“Many hundreds of dollars,” Juan said with pride, pulling a handful of samples from inside his shirt. “Maybe thousands.” The exchange had been in Spanish. Now Matador looked at Edge with a kind of respect, and spoke English. “You are a crooked lawman?” he asked.
“I am not a lawman,” Edge replied in Spanish, his knowledge of the language providing the bandit leader with another jolt of surprise. “Somebody killed the real sheriff. I killed the killer. The town gave me a job.”
“At such a salary?” In Spanish.
“No.”
Matador did not like the single negative. Then he shrugged. “No matter. We do not care where the money comes from. Just so long as it comes to us. Dinero has no allegiance.”
Edge did not answer, and Matador didn't like this, either. He leaned forward to open the mouth of the sack and indicated that Juan should bring his find and deposit it with the money from the bank. As he did so, several of the bandits on guard duty shuffled their feet restlessly and licked their lips, greedy eyes watching the bills fall into the sack. Others paid no attention, but maintained their concentration on the street. It was too quiet: there was hanging over the town the kind of silence that portends danger and the more sensitive members of the band could feel this and it made them nervous. Edge watched the money going into the sack: old, loose bills that fluttered in the still, morning air. Juan stepped back with a finality of movement, grinning and waiting expectantly for a word of praise. Matador merely waved him away as he pulled the cord to close the mouth of the sack. Edge ran his, eyes over the figure of Juan, trying to spot where he had concealed the solid block of five hundred dollars which had been his bounty for killing his brother's murderers. He decided it had to be in the folds of his loose fitting shirt.
Matador turned his back upon Edge and looked to left and right along the street, between the ring of bandits. His voice was loud, his English heavily accented, but good.
“You people got nothing to gain from causing us trouble,” he shouted. “We’re leaving now ‘cause we got what we came for. We take your sheriff and anyone shoots, we blast him to hell. Then we set fire to every building in this town and we take every woman who don’t look like a horse. We rape them, then we slice them up. You figure out if that’s worth the lives of a few lousy Mexican bandits.”
Several bandits who understood English laughed, perhaps to prove to themselves they were unmoved by their leader’s easy insult. “Bring the horses,” Matador called in Spanish and two of the band came from the rear of the Rocky Mountain Saloon, leading the mounts of the rest. The men mounted in small groups, so that there was always a number of guns primed for trouble. There was no horse for Edge. Torres swung astride his mount, hefting the sack in front of him. Then Matador.
“Out to the head of the line,” the leader instructed, drawing and waving a Colt.
Edge sighed and stepped down off the sidewalk, went to the center of the street and halted, looked over his shoulder to see his personal guard mount. Matador holstered his revolver and pointed the foreign scatter gun.
“Now you walk, lawman,” the leader commanded. “This gun is not new, but it has lost none of its power. Anybody else who tries to stop us, I will blow off your head with it. If you attempt to escape, I will aim lower and death will be much slower. Move.”
Edge began to walk and Matador allowed him a space of ten yards before urging his horse forward. His men followed as a group behind him, eyes roving the buildings on each side, glancing ahead and back it might have been a ghost town. In front, nothing. Behind, the settling dust raised by the many hoofs: until a shape broke from cover and the bandit at the end of the line raised his rifle, finger shaking so much he missed the trigger. Then a nervous giggle erupted from his lips as he saw the big white dog dash across the street.
CRACK.
The shot seemed to tremble the air over the whole town and Edge tensed his entire body for the stinging impact of whatever was loaded into Matador’s blunderbuss. But no bandit had fallen and they did not break stride as they glanced back down the street. The big white dog lay on its side, its snout still buried into the bloody pulp inside the opened skull of Norman Chase. A wisp of smoke rose from an open second-story window of the hotel.
“I thought Americans loved dogs,” Matador said. “You live a little longer, señor,”
When they had ridden clear of the town by some two hundred yards, Matador called a halt. Edge turned to face the band.
“You ride now,” the leader told Edge.
“Why we not killed him here,” Juan said. “They will not come after us.”
Matador’s eyes narrowed. “Who is your leader?” he asked softly and Juan’s expression became sullen under the steady stare.
“You are, El Matador,” he answered, hanging his head.
Matador nodded, looked at Edge and pointed to Juan. “You ride with him. Here, beside me.”
Juan heeled his mount forward, halted her so that Edge could. swing up behind him. Matador raised his hand and the band moved off again, heading south in no haste. One of the men at the back began to whistle tunelessly. Edge rode with his arms wrapped around the waist of the man in the saddle, but kept his face averted, diminishing the effect of Juan’s rancid smell.
“Where did you learn to speak our language?” Matador asked suddenly after they had rode in silence for some time.
“From my father,” Edge answered, annoyed that his line of thought had been interrupted. He had been watching Matador, noting the casual way he carried the Turkish gun, the looseness of the Colt in the holster on his side. He thought he could slit Juan’s throat, grab the two guns and blast Matador from the saddle: maybe take 22 two other men with the Colt before he went down under a hail of bullets. There was no chance for survival, of course. But, perhaps in another plan, his life was not so worthless. Just one bandit would die now. Edge decided he had the patience to wait his time for the rest.
“You speak it well,” Matador said in a conversational tone. “Your father was a good teacher of the language.”
“He spoke it like a native,” Edge replied.
Matador looked deep and long at Edge as they jogged along. Then he nodded. “You have the look of Mexico in your face, señor . . . what is your name?”
“They call me Edge.”
“Your father was Mexican?”
Edge nodded.
“Not your mother?”
“No.”
“You do not have a Mexican name.”
“It’s a long story.”
Matador raised his hand and reined in his horse. They had reached a point on the trail south where a dried-up creek bed curved in from the west.
“It is a pity you do not have the time to tell it,” Matador said, glancing back over his shoulder. The horizon was shrouded in a heat mirage which cloaked Peaceville as effectively as a heavy mist. His eyes fastened back upon Edge’s face. “I think you understand why I cannot let you live,” he said and Edge thought he detected a note of apology in the voice. He decided it had to be Matador’s brand of humor.
“Your men wouldn’t like it,” Edge said as Juan tried to break the grip around his waist, anxious to get clear of the agony that was to blast in a wide angle from the evil-looking blunderbuss.
Matador made a deep-throated sound of disgust. “I do not consult this scum when I make a decision,” he said and glowered back at his men to see the effect of this new insult. To a man they grinned at him in a collective parody of good humor. “They represent no threat to me,” he said, turning his attention to Edge. “But you, señor Edge.” He drew in his breath, “You are different. I see in your face a look I could fear if I understood what fear was. I let you live and I think I would spend much, time looking over my shoulder.”