Free Ten Grand by George G. Gilman

riding he had been doing to this point.  He knew his destination and he believed what Luis had told him about Hoyos as a refuge for El Matador and his men.  It seemed to grow hotter with every mile they traveled south and the slow pace set by the irascible burro was therefore to be welcomed in terms of conserving strength and energy for whatever lay ahead.
    They provided an odd sight as they traversed the parched, sun-bleached terrain of northern Mexico. The old man hunched over the small burro, chin resting on .his chest, head hidden beneath the wide-brimmed sombrero, body lost under the drape of the poncho, legs hanging low on each side so that his feet often hit the ground where it humped.  Behind him high and erect on the back of the big chestnut horse, the tall, lean American riding with a blank expression of his bearded face, just the top half in shadow from his hat brim. In this shadow gleamed the two slits which were his eyes, watchful out of narrowed lids, reconnoitering the country ahead
    Luis had spoken the truth when he said that Hoyos was many miles to the south, for they had to ride throughout the entire day and it was long after nightfall when the old man pulled in his rope reins and slid to the ground, looked back at Edge. 
    “You tired?”  Edge demanded, his tone warning that an affirmative answer would signal a violent reaction.
    “Señor,” Luis said. “Hoyos is up there.” 
    He pointed, and Edge looked in the direction indicated. They were in high country now, had been climbing steadily since before the sun slid behind the western horizon. They were in the Sierra Madre range which reached down the western side of Mexico and through the length of Central America to link the Rockies in the north to the Andes in the south. Often, Luis had hesitated as they climbed, apparently undecided upon the direction to take when more than one route was revealed. But the skills learned in his violent younger days stood him in good stead and when he finally called the halt there was confidence, tinged with pride, in the fact that he had led the American where he wanted to go.
    Looking up, Edge could see a narrow trail winding across the face of what at first appeared to be a sheer cliff of rock, towards a plateau at the top. But the rock face had a slight incline sufficient for the trail to zigzag to the top, only wide enough to allow passage for one rider.
    “You see why the bandits like it, señor,” Luis said.  “The mountains beyond are impassable. This is the only way into the town. The soldiers are able to attack only when the fools above are too drunk to watch for attack.  My good wishes, señor. El Matador will surely kill you, but it is customary to wish an amigo luck, even when he attempts the impossible.”
    Luis urged his burro to the side of the trail and gave Edge an exaggerated bow to usher him by.
    “Luis,” Edge said softly, without moving forward.
    Luis looked up, the tone in which his name had been spoken raising fear to his face. “Señor?”
    “It is customary for me to kill men who do not do what I ask,” Edge said.
    “But my money? My ten thousand, American.” His voice was plaintive.
    “Your life is not worth more?” Edge asked easily.
    The old man seemed on the verge of arguing the point, but then he sighed. “Truly, you have no honor, señor.”
    Edge grinned. “Truly I have not,” he agreed and heeled his horse forward after Luis had mounted and started up the narrow trail.
    The going got steeper as they rose higher, the unprotected edge of the trail presenting a terrifying prospect of an unhampered drop to a crushing death should burro or horse put a foot wrong.
    “Señor?” Luis called from ahead.
    Edge grunted a response.
    “What if El Matador has a guard posted?”
    “You are in front,” Edge told him laconically. “The guard will kill you first.”
    He heard the old man swallow hard, and there was no further talk from him. At the top the trail broadened a