The Deputy - Edge Series 2 (28 page)

‘You’re doing a good job for your father,
Senorita
Jurez.’

‘
Gracias, senor.
He has taught me well and I enjoy the work with horses. I am always good at what I enjoy.’

A slight change of her posture against the door frame, the tone of her voice and a beguiling expression on her scarred face now certainly gave a distinct tacit meaning to what the said.

‘Is that so?’

‘I have been told this,
senor.
But not so many times. I am not the most . . . ‘ There was a catch in her voice and she swallowed hard then decided to pursue the line she had instigated.

‘I know I am not fair of face and in a small town there is little opportunity to . . . ‘

‘I guess we’re talking about what I think we’re talking about,
senorita?’

‘I know exactly what I am talking about,
senor.
But talk does little to fulfil the need, uh? You will come with me, I hope? The stable does not serve the purpose well. Unless the stable is all there is?’

The town remained quiet as they came out of the livery and just a few buildings around the plaza were as dimly lit as the cantina: the limp bunting not removed after yesterday’s fiesta adding to the impression of cheerlessness that pervaded the village. 159

There was no noise from anywhere and the only movements to be seen in the night were those that were made by Rosita Jurez and Edge as she led him across the front of the church. Then into a narrow alley between it and the general store smelling pungently or kerosene oil and spices: where it was pitch black, for no moonlight penetrated the narrow space between the flanking walls.

The woman took hold of Edge’s hand and gripped it tightly enough to suggest she wanted the reassurance of physical contact rather than to guide him through an area she knew well and he hardly at all.

At the end of the four feet wide alley, bright moonlight spilled across a tombstone crowded cemetery behind the church. Next to this the backyard of the store was littered with empty crates, discarded sacks and other debris turned out by the storekeeper.

‘There,
senor,’
Rosita said and pointed with her free hand while she continued to tightly grip one of his. Drew his attention to where, beyond the crumbling rear boundary wall of the cemetery some two hundred feet away, was a small shack, dark in the moonlight against the sand coloured side of a barren knoll.

‘Is that where you and your pa live?’

‘No, our house is a short distance outside of San Luis. Nobody lives in that place anymore. It is where I go whenever I wish to – ‘

‘Show how good you can be at what you enjoy doing?’ he interrupted evenly. She vented a soft curse, snatched her hand away from his and came to an abrupt halt. And he thought she was going to whirl and run from him. But a moment later her disease-ravaged face suddenly lost its angry scowl and she eyed him with gentle reproach.

‘When I wish to have privacy is what I was about to say to you,
senor.
I do not – ‘

She broke off and her mouth and eyes widened in horror. And her head snapped from side to side. Then Edge heard subdued sounds behind him: a footfall and a sharp intake of breath. He whirled and instinctively dropped into a half crouch as he reached for his holstered Colt. Saw two men advancing stealthily among the many tombstones from out of the moon shadows at the rear of the church.

They were of matching height, the one on the left more broadly built, the other with a moustache. Both dressed in dark clothing. This was all he had time to register about the pair before they lunged to the attack - raised and swung four feet lengths of stout timber. The heavier one rasped a warning to his partner as the Colt came clear of the holster and Edge brought up his hand, thumbed back the hammer and curled a finger to the trigger. But before he could get off a shot a piece of the two-by-two wood was swung fast 160

to the side then angled hard down. And it felt like the bone in his forearm snapped as white-hot agony streaked up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips. The revolver spun clear of his hand and he experienced an instant of ice cold fear it would explode a shot as it hit the ground to crack a bullet back at him. But there was just the dull thud of metal on dirt before he became aware again of the searing pain that paralysed his right arm.

For a moment he felt he was in an unreal world in which he heard a scream that maybe came from deep within his own being. Then he knew it could not be his vocal chords that had created this high pitched wail as he staggered back, wrenched his head to the side and saw Rosita Jurez. Her arms were thrown wide in a gesture of helplessness, her head was flung back and her mouth gaped as she continued to direct a shriek into the night sky.

But whether she was on his side or that of the men attacking him he could not tell. And next he gave no thought to anything outside of a need to survive – which meant he must not sprawl to the ground before the two men with clubs went down. Then suddenly the woman was between him and his attackers, still shrieking incoherently. And he gripped her shoulder with the hand of his good arm, jerked her to the side and released her so that momentum sent her staggering away from the centre of the violence. The note in her scream changed key: switched from a sound of terror to that of rage. And one of the men vented a demonic laugh. The other snarled a Spanish obscenity. Then Edge rasped in English:

‘Returned to you in spades, you sonofabitch!’

He backed off slowly and the men came after him. Moved out of the cemetery and into the back yard of the store. They were in no great hurry to finish the job: clearly confident of their ability to complete it in their own time and their own way. Until Edge launched his counter attack: lunged to the side away from where the woman was crouched on her haunches, sobbing into cupped hands. And dropped into a crouch himself. Used the hand of his good arm to scoop up something he had seen amid the rubble behind the general store.

A broken bottle that he gripped around its sound neck as he unfolded to his feet with a deep-throated roar. Then powered forward, the makeshift weapon glinting with reflected moonlight as he thrust it out in front of him. Because the bottle was in his left hand he aimed for the man on his left, who was the closer of the two attackers. It was an act of desperation by a no longer young man who had reached the reckless conclusion that he must either win this fight or lose his life. And in the fear of death he 161

ignored the risk that either man could land a second disabling blow. Or an instantly fatal one. The chance had to be taken.

Then his own fear was transcended by the terror of one of the men in front of him. Who saw the glinting shards of pointed glass thrust toward his face and was panicked from attack into defence: swung the length of timber at the bottle instead of the man holding it. Edge snatched his hand out of the descending arc of the club and lunged again: enjoyed a moment of glowing satisfaction as he felt the circle of jagged glass dig deep into the flesh of the screaming man and grate on his facial bones. Then he withdrew his hand as he heard the length of wood thud to the ground and saw two empty hands come up to clutch at blood gushing wounds.

He whirled, hurled the broken bottle aside and streaked his left hand to the nape of his neck: jerked it away. A flick of his wrist unfolded the blade of the straight razor out from the handle.

Then the moustached attacker was suddenly no longer a threat. For horror at what had happened to his partner compelled him to freeze and stare at the man’s bloodied face. And a moment later he looked away, listening.

The pounding had ceased in Edge’s ears and now he heard the sounds that had captured the attention of the Mexican: voices raised in questioning tones, the thudding feet of men running. Out on the plaza beyond the church and the store. The uninjured man looked once more at his hunkered down, sobbing partner, then at the club in his hand. And back at his partner who rose, moaned and began to stagger in a ragged circle, blinded by both hands pressed to his blood run face: maybe by glass gouged eyes. Finally he hurled away the length of wood, a look on his face that compounded this act of surrender as his gaze found and locked with that of Edge.

‘Madre de Dios!’
he muttered and seemed rooted to the spot for the moment it took for Edge to swing his arm to the side and bring it across in front of him, seeming to slap the man in the face.

But the move was a slashing action and the blade of the razor cut deeply into one cheek, ploughed through the man’s moustache and was not pulled clear of the flesh until an identical cut was opened in the other cheek.

Then Edge stepped back, lowered his arm and said softly: ‘So right now it’s just you and me, you sonofabitch - reckon your partner’s had enough. And we don’t know who these new fellers will be backing.’

He jerked his head in the direction of the rising sounds as the man felt sticky liquid start to spread down his face and seep, warm and salty, into his mouth. And he raised a 162

hand and stared fixedly at the dark stain on it for a stretched second. Then he groaned, moved to his partner, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and they staggered off across the graveyard, both of them now sobbing convulsively.

Edge wiped the razor on his pants leg, folded the blade closed and returned it to the pouch hung on the Indian beaded thong at the nape of his neck. Swept his gaze over the surrounding area, located his revolver and stooped to pick it up. Because of his virtually paralysed right arm he needed to use his left hand and had difficulty in getting the Colt back into the holster tied down to his right thigh. Then as the frontrunners of the alarmed group lumbered into sight between the church and the store he said to the softly moaning woman: ‘It’s over, lady.’

Rosita seemed to become aware of the newcomers rather than heard what Edge said. Raised her tear-stained face into the moonlight to stare at Straker, Alvarez and a handful of local men, including Torrejon.

‘What in God’s name is happening here?’ The Federale sergeant left no doubt about what was in his mind as his contemptuous gaze switched between the woman on her knees and the man standing over her with a revolver in his hand. A similar look was on the bearded face of the squint-eyed Alvarez as he accused scornfully: ‘You have to be truly desperate to use such force to take a woman,
gringo!’

Edge responded with a glinting eyed scowl but otherwise kept his instinctive emotions under control while Straker looked sick to his stomach and seemed dumbstruck by the tableau between one area of tombstones and another of discarded junk. The uniformed man fumbled to unbutton the flap of his holster as he waited for the answer he was sure he was going to get from the distraught Rosita Jurez. And time seemed to stand still as Edge felt himself caught up in a tight grip of high tension while he waited for the woman to speak. And abruptly recalled his initial indecision about her: realised the whole violent business could still be an ambush she had helped to set up and now was about to trap him in another way after the first plan failed. Then she blurted out her response in fast Spanish and only Straker was uncomprehending as she told what had happened. Pointed at the lengths of two-by-two the men had used as weapons. Explained how they had jumped Edge and had maybe tried to kill him before he got the better of both of them.

And since the sixgun remained in Torrejon’s holster Straker’s mind was eased, his understanding of the situation helped by the changing expressions on the faces of the rest of the men who knew what Rosita was saying. When the woman was through the Bishopsburg sheriff asked into the heavy silence:

163

‘You need some help, deputy?’

Edge shook his head.

‘Much obliged, feller, but no thanks. Though I figure I understand why you asked?’

He finally succeeded in thrusting the Colt with his left hand into the holster on his right hip while his pained arm hung limply at his side. Then he showed a wan grin in response to Straker’s quizzical expression and added: ‘I don’t usually have this much trouble getting it in.’

164

CHAPTER • 18

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FROM PARTIALLY overheard talk among Torrejon, Straker and Alvarez as they and
the other men moved back along the alley toward the plaza, Edge got the impression the woman was considered the reason for the attack. These men were convinced the motive was sexual jealousy and had nothing to do with the Bishopsburg business. But he was not in any frame of mind to give this aspect of the matter much thought as Rosita again led him by the hand toward the house where she lived with her father. His arm hurt like hell during the half-mile trek to the isolated, single story, five-room adobe place at the dead end of a winding track. And it continued to throb after he received some gentle attention from the solicitous woman as she urged him to keep quiet so as not to wake her father.