Luis began to pray, his voice low, the words tumbling from his lips at great speed. But the insistent prodding of rifle muzzles urged the prisoners between the poles and Luis curtailed his plea as he was thrust into the cantina. It was not a big room, was probably one of many such bars in Hoyos. It had a long counter running down one side with a dozen or so chair-flanked tables in the open area. Lighting was provided by evil-smelling oil lamps hung from the ceiling, their odor mingling with that of stale tequila, cooking fat, sawdust, vomit and rotting wood.
Captain Alfaro lounged behind a table at the rear of the room, drinking without enjoyment. On the table was a bottle of tequila from which he refilled his glass, and a heap of salt from which he took a pinch to place on the back of his hand before each sip. A thin column of smoke rose from the long cigar which rested on the edge of the table, the ash almost up to the wood. Edge and Luis were marched to within a yard of the table and ordered to halt. The soldiers backed off leveling rifles. Alfaro, his dark, cruel eyes flicking from the face of Luis to that of Edge and back again, touched his tongue delicately to the salt, sipped the tequila. He did this three times before speaking.
“You are bandits.” It was not a question. Neither the voice nor the expression invited either agreement or disagreement. But Luis, his dull brain seething in a turmoil of fear, was unaware of such subtleties. He clasped his hands in front of his chest and his wizened face took on an ingratiating expression again, as the captain became suddenly more powerful than the Almighty.
“Oh no, my lord,” he said quickly, his voice a whine. “I am a poor Mexican peasant escaping from the bandits. They attacked my village and killed all the people there. I am running from them.”
Alfaro licked and sipped, then pulled on his left ear lobe. Edge heard a movement behind and flicked a glance at Luis, saw the rifle butt slam into the Mexican’s kidneys, saw his legs fold so that he went to his knees, heard the whoosh of escaping air.
“You will speak when ordered to do so,” Alfaro said coldly. “I will give that order. You, too, gringo.”
The captain’s eyes locked with those of Edge, who gazed back steadily, so that it was the other who broke, choosing to transfer his scorn to the more rewarding Luis. Luis, on his knees and therefore at a height disadvantage in relation to the seated captain, looked across the table like an apologetic dog.
“You are bandits,” Alfaro began again. “You ride with the villain they call El Matador. I have excellent information that he and his band of cowardly dogs have been active north of Hoyos and now I await them. You were sent by El Matador to ensure that Hoyos would provide safe refuge. Speak.”
The salt and tequila ritual began again as the dark eyes looked with disinterest at the prisoners. Luis’ mouth began to work, but he had trouble giving sound to the words.
“You’re right,” Edge said evenly. “El Matador and me are like that.” He crossed his second finger over his first and held up his hand, bringing it right back to his shoulder. Nobody made a move to stop him and he could easily have drawn the razor which still nestled undetected in its pouch. And he knew he could have slit the throat of the complacent captain. But in the next instant four bullets would have ripped into his back.
Edge dropped his hand. “Down at the foot of the trail there is a group of one hundred men. I figure you haven’t got long to live, Captain.”
“He lies, he lies!” Luis screamed, finding his voice at last, having listened to Edge in open-mouth amazement.
Alfaro ignored Luis, watching Edge. “I believe some of what you say,” he said. “That you ride with El Matador. Perhaps that he and his men are waiting below. But not one hundred Americano. I told you my information is reliable and I know there are not more than twenty-five of the pigs in the band.”
“It is right,” Luis agreed, nodding his head violently. “That is how many rode into my village of San Murias and killed all the people.”
Alfaro nodded and sighed, turned to Luis with a show of patient reluctance. Then his eyes shot fire at the kneeling man. “If you are a poor, honest peasant as you claim, señor,” he said with deadly calm, “why were you not killed with the rest? Why did El Matador spare your miserable carcass?”
“Captain, I hid . . .”
“Silence!” thundered Alfaro, and then turned to glower at the unblinking Edge. “Why did you confess so easily, Americano?”
Edge grinned icily. “Figure we’re two of a kind, captain. When we ask questions we like to get the answers we want to hear. We don’t get them, we get mad. When I get mad, captain, somebody gets hurt. You got mad a while back and Luis here got hurt. So far, only my dignity has suffered.”
