Edge: Ten Grand

“Obliged,” Edge said and moved the razor, drawing it in a hard, slashing motion across Matador’s throat. As part of the single, fluid movement he released his grip on the small body so that it thudded to the ground, and the razor continued on its arc, unhindered until it met the soft leather of the saddlebag. The blade slit with fast ease, tumbling out a shower of bills which continued to flutter to the ground as Edge leapt upon the saddle, snatching a rifle from the boot on a nearby horse. Not a shot was fired at Edge as he heeled the horse forward, galloping towards the amazed bandits, who fell aside only in the last moment, began to scramble towards the fallen money, clawing each other aside in their greed.

And Edge fired only one round, as the hoofs of his mount lifted clear of the spread-eagled Luis Aviles. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that just as the rifle exploded into sound, sending death into the old man’s heart, the sun blackened, cracked flesh of Luis’ face formed into a smile of thanks for this release from his agony. Then Edge reined the horse into a wide circle, drawing out of range to make his turn towards the south. But it was a maneuver for which there was no need. The bandits were too intent upon scooping up the money to spare time on Edge. And the bills in most demand were those stained by the blood still pumping from the gaping throat wound of the dead El Matador. “I guess that must be what they call Blood money,” Edge said as he galloped away, southwards.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BUT Edge did not ride directly for the town of Montijo. As soon as he knew he would be lost from the sight of the bandits he swung in a wide circle and headed back towards them from a different direction. He rode the big white stallion it a slow walk, hid behind an outcrop of rock when he spotted a dust cloud to the north, waited until it had settled and the black specks of the riders had disappeared into the heat mirage before spurring his mount forward, faster than before but still not at a full gallop.

The buzzards lifted their cumbersome, satiated bodies into the still air while Edge was still many yards distant and when he rode up he saw they had dined well. El Matador was almost headless from the savagery of their tearing bills and they had excavated a great hole in the chest of Luis Aviles. Edge looked at the bodies impassively, nodded as he stooped over that of the old man, noting that he smelled worse in death than he had in life. He spent perhaps a full minute endeavoring to force the metal ring off the old man’s finger, but it had obviously been worn for many years, refused to slide over the knob of the knuckle. Edge cursed softly, drew his razor and chopped off the finger neatly just beneath the ring. The ornament slid from the dead flesh easily now, its path greased by blood.

He looked at it through narrowed eyes, saw it was in the form of a short snake, the crudely carved head lapping over the tail to form a complete circle. The design meant nothing to Edge, but the old man had considered it important, so he wiped it free of blood. The only finger it would fit was the little one and this is where Edge wore it as he crossed to the body of El Matador, stopped and drew the two Colts, checked they had a full load before slipping them into his own holsters.

Then he remounted and set off southwards again, not looking over his shoulder as a great flapping of wings told him of the return of the scavengers. The white stallion was strong and willing, experienced in the long, tough rides which are a part of bandit life. He carried his new rider into Montijo just as afternoon was lengthening into evening, the appearance of the big horse with its tall, hard-faced rider giving rise to many curious and suspicious glances. For the town was deep into Mexico, near the boundary between the Sonora and Sinaloa regions, far beyond the area where Americans normally ventured.

It was quite a large town, dependent for industry upon a sawmill and a silver mine, but inhabited mostly by peons who worked in the cane fields spread out to the south and east. There was little sign of activity on the fringe of the town, but as Edge rode down one of the two parallel main streets he could see lights and hear music and singing ahead. He ignored all who turned their suspicious eyes upon him, his own hooded and watching for signs of danger. But then he reined in his horse as a small boy of some ten years ran out in front of him, grinned at him with broken teeth.

“You an Americano?” the waif asked.

Edge looked at his dirt-streaked face, his tattered shirt and pants, guessing the boy’s intention. He nodded and the grin broadened.

“I have a sister, señor,” he said and cupped his hands over his narrow chest, brought them forward in an explanatory movement. “Very big here señor. She like Americanos. Very good with the love, señor.”

Edge injected some warmth into his expression, nodded along the street. “What’s going on?”

“Fiesta, señor. It is the mayor’s birthday. He not a very good mayor, but everybody like him on his birthday cause he makes it a time for fiesta. Many girls in the cantina, señor. But expensive and not big here, like my sister.” Again the gesture with the hands.

Edge dipped into his pants pocket and brought out one of the dollars Gail had given him back in Peaceville. He dropped it to the feet of the boy who snatched it up with a filthy hand, suddenly wealthy by Mexican peon standards.

“Esteban!” a shrewish voice called from the shadow of a building and the boy suddenly laughed and bolted for the opposite side of the street.

The woman came out into the open to give chase for the dollar and Edge grinned. She was big there. Also everywhere else and Edge heeled his horse into motion as the two hundred and fifty pound woman waddled in the wake of her agile young brother.

Both streets emerged into a plaza and exited on the far side, and here was the center of the activities. Light, from torches and oil lamps, shone down upon a raised platform upon which a group of six guitar players provided music for fifty or more dancing couples. The plaza was fringed by ten cantinas from some of which emitted competing music from others merely the shouts and screams of men and women making merry to honor the birthday of the mayor. Drunken figures of both sexes emerged from the swinging doors of the bars to either go into another cantina or join the dancers in the plaza. Grinning, dirty-faced youngsters who might have been cast in the same mold as Esteban, lit and threw firecrackers into the throng, bolting for safety whenever anybody threatened to give chase.

Here, the appearance of a stranger, whether he be a foreigner or Mexican, caused no reaction. Minds, made dull or benevolent by countless draughts of mezcal, tequila and pulque, considered that all was right in world and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to continue with the merry-making. Edge eyed the scene impassively as he tied his horse to the rail fronting the Montijo Hotel, the big white animal looking incongruous among the mangy burros who shared the tether. But those who were most drunk in the throng probably considered the horse a figment of their imagination. Others cared nothing for the sight. Still more noted the expression on Edge’s mean face and knew it would be unwise to question him.

Edge went into the cantina immediately adjacent to the hotel, found the tables packed with drinking men and women, many of them joining in with the song which a pretty young girl was wailing out from one end of the bar, accompanied by a leering young man on a guitar. Edge went to the other end of the bar, which was acting as a support for a line of swaying peons. One of the two sweating barmen came wearily towards Edge, face set in a questioning stare.

“Señor?”

“Beer.”

The barman picked up a dirty glass, smashed the top from a bottle of beer and half poured it, muttered the price in pesos. Edge slapped a dollar bill on the bartop without attempting to touch the drink. A greasy hand covered the dollar and Edge brought the heel of his palm down on top. The barman looked up, fear leaping into his eyes, and found Edge grinning at him. He used his free hand to point at the ring on his little finger.

“That ought to mean something to someone in this town,” he said softly. “The dollar’s yours. If some guy don’t come to see me at the hotel next door before midnight, I come back for my dollar. I also take something else.”

“Señor?” The man’s eyes were wide.

“I ain’t hearing so good with one ear,” Edge said, still grinning. “Yours look healthy enough.”

The man swallowed hard and looked down at the hand which had trapped his, examined the ring.

“I do not know, señor,” he said.

“You better,” Edge told him and released his hand, turned from the bar and headed for the door. “Name’s Edge.”

The peon who had been standing next to him grasped the untouched beer and lifted it, tipped it down his throat.

“One tough hombre,” he said to the barman. “I think he mean it.”

“I know he means it,” the barman muttered as he watched the doors swinging behind the departing Edge.

The tall American unhitched his horse and led him off the plaza, found a livery stable in charge of a sleeping stableman. A boot in the ribs woke him and the sight of a dollar bill got him working. He promised Edge that even if El Presidente himself were to visit Montijo, the royal horse would receive no better treatment. Edge nodded his satisfaction and returned to the plaza, entered the hotel. The clerk announced he was fully booked, but a show of five dollars backed up by a narrow-eyed expression of determination enabled him to offer a single at the rear of the building, away from the noise of the fiesta. Edge had left his gear at the stable, and carried only the Spencer repeater he had stolen from one of El Matador’s men. He signed the register and made the clerk repeat his name three times.

“I’m expecting company,” he said. “Unless somebody comes in and asks for me, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Certainly señor,” the clerk said, nervously, afraid of this tall, lean man with the evil face, knowing he would rather do without the five dollars than have the American in the hotel.

Edge started up the stairs with the rifle his only baggage, his lips pursed as if to whistle, but releasing no sound. He had been given room twenty-three and as he used the key on the lock a church bell tolled six times, far off and melancholy. He guessed it signified the time and wondered if he would have to wait the full six hours until deadline. He hoped not, especially when he lit the spluttering, foul-smelling kerosene lamp and looked at the room. It was little bigger than a closet, furnished with a narrow bed and a dresser with no mirror and two of its three drawers missing. There was one small window which looked out on to the blank face of the building behind the hotel. The floor was bare boards and as Edge crossed to the window two large cockroaches scuttled for the cover of the bureau. When Edge punched the blanket-covered mattress a cloud of dust lifted, raising with it the stink of a hundred bodies which had rested there since the bedcover had last been washed or aired.

Edge grimaced and dragged the whole lot on to the floor, sending more cockroaches scuttling. Then he blew out the lamp and lay on the bare springs, which creaked with his weight. He used his hat for a pillow and did not close his eyes as he relaxed, content that he could see both the square of the moonlit window and the strip of light at the foot of the door. The sounds from the plaza came to him as a muted hum, only occasionally pierced by a loud shriek or burst of laughter. But he had gone too long without proper sleep and the distant, hypnotic sounds of the festivities, aided by the comforting feel of the rifle in his two hands, nudged Edge into a doze, pushed him down the slope into exhausted slumber.

“Señor, move one muscle and death will be your reward.”

Edge’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at the trapdoor in the ceiling he had not noticed before, saw it open to the sky, moonlight glinting on two revolver barrels.

“That ain’t no kind of a deal,” he said and rolled off the bed, came up short and dropped his rifle as the door burst open to show another man holding two pistols on him.

“I am the guarantee, señor,” the second man announced.

“It’s a deal,” Edge said, and froze.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE one who dropped lightly from the trapdoor in the ceiling was young—no more than twenty—with an innocent-looking, clean-shaven face in which soft brown eyes and a gentle mouth line suggested he was unused to the way of the gun. But the easy way he handled the two double-trigger Tranter revolvers spoke of many years of experience. He was not a peon, for he was smartly turned out in a white shirt and grey pants and wore an expensive gunbelt with heavily ornamented buckle and holsters.

“I am Ramon Armendariz,” he introduced, stretching a foot to slide Edge’s rifle under the bed. “This is my uncle, Manuel Armendariz. We are the son and brother of the mayor of Montijo.”

He spoke excellent English, in the manner of one proud to air his knowledge.

“Two guys who like the first citizen every day of the year,” Edge answered.

The older man gave a short laugh. “Señor Edge, even the mayor’s mother does not like the mayor. She least of all, perhaps, because she can recall the pain she suffered in bringing such an animal into the world.”

Edge looked at him and could detect a vague family resemblance. Manuel was at least seventy, smaller by six inches than his nephew and wearing a full set of moustachio and beard, stained as white as his hair by the passing years. His eyes, too, were of a soft brown coloring, but shone with the bitterness of a harsh life instead of the anticipation of youth. His pistols were Colts.

“You must excuse our mode of entry,” Ramon said, smiling. “But we heard that the manner of your approach lacked finesse. It suggested to us a man overanxious to find that which he is seeking. Such a man can be dangerous.”

Edge grinned. “I was sleeping like a baby.”

Ramon continued to smile. “A baby with a lethal rattle in his hands,” he said, waving one of the Tranters towards the rifle.

“I cut my teeth on one like it,” Edge answered with a shrug.

“Did not we all,” Manuel said philosophically. “We have all lived through violent times.”

“And now we are wasting time,” Ramon put in, dropping the smile. “You have a ring, señor?”

“It means something to you?”

“How will I know until I see it?”

Edge brought his hands together, slid the ring from his finger and held it out. Ramon had to holster one of his revolvers to take the ring and as he did so, looking down at his side, Edge moved. He went on to the balls of his feet and side-stepped, spinning Ramon around and drawing a gun as his arm encircled the young man’s throat. One of El Matador’s Colts thudded into Ramon’s back. Uncle and nephew looked across the room in horror as they realized they were facing each other with guns leveled.

“Drop them,” Edge demanded. “Or after the fiesta Montijo will have a funeral.”

The younger man stiffened and Edge knew he was prepared to take his chances. But Manuel was much older and considerably more wise. He sighed and his revolvers clattered to the floor.

“You are too young to die, Ramon,” he said softly. “And I am too old to want to.”

The fight went out of Ramon and his gun fell to the floor. Edge let go of his throat and used his free hand to hook the second gun from the young man’s holster, let it fall. He pushed Ramon away from him, slid his own Colt back into its holster, grinned at the men’s surprise.

“I didn’t bring the mayor a present for his birthday,” he said. “Instead, I give him the lives of two of his relations. It may not be much, but it’s all I have at the moment.”

“It is not a trick, señor?” Manuel asked.

“You already told me I don’t have any finesse,” Edge answered. “Look at the ring and tell me what it means to you.”

Ramon had to ignite the lamp for Manuel to find the fallen ring, and when he did retrieve it the old man carried it close to the light, bent his head close to examine it.

“What made you interested?” Edge asked, sitting on the bare springs of the bed, reaching below and picking up his rifle. He placed the weapon across his thighs, pointing at nothing.

Ramon leaned against the dresser. “I am not,” he answered. “My uncle, he became excited when he heard the story of your ring. He asked me to come to help him. Some help.”

Edge grinned. “Luck of the draw.”

“My eyes are not so good as they once were,” Manuel said, and held out the ring. “Here, Ramon. Tell me what is carved in the metal.”

The younger man crossed the room, took the ring and held it to the light, twisting and turning it, his face showing an expression of disgust for its tawdriness.

“It is worthless,” he said. “Metal junk. A trinket, that’s all.”

“The design!” Manuel said with harshness, licking his lips so that they shone through his white whiskers.

“A snake,” Ramon said with a shrug. “Too badly formed to identify. A jararaca, maybe. Or perhaps a cascabel. I do not know.”

Now the old man’s eyes shone, as well. He shook his head. “It does not matter.” He looked at Edge. “Where did you get the ring, señor?”

“My business.”

This did not discourage Manuel. “From an old man, perhaps? Old like me? A Mexican?”

“Close enough.”

Manuel nodded his satisfaction. “There is a story, señor. Of many bandits who stole much money from the army of the United States. Long ago. Many of the bandits were killed and only three were left when they arrived at Montijo.”

Ramon was suddenly interested, looking from his uncle, to Edge, to the ring. The last was suddenly no longer worthless.

“I heard something like that,” Edge allowed evenly.

Again the nod. “In Montijo one of the bandits was killed. The other two captured. The money was never recovered. The two survivors went to prison. And soon the story died, for the sentences were long and few can survive long terms in the prisons of Mexico. But later, the story re-emerged as something of a legend and there were many romantic tales attached to the legend. One such was that when the three men were captured—one being killed, as I said—each wore a ring and these rings provided the clue to the hiding place of the stolen money.”

“How much money?” Ramon asked with a breathless tone.

Manuel’s tongue flicked out once more and his voice was soft. “The legend has it, ten thousand, American.”

Both Mexicans eyed Edge for confirmation.

“Close enough,” Edge said.

Ramon gasped. Manuel sighed.

“Much money,” the young man said. “Not so much when split three ways.”

Edge now took hold of his rifle, but the muzzle continued to point at a blank wall.

“I ain’t greedy,” he said. “I came south to get back two and a half thousand that was stole from me. I had it and then had to let it go again. I’ll be happy with something near eight hundred dollars profit from the trip.”

Manuel nodded, tugged at the shirt sleeve of his nephew. “This is not Mexico City, Ramon,” he said sagely. “To have something more than three thousand three hundred American dollars in Montijo, makes a man very rich indeed.”

Ramon considered this point for several moments and finally nodded his assent. But, in the spluttering oil lamp, Edge saw that the young man’s greed had not diminished: merely retreated behind a thin veneer of pretense.

“We don’t know where the money is hid yet,” Edge pointed out.

“The ring?” Manuel requested, extending his hand.

Ramon put it in his palm.

“What did you say the design represents?”

Ramon shrugged. “A snake.”

Manuel smiled. “You are perhaps too young to have sampled the delights at the southern end of Montijo,” he said softly. “Or perhaps you are so handsome that you have not found the need to pay for your pleasures.”

For several moments the younger man continued to look at the ring with dull eyes, his smooth face creased by a deep frown of perplexity. But abruptly his features lit up.

“The bordello!” he exclaimed with excitement. “I have been there. El Serpiente. The Snake.”

Edge Sighed. “With Luis, a bordello figures,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ALTHOUGH the plaza of Montijo provided the center of the fiesta it was not the only focal point of celebrations to mark the mayor’s birthday. Just as Edge had been approached by Esteban as he rode in from the north, so other young pimps shouted offers as the three men passed through the southern end of town. They went on foot, having stopped off at the livery stable for Edge to collect his horse. Ramon pad been suspicious of this, his uncle appearing to accept Edge’s explanation of a pressing engagement out of town after he had collected his share of the money. But Edge had allowed the men to retrieve their weapons and the confidence of the revolvers convinced the younger man that he was capable of taking countermeasures against an attempted doublecross: despite the speed of action the American had already exhibited to such effect.

All three ignored the offers, not bothering to reply to them and the young brothers of allegedly beautiful sisters did not press. For there was about the trio a latent menace that deterred interference with their determined progress. Edge sauntered along, leading the big white stallion by the bridle, flanked on the left by the strutting Ramon and on the right by the purposeful Manuel.

“There it is, señor,” Manuel said at length and Edge looked ahead with hooded eyes.

They were clear of the main town now and the street had become more uneven with the texture of an uncared for trail. There was more space between the buildings on each side and most of them were small shacks, obviously the homes of the poorest of peons. But one was much larger than the rest, long and low, several yards deep, covering enough ground to allow for many rooms throughout the single story of the structure.

There was no light out here except that provided by the moon, but this pale luminescence was sufficient for the faded white lettering along the front of the building to be read: EL SERPIENTE.

Edge’s narrowed eyes examined the side and front of the building as the trio drew level with it, saw that the windows were boarded up, the doors tightly closed, emitting no light.

“When were you last here?” Edge asked of Manuel.

The old man grinned. “I am not too old to be lacking in all my faculties, señor,” he said. “Last week I gave a good account of myself. It is not closed. The windows are shuttered to discourage prying eyes. El Serpiente only provide exhibition for money.”

Edge grunted and saw the bordello was indeed in business, for several burros were hitched to a rail at the far side of the building. He went to tether his horse and the two Mexicans waited for him to return before Manuel thudded a fist against the heavy doors.

“Do not break it down,” a shrewish female voice called in Spanish. “The girls are here all night. All day, too, if you have the strength and the money.”

A heavy bolt was slid and the doors thrown open. Edge blinked in the sudden light, looked over the shoulder of a fat, elderly woman into a crudely decorated and sparsely furnished entrance hallway. He saw, in the light of ceiling-hung oil lamps, a number of women and girls lounging on sagging and burst sofas, seeking the newcomers with weary-eyed gazes.

“Ah,” the fat woman exclaimed with delight. “Manuel and Ramon Armendariz. El Serpiente is honored to entertain two members at once of our illustrious mayor’s family.”

She punctuated her mocking welcome with a moist belch at which she and the two Mexicans laughed rowdily.

“I will tell my father you will not vote for him at the next election,” Ramon said with good humor.

“And get me closed up, or even shot?” the fat madam said with a pretense of horror. “Come in, come in. Everything in my house is yours.”

Then she saw Edge, examined his height and build, the mean set of his features.

“Americano?” she whispered.

Manuel nodded and the woman smiled. “He has much money, many dollars, to spend here?”

“And speaks much Spanish to insure he is not cheated, señora,” Edge put in.

His knowledge surprised the woman. “It is señorita, señor,” she corrected and grinned. “I have seen too many faces of men in this business to ever choose to marry one.”

Edge looked over her shoulder again, at the selection of. prostitutes arrayed for selection. They were of all shapes and sizes, ages and colorations, their bodies outlined by tight-fitting shifts falling from neck to ankles. But they had in common an expression of bitter acceptance of the life they had chosen, a look in their eyes which was almost animal in cast.

“I guess I’ve seen too many women like this to consider marriage myself,” he said.

The madam smiled and stood back, ushering the newcomers inside. “That is good,” she said. “Married men are bad customers. They come only as long as their wives do not find out. And wives are quick to know.”

Once inside the house, the doors were quickly slammed closed and Edge cast sidelong glances at the two Mexicans, saw that the memories of past visits were crowding into their minds. There had been no plan of campaign discussed as the trio set out for the bordello and now they were inside it, the Mexicans were obviously concerning themselves with a more urgent need than ten thousand dollars. Edge himself had done no forward planning, had chosen to wait to see the set up before deciding how to go about locating the cache.

“Girls,” the madam said and the prostitutes rose wearily and pirouetted with a complete lack of grace.

As they turned Edge saw that each had a number sewn to the back of her shift and his eyes narrowed as he saw the numerals, his mind formulating the outline of his first attempt to find the money.

“Rosita for me,” Ramon said.

“And I’ll take Margarita,” his uncle decided.

One girl, young and slim, stepped towards Manuel while another of almost forty with broad hips and large breasts approached Ramon. They were numbers ten and eight respectively. Many of the numbers between one and twenty-five were missing, their owners apparently already engaged with clients of the house.

“We number the girls for the benefit of Americanos not familiar with our language,” the madam explained to Edge. “I can recommend numbers twelve and twenty-one, señor. Both are new. Not virgins, you understand, but almost.”

The two designated smiled beguilingly at Edge the others glowered.

“I’ll take one,” the tall American decided, his hooded eyes falling upon a thin girl who was very young and quite plain, with a narrow, small breasted body.

When the girl smiled at being chosen she showed a row of broken, much stained teeth. The madam smiled. “She is only twelve. We do not get many Americanos in Montijo, but when we do, they all choose the youngest. Maria is young in years, but experienced in the ways of love. Payment before.”

The woman held out her hand and was rewarded with pesos from the Mexicans, a dollar from Edge’s fast dwindling supply.

“The girls will show you the way,” she said, nodding to a door at the rear of the lobby as the unselected girls resumed their seats. “If your partners please, I ask that you give them no money. I will collect it when you leave and put it in the bank for them.”

Everybody in the room knew she was lying, but nobody made a comment, Ramon and Manuel moved towards the door with their girls and Edge followed with the young Maria. The door gave on to a corridor badly lit in comparison with the lobby. As they moved down it,

Edge saw that doors on each side were numbered with crudely painted numerals and from behind some of them came sounds of released passion. He formed his lips into a line of satisfaction when Margarita halted outside a door marked ten, opened it and stood aside for Ramon to enter. Then, further along, door eight was opened by Rosita who ushered Manuel inside.

“We will stay all night,” Manuel said in English. “Until it becomes quiet and all are asleep.”

Edge nodded and went in the wake of Maria, following her to the very end of the corridor, where she opened the door numbered one, went in ahead of her client. The room was at the side of the building and Edge could hear the restless movements of the burros and his horse just beyond the boarded up window. This was something he had not planned for, but it fitted well with what he had in mind and his expression was almost one of smugness as he surveyed the room. It was little more than a narrow alcove, wide enough for a bed with a strip of bare floorboards beside it. On a shelf attached to the wall above the head of the bed was an array of feminine accouterments. There was nothing else in the room.

But this did not cause Edge any concern. It was only his first attempt and he was prepared to fail. His thinking was that a single snake formed the design of the ring. Any reasonable number could have been incorporated, but had not been. Thus, one snake could indicate girl number one or room number one at El Serpiente. And, Edge thought, if he was in the right place, the money would not be on open display.

So he looked at the girl as she lit the stub of a candle, placed it in the center of a dish upon the shelf.

You require anything special, señor?” she asked dully, unbuttoning the top of her shift

“Straight,” Edge said.

The girl’s smile was a genuine one, of relief, then became hidden as she grasped the neck of the garment and pulled it up over her head. She was completely nude underneath, her body thinner than it appeared when covered, protruding bones giving it an ugly, angular appearance. Edge reached her in two short strides, drawing his right hand gun.

“You need some beauty sleep, honey,” he said in English and rapped her hard on the head with the gun butt, caught her body as it went limp.

He arranged her gently upon the bed, removing the shift from around her head so that she would not suffocate. He draped the garment carefully over her emaciated leanness and went to the door, looking for a lock. There was none and he cursed softly, moved to the shelf above the bed. He found a hairbrush and used his razor to slash away the matted bristles, then took hold of the candle and held it low, began to examine the dirtstreaked, dust covered floorboards. He found one which was loose and prized it up with his knife, had soon laid bare the earth beneath the strip of room beside the bed.

Using the bristleless brush as a shovel, he began to dig.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE atmosphere in the tiny room was fetid and Edge sweated freely as he scooped up the earth with his makeshift shovel. There was no sign on the surface of the earth beneath the floorboards to indicate where, many years in the past, Luis Aviles and his two fellow bandits might have dug to bury their ten thousand ill-gotten dollars. So the tall man had to delve at random, going two feet down in each place before moving on to another. His expression of grim determination did not alter with each disappointment, and his concentration upon the task was never broken. Even when the candle exhausted its tallow and the flame spluttered out in the pool of liquid wax, he did not stop, knowing that the money would have been placed into a container before it was consigned to its grave: that the hairbrush would clash with some solid object to mark the end of his labor.

He had been working for upwards of an hour, so intent upon the task that he had forgotten about the unconscious Maria, could not even hear her regular breathing against the scraping of the hairbrush. Thus she came out of it without Edge being aware of the fact, and he did not see her fear-filled eyes surveying his back as he worked in a corner of the room; was ignorant of her slow, careful movement as she inched down the bed, placed her feet upon the floor and drew her naked body erect. The door latch gave the faintest squeak as she turned the handle, froze her to the spot, her body trembling from head to foot. As she pulled the door open the hinges gave an even lower creak, and she went out sideways, eyes fastened upon the impassive back of the intent American.

But this creak came simultaneously with a thud of the brush hitting wood and Edge went into a fast bout of furious digging and scraping. He was unaware of the door left ajar, of the low moan that escaped from the throat of Maria. Not until the door crashed open, smashing back against the wall and a flame touched a wick, burst into brightness, did Edge spin round on his haunches, go for his gun. Then he stayed his hand.

“Señor, you spent too long with such an inept girl, and you were too quiet.”

The speaker as Manuel, who leveled a Colt at Edge. Beside him, also holding a revolver in his right hand while his left raised an oil lamp was Ramon. Both were in their underwear and may have appeared ridiculous under other circumstances. At their feet lay the naked, unfortunate Maria, victim of yet another gun butt to her head.

“Please continue with the work of a rabbit, señor,” Manuel urged, waving the revolver, not attempting to enter the tiny room. “We’re most interested in what your burrowing will uncover.”

“You don’t trust me, amigos,” Edge said.

“We do not trust our own mothers, señor,” came the reply.

Edge grinned coldly and returned to his work, light from Ramon’s lamp spilling into the room and down the hole. He could see a narrow section of rotten wood which gave off an evil smell of mildewed decay as he continued to scrape earth from it.

“We decided, señor,” Manuel said in a conversational tone, “that while a man could be rich in Montijo with over three thousand dollars, with five thousand he could be richer.”

“Logical, Mexican thinking,” Edge muttered scraping away enough earth to reveal the top of what seemed to be a bullion box, some two feet by one.

“You will work a little faster, señor,” Manuel encouraged when Edge halted to examine his find.

There was an iron handle at one end and when he leaned into the hole to tug upon it the bolt securing one side ripped from the rotten wood. But the other bolt held and the lid came up with a dull creak of hinges rusted by time. As if she had been waiting for this as a signal Maria regained consciousness for the second time that night and on this occasion threw caution to the wind. Her thin mouth stretched wide and her scream was loud enough to reach into every room of the building, ripping sleep or lust from every mind in the place.

Edge leapt to his feet, going into a turn to bring him to face the door, saw Ramon and Manuel looking down at the screaming girl. The younger man’s gun had followed the direction of his eyes so Edge shot Manuel first, the bullet entering his throat, gushing a fountain of bright red blood down upon the girl. Ramon squeezed the trigger of his revolver as a reflex action to the explosion of Edge’s gun. His shot ended the scream of Maria by blasting away her jaw and as Ramon snapped up the Tranter and his eyes Edge’s Colt spoke again. The bullet caught the handsome young man squarely between the eyes and a curtain of blood bathed his face as he fell with his uncle across the writhing body of the naked girl. The lamp fell from his lifeless fingers and sprayed the three of them with oil which immediately burst into flames. The screams and shouts which accompanied the thud of footfalls along the corridor were suddenly drowned by the shriek of utter horror and agonized pain as flames enveloped the flesh of the injured girl.

Edge looked down into the hole, the leaping flames providing ample light for him to see the contents of the rotted box. There was a gaping hole in one side and there was a sole five dollar bill left intact to show the fortune it had once held. For the remainder had been reduced to chewed-up shreds of white and green, lining the box to provide a soft nest for six tiny white rats which cowered from the light while their ugly black mother stared upwards with blinded eyes and bared teeth.

“You dirty rats,” Edge snarled and emptied his revolver into the nest, hurled the exhausted weapon in after the shells.

Shouts from the blazing doorway drew Edge’s attention and he unholstered the other Colt, fired in a rage through the leaping flames, heard a scream and saw the fat madam tumble into the room, blood spouting from her stomach, her clothes burning ferociously. He ignored her pleas for aid and turned to the boarded-up window, kicked once to shatter the glass, three times more to rip away the boards. Then he dived through the opening head first, leapt into the saddle of the white stallion and leaned forward to unhitch the reins.

He galloped fast towards the south, then swung west, finally north to take him in a wide sweep around the town. It was easy to keep track of his direction for he was able to take as his bearing the leaping flames of the El Serpiente bordello as the fire took hold of the entire building. He cast one final look over his shoulder, then heeled his mount into an even faster gallop northwards.

“Guess there’s some real hot whores in the old town tonight,” he muttered.

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EDGE: #3 APACHE DEATH

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