survive to return and reap vengeance upon any man who did not bow to his wish.
“I give you your freedom, gringo,” Matador said evenly to Edge.
“Obliged,” Edge said, and lifted the tiny man easily from the ground with the arm around his chest while maintaining the pressure of the razor against his throat.
“You keep the razor in a good place,” Matador congratulated as Edge backed away, keeping the chiefs body between himself and the other bandits. “I will kill the man who searched you for weapons.”
“You’re optimistic,” Edge told him as he bumped into the flank of a horse, flicked a glance to left and right, spotted Matador’s stallion and sidled over to it. He kicked the hobble free. “Open the saddlebag, amigo.”
For the first time, he felt the bandit’s body suffer a tremor. The man apparently valued money more than he did his life.