Ten Grand (8 page)

The stillness after the carnage was suddenly filled with the heavy, exhausted breathing of the satiated bandits as they surveyed the scene before them.  But Matador allowed them only seconds in which to recover.

“Food and tequila,” he shouted. “Then we ride for Hoyos.”

The square burst into movement again as the bandits went on the run back into the hovels that comprised the greater part of the village.  There was, no shooting this time because the men found nothing at which to shoot.  Instead, the houses exploded with the sound of hurried, careless search as the marauders sought supplies.  And soon, as Matador watched from his position in the square’s center, they emerged with the little they had found. Only the four who had chosen to raid the tiny cantina had difficulty in carrying what they had—many bottles of tequila and dark red wine.

From the hayloft in the barn, Luis Aviles looked down upon the looters and their dead victims, his eyes shining with excitement and his lips parted in a smile of relish. The loft was Luis’ home and had been for many years, ever since he had first come to San Murias.  It smelled of hay and horse-dung and of Luis himself, for as he grew older he became less fastidious about his personal cleanliness and Luis was very old.  As near as he could calculate, he was seventy. He was small and slightly built, with a wizened face burned almost black by the sun.  It was a dull face, with small, matt black eyes and an unexpressive mouth, framed by surprisingly thick black hair, fringed over the forehead. A face that surveyed his world of the hayloft and the cantina where he earned a pittance of pesos for sweeping the floor with a constant expression of sourness. Only when his feeble brain recalled the events of the past did his face become animated and he needed a strong cue to set his recollections into motion. The scene below him, as he peered through a knot hole in the front of the barn, was an ideal memory aid for it was a repetition of many such raids in which he had been involved.

He had seen the whole thing, from the stealthy arrival of Matador and his bandits—the forced entry into the houses, the shooting of those villagers who had no sexual attraction for the attackers, the rapes and murder of the girls and now the looting.  He had watched every moment and every move, his mind participating via his greedy eyes in the events he knew his body would never again enjoy.  His admiration for Matador knew no bounds. For Luis Aviles had ridden with many bandit groups, but never had he seen before an attack carried out with such skill and disregard for human life.   

As the horses were brought up and the food and drink packed away there was just one thing which nagged at Luis’ mind. The bandits had done something wrong, or perhaps had neglected something.  Luis’ face took on even more creases as he puzzled over the irksome doubt, but as the men in the square swung astride their mounts and prepared to ride out, Luis had to shake his head in perplexity.

Matador, mounted at the head of the column of bandits, suddenly took off his sombrero with a sweeping gesture and bowed in the saddle to three sides of the square, across the untidy litter of dead bodies.

“El Matador thanks the people of San Murias for their hospitality,” he said in sardonic tones.

“Especially the ladies,” Miguel put in and the night was suddenly noisy with laughter, to be drowned by the thud of hoofbeats as the horses were heeled into a canter.

Dust rose in clouds as the riders went south, and Luis remained in concealment until the sound had died into the distance and the dust had settled. Then he pulled himself to his feet, his movements slow with age, and went down through a hole in the loft floor, using a ladder to descend to ground level.  He opened the barn door just a crack to peer outside. Nothing moved and after he had waited for a full minute, he went out.   Excitement shone in his features again as he moved among the bodies.  He smiled with satisfaction as he looked into the dead face of the cantina owner who had paid him so cheaply; he kicked the head of the ugly woman who charged him a week’s wages to come into the loft and spread her flaccid body beneath his; he showed a parody of regret as he stooped over the headless body of a young girl and cupped his bony fingers over a breast that was already cold and beginning to set into rigor. 

Not until he had finished his exploration, went to sit with his back against the cantina wall and lift to his lips a bottle of tequila that the bandits had dropped, did his mind lock on to the reason for the stab of anxiety he had experienced as the raiders took their leave. He, Luis Aviles, was the only citizen of San Murias left alive.  For several moments his body trembled at the realization.  But then he spat and his mouth took on a grin.

“El Matador,” he shouted aloud.  “I no longer admire you.  In the old days we would have made sure nobody was left to tell the tale.”    

Then he raised the bottle and drank long and deep, enjoying the warmth of the liquid as it combated the cold of the night.   It had been many years since he had been able to drink a whole bottle and now, as he took advantage of his good fortune, the fire inside him burned bright, was not extinguished until it consumed his mind and he toppled sideways into drunken oblivion.

CHAPTER NINE

WHEN Edge rode into San Murias just as the sun of the new day was beginning to reach the full promise of its heat,  Luis Aviles was no longer against the cantina wall.  Thus, the hooded eyes of the lone rider saw only death in its many forms spread across the square. He looked at the scene impassively, giving his horse free rein to pick her way among the scattered bodies, offered no command until he reached the well, when he called a halt and slid to the ground. The big mare stood obediently as Edge spun slowly on his heels, his eyes fastening momentarily upon each open doorway, moved on when nothing could be seen beyond. Only when he was satisfied that San Murias was a village of the dead, did Edge step up to the well and begin to haul on the rope to bring the water filled bucket to the top. Just as El Matador had drunk only hours before, Edge pushed his face into the bucket and sucked up the cool, refreshing liquid.

“You move, Americano, and you’re as dead as everybody else in this accursed place.” Edge froze at the sound of the voice, speaking in slow Spanish, coming from over on his right. But he continued to drink, swiveling his eyes and tipping the bucket slightly.  Reflected in its surface he saw the blurred shape of Luis standing in the barn doorway, aiming a rifle.

“I’ve drunk my fill,” he called.  

“Your horse looks thirsty, señor.”    

Edge straightened, then stooped to place the bucket on the dusty ground. The chestnut mare pushed her snout into it.  Edge looked across at the old man, saw him as a slight figure in tattered pants and scuffed boots, the top half of his body draped in a much torn poncho.

“You kill them?” he asked.

Luis shook his head sadly. “Many times have I wanted to, but a man needs much speed to do such a thing. I am an old man and slow.” He sniggered. “But fast enough to shoot one man,”

“Why kill me?” Edge asked.

“That is a fine animal you have, señor,” Luis replied.  “There is nothing more for me in San Murias and I must travel.  A horse, she is much better than a burro. There are only burros here.”

There was no shade in the center of the square and Edge was beginning to tire of the direct heat of the sun and of the old man. He sighed.

“If you just put the rifle down, old man,” he said, “I may not kill you. If you do not drop it I am going to count to three and: then I will kill you.  I’m not old, and I am very fast.”

His tone was low and easy, his voice just carrying to the barn where the old man strained his failing hearing to make sense of the words.  Age, the effects of the tequila, and a fear of Edge caused his hands to shake, so that the rifle muzzle wavered.

“You talk tough, Americano,” he said, and the shake was audible in his voice.

“One,” Edge called and drew in a blur, squeezing the trigger of the Remington.

With a yell of alarm Luis threw the rifle into the air and in the instant the revolver’s firing mechanism slid into movement Edge altered his aim. The bullet smashed into the rifle’s stock, kicking the big gun into a spin before it thudded to the ground.

“You said three,” Luis called, affronted.

“Sometimes I tell lies,” Edge answered, holstering the revolver, kicking the bucket into the well as his horse finished drinking.

“Americanos have no honor.”   

Edge grinned coldly, lifted the chestnut’s reins and led her towards the shade of the barn. “Honor is for the young who want to die that way. I figure to live a long time.” 

He grimaced when he smelled the man, moved to one side of him and glanced out of the shadow into the body littered square.

“El Matador?”

Luis nodded. “That is what his men called him. Very small.” He held up a hand, indicating the height of the bandit chief. “But a big leader. Many men. They come quietly, like mountain lions stalking prey.  Then, boom, boom. The people do not know what is happening until they are dead,” He grinned. “Except for, the girls. The bandits, they let the girls live for a little longer.  For just long enough, you know?” He winked and leered knowingly.

Edge eyed him coldly and the look withered the old man’s enjoyment of the memory, “You’re all that’s left?”

Luis spat. “Like you, señor, I wish to live many more years, I hide and I watch. I know the ways of bandits.  Once I was a bandit.  We were the most feared in all Mexico.  Fast, like you, I was.  I have killed many men.  Had many women. More than El Matador will enjoy, for he is careless.  After a thing like San Murias, nobody should be left alive to tell the tale.”

Edge did not appear to be listening.  He had drawn his knife and was idly paring his nails. Then his eyes found Luis’ face. “What’s your name?”

“Luis Aviles, señor,” came the reply. “I rode with …”

“You saw it all?”

“Everything, señor.”

“And heard?”

His eyes shone. “The shooting. And the screams of the girls.”

“Must have been fun,” Edge said drily. “Did you hear any words?”

“Words, señor?”

“Did they say where they were headed when they left here?”

An enthusiastic nodding of his head. “They ride for Hoyos, señor. I heard El Matador say this.  For Hoyos.  Señor, you wish to follow the bandits?”

“I ain’t in Mexico for my health,” Edge replied, speaking more to himself than to the old man. “Where is Hoyos?” 

Luis pointed a crooked finger towards the south.  “Many miles, señor.  In the mountains, high up. An evil place where many bandits have lived. I lived there once.  Sometimes the soldiers come and there is much fighting.  But always the bandits return.  A man has to be a brave one to go to Hoyos alone.” 

“I ain’t going alone, Luis,” Edge said and turned on an icy grin when he saw the look of bewilderment on the other’s face.

“Señor?”

“Following tracks is tiring work, Luis,” Edge explained.  “You know where Hoyos is, so you can take me.”

Luis shook his head emphatically. “I do not want to go, señor. It is a bad place. El Matador is a bad man.”

Edge finished working on his nails and held the knife out in front of him, turning it so that the blade flashed sunlight.  Luis squinted his eyes against the dazzle.     

“My Spanish ain’t so, good, I guess,” Edge said. “You don’t understand, Luis. I wasn’t asking you to come along … I was telling you, amigo.”

“Please …?”  Luis implored.

Edge looked about the square. “There’s nothing here for you. I couldn’t leave you here like this.  In a village of the dead there is no place for a man who lives.  I’d feel obliged to kill you, Luis, You coming?”

“I think I come with you, señor,” Luis answered, and now his nod was as emphatic as the head shaking had been. “I will lead you to Hoyos and then you will be grateful and release me to go my own way.”

“Where would you go, Luis?”

“To a place I know where there is much money, señor,” came the reply, and again a memory animated the crinkled face. “Money that is all mine.” Then something triggered a stronger recollection and he stared with glowing eyes at a crudely designed ring on the third finger of his right hand. “Ten thousand, American,” he said in a hushed tone of reverence. 

Edge swung himself into the saddle and looked down at the old man without emotion. “Get your burro, old man,” he said. “When we get to Hoyos I will decide whether to let you go in search of your dream.”

Luis looked up at the tall, lean American, resenting the remark. “It is not a dream, señor,” he replied. “The money is mine and when I get it, I will be almost as rich as El Presidente himself,”

“Get the burro,” Edge snapped at him. “Or I ride to Hoyos alone.” 

The old man suddenly grinned his approval of this arrangement, but the cold look on Edge’s face thrust into his dull brain the knowledge of what would happen to him if the tall man left San Murias alone. He scuttled around the side of the barn, with Edge behind him, to where a half-dozen mangy burros were tethered.  He cut out the best of a bad bunch and mounted, bare-backed.