Ten Grand Read Free

before he was halfway across the office feet thudded on to the sidewalk outside as two bandits leapt from their horses. The door was kicked open and two shots whined through the gap, clanged against the cell bars. Edge dived for the floor as the town drunk died with a ricochet burning a course through his open mouth and into his brain.
    “We will kill you if you so much as blink an eyelid, señor,” a flat voice said in accented English.
    Edge stayed flat against the floor. “My nose itches,” he said, against the racket of gunfire from the street, punctuated by the death scream of Norman Chase.
    “Scratch and you won’t itch nowhere no more,” came the reply, and the footfalls came into the office. Three dollars a day wasn’t worth dying for, so Edge did not move as the men approached him, one taking the Henry from his hand, the other lowering a rifle muzzle to nudge him behind the left ear. It was hot from firing and singed Edge’s neck hair.
    “Get up slow, señor,” he was told. “Like you were in a tub of black treacle.”
    Edge did so, heard a grunt and felt the knife snatched from its sheath at the back of his belt. Edge only removed his clothes and weapons when he took a bath or made love. He looked into the grinning face of each Mexican, saw in their dark eyes the enjoyment they were deriving from the violence and their triumph. They were hopeful he would make a play. One of them took a cigarillo from behind his ear, ignited it: took a fresh one and lodged it in the resting place vacated by the first. “We are robbing the bank,” the other one said in a conversational tone as the shooting died down outside, finally ended.
    “Never did trust those places,” Edge said. “Bankers ain’t going to do much to protect other people’s money.”
    “You’re the law, you should protect the bank,” the man with the cigarillo pointed out.
    “How many are you?” Edge asked.
    “Twenty, led by El Matador.”
    Edge grinned coldly. “I figure the money’s yours,” he said.
    They both grinned. “I think this is a wise man, Juan,” one said.
    “Wise men live longer,” replied the second. “But not very much longer.”
    They both laughed. Then, while the smoker leaned his rump against the desk and kept his rifle trained steadily upon Edge’s chest, the other started to search the office, opening drawers and cupboards and spilling their contents haphazardly across the floor. With each discovery of what was to him worthless rubbish, his expression darkened. Even after he had found the key to the safe his mood did not return to its former humor. For there was only a half-empty bottle of whiskey inside and when he had taken a long pull at it, was no nearer finding any money.  
    So he ceased the search and came to stand directly in front of Edge. He was shorter than the big, lean man, but his fellow bandit’s rifle more than compensated this physical disadvantage.
    “You don’t trust banks, señor,” he said softly, hardly moving his lips. “So where you keep your money?”
    Edge treated him to a mean grin. “I’m a lawman,” he said. “Not a bandit. I don’t have any money.”
    The Mexican’s hand lashed out and the back of it thudded into Edge’s face. Edge did not so much as blink an eye.
    “Not so wise, señor, I think you are going to die. Maybe it could be easy, or maybe hard. You get wise again, and we make it easy.” He reached up a grimed finger and prodded Edge just above the ear. “Here a bullet is good. Here, not so good.” He jabbed Edge with a short, powerful fist into the lower belly.
    Escaping air whooshed out of Edges mouth, but he made no other sound. The Mexican rubbed his knuckles, bruised by the hard ridge of stomach muscles. The other bandit, while he kept the rifle leveled, allowed his gaze to wonder about the office and his face was suddenly wreathed by a grin again as his eyes fastened upon a loose board high on one wall.
    “Juan,” he called softly.
    The other