Ten Grand Read Free Page A

looked at him with irritation, saw him motion with the cigarillo towards the board.
    “What you think?”
    Juan snapped his attention back to Edge, caught a sudden angry narrowing of the slit eyes.
    “I think we found it,” Juan said and moved quickly, dragging a chair across the floor and climbing on to it. He tore aside the board and gave a yell of delight as he saw the bills stacked on a joist. “Such a rich lawman,” he said, clawing the money from its hiding place. “I think when I retire from being a bandit I become sheriff in a gringo town.”
    Even two thousand five hundred wasn’t worth dying for in Edge’s book. But Jamie had died for two thousand of it, and the death of his kid brother put the matter in a different light. Not to die for. But to take the risk. At a time when the risk was worth taking.
    “What are you doing in there?”
    The voice came from the now quiet street, authoritative, speaking the kind of Spanish Edge had learned from his father.
    “We found the sheriff had a bank of his own,” Juan shouted in reply.
    “Outside.”
    The smoker dropped his cigarillo and mashed it beneath his boot, jabbed the rifle muzzle viciously into Edge’s side.
    “You heard what El Matador said,” he commanded. “Move.”
    “And I guess he ain’t talking bull,” Edge answered, and moved.
     

     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
     
    THE bandits were formed into a half circle of defense across the front of the sheriff’s office, menacing an otherwise empty street. The dead Norman Chase was inside the defenses, the trampled saloon whore outside. Also inside was El Matador and Torres each with a bulging canvas sack at his feet. Edge, emerging in front of the guns of the two men who had disarmed him, took in the scene at a glance, had to do a double take at the bandit leader to check that he was not a child, so small was he. But he saw in the dark brown face a kinship with the set of his own features and he knew this was a man who had lived with violence.
    Matador also sensed an affinity and he seemed to find it confusing. His dark eyes fastened on the face of Edge for a short moment, flicked to Juan.
    “How much you find?” he demanded.
    Edge looked over the heads of the half circle of bandits, searching for a sign of retaliation from the town. He did not expect it, but one had to take account of the unexpected. At the first sign of trouble the sheriff would be blasted, so Edge figured he had to anticipate the moves if he wanted a chance of survival.
    “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