The Good the Bad and the Ugly

by Joe Millard

  THE MAN WITH NO NAME

  His partner is the desperado Tuco, who turns vengeance int a sadistic contest of endurance. His adversary is the ruthless Sentenza, a killer who long ago lost count of the lives he has ended. His goal is a $200,000 treasure in stolen Army gold for which many have died and more will be killed. But his secret is a dying man’s last words...

  THE GOOD THE BAD

  AND THE UGLY

  Joe Millard

  A UNIVERSAL BOOK

  published by

  the Paperback Division of

  W. H. ALLEN & Co. Ltd

  A Universal Book

  First published N Great Britain by

  Universal-Tandem Publishing Co. Ltd, 1968

  Reprinted twice in 1977 by Tandem Publishing Ltd

  This edition reprinted 1978

  by the Paperback Division of

  W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd

  A Howard and Wyndham Company

  44 Hill Sows London W1X 8LB

  First published in the United States by

  Universal Publishing and Distributing Corporation 1967

  Copyright © Produzioni Europa Associate SAS 1967

  Released by United Artsts

  Cover photograph by permission of Baited Artists

  Printed in Crest Britain by

  Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd,

  Aylesbury, Bucks

  ISBN 0 426 13995 X

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without it similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CHAPTER 1

  THE soldier in the Union blue uniform closed his telescope with a snap. He bellied carefully back from his high rocky perch, slid and scrambled down the sheer rock wall of the pass. In the deep shadows at its base he broke into a circle of lounging Union troops.

  A bearded lieutenant rose to his feet.

  “Company coming?”

  “A detail of Johnny Rebs is beading for the pass—a troop of cavalry escorting a single open army wagon.”

  The lieutenant stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “Sounds like a Confederate paywagon. Tomorrow being the fast of March and the Texans occupying Sante Fe—Fort Craig will be figuring on a payday.” He grinned. “They’ll be a lot of mighty disappointed cantiña girls in Santa Fe tomorrow night. Take your places, men, and keep low. Let them get well inside the pass, then hit ’em from both sides hard.”

  The Confederate detail had inched north and west-ward across the savage land for endless days. The men had been hammered by the relentless sun and strangled by the clouds of fine adobe dust that smoked up from the wagon wheels and from the hoofs of the mules that drew it. The vultures had followed the detail, wheeling in tireless circles against the brassy sky. They seemed to know that soon their patience would be rewarded.

  The wagon was an open army buckboard. Stencilled on its side was the legend: 4TH CAVALRY—C.S.A.—Confederate States of America. The wagon bed was nearly filled by a rough pine chest, about the size and proportions of a military coffin. An older man named Baker sat on the chest, facing backward, a long rifle cradled in his arms.

  The driver was a swarthy Texican named Mondrega. On the seat beside him sat a guard named Jackson, his rifle across his lap. The men’s Confederate grey uniforms were thick with dust and blotched with dark patches of sweat. Their cavalry escort rode in a wide circle, completely surrounding the wagon. Two more troopers rode a mile or no ahead as scouts.

  The guard, Jackson, tilted his canteen, choked and cursed wrathfully as the sun-heated water burned his blistered lips.

  “Damn the goddam sun and the goddam dust and the goddam army. As a kid I used to wonder what hell was like. Now that I’ve seen New Mexico, my curiosity’s satisfied.”

  Mondrega grinned.

  “If you think this is hot in February, you should ride across it in July, señor.”

  The old man, Baker, growled over his shoulder, “I’m damned if I’d ride through it again, even if I was froze in a cake of ice. Nobody but a knot-head general or a politician would be dumb enough to fight over a hunk of desert and mountains.”

  “AM but our General Sibley is not dumb, señor,” Mondrega said. “He knows that under those mountains, and out west in California, lie the great fields of gold. The Yankees will have no more money to pay for the war if we can capture these.”

  The cavalry escort had been closing in around the wagon, adding the dust from their mounts to the cloud that never lifted. Jackson was the fast to become aware of the tightening circle.

  He coughed and raised his voice. “Hey, dammit, Sarge. Wasn’t we choking to death fast enough on our own dust to suit you? Get back a ways with yours.”

  The leather-faced sergeant reined his horse closer to the wagon.

  “Which would you rather have in your face, soldier—a cloud of dust or a cloud of Minie balls from Yankee rifles?” He pointed ahead, “Them’s the Sangre de Cristo mountains. On the other side of ’em is Sante Fe. To get through, we got to take Glorietta Pass and Apache Canyon, the best spots in the Territory for a Yankee ambush.”

  “Aw, hell,” Baker growled. “Why would Yankees waste good lead on a flea-bitten handful like us?”

  The sergeant’s jaw dropped. “Hell, man—don’t you know what’s inside that chest your backside is planted on, soldier?”

  “They never told us,” Baker said. “They never tell a foot soldier nothing except to do what he’s ordered on the double.”

  “Man, that chest is full of gold dollars—two hundred thousand of ’em. That’s the whole pay and forage funds of the Fourth Cavalry, plus a sight more they aim to spread around to buy us some important friends. So you guard that chest, soldier. You guard it real damn good.”

  The abrupt transition from blazing sunlight to the deep gloom of the pass left the detail momentarily blinded. Jackson, who had been riding with his eyes squeezed to thin slits against the glare, was the first to recover his vision. His gaze roved across the forbidding rock walls and caught the barest flicker of movement. Brief as it was, he caught the unmistakable blue of a Yankee uniform sleeve.

  He yelled in wordless alarm and flung himself back off the seat into the wagon bed. He was still falling when the walls erupted smoke and flame and the deafening thunder of gunfire. A searing pain streaked along his ribs. Above the racketing of guns rose wild yelling and the scream of a wounded horse.

  Mondrega toppled, landed heavily on Jackson and lay still Baker rolled off the end of the chest and slammed down on the two of them, squirming and uttering liquid, choking sounds.

  Jackson felt the wagon lurch and leap ahead as the terrified mules bolted. The echoing tumult fell away behind and rapidly faded. When he could no longer hear any sound of battle Jackson dragged himself out from under the inert figures of his comrades.

  The mules, nearing exhau
stion from their blind dash, were slowing down. He managed to catch the flying reins and whipsaw the team to a panting halt. He saw that the run had taken them out of the narrow pass and into a broad valley. For the moment he could detect no sound or sign of pursuit.

  He scrambled back into the wagon bed to examine his companions. Mondrega was unconscious from a bullet crease across his skull and bled from a flesh wound in one arm. Baker was in bad shape. A rifle ball had gone through one lung and he was coughing up a steady froth of blood. He needed medical aid—and fast.

  Jackson’s own wound proved no more than a painful crease in which the blood was already congealing. He got to his feet, using the chest for support, and suddenly full awareness of its contents hit him. Two hundred thousand dollars in gold...

  His mouth dried out and a choking sensation caught his throat. If no one else survived the ambush—no one else could know what became of that fortune. He began to shake.

  Abruptly he became aware of the background. To the right the entire slope was covered by the most immense cemetery he had ever seen. The slope was crowded with graves as far as the eye could reach. Each grave was marked by a plain wooden headboard. This could only be Sad Hill Cemetery, the military burying ground begun during the Mexican War, augmented by the Indian troubles and now being swollen by the fruits of the War Between the States.

  Partway up the slope gaped the raw scar of a newly dug grave, not yet occupied. Jackson lunged up to the wagon seat and used the ends of the reins to lash the mules into movement.

  Beside the open grave he sprang down and lowered the tailgate of the wagon. He caught hold of the rope handle an the end of the chest and hauled with all his might, ignoring the pain that knifed along his ribs as his wound reopened. The massive chest moved slowly—but it moved.

  In the wagon bed the wounded Baker opened shock-dimmed eyes. He stared at the empty space where the chest had rested. Then slowly, agonizingly, he rolled his head far enough to see past the back of the wagon to endless rows of marked graves.

  He became dimly aware of the sound of frenzied scraping and the hollow thump of pebbles and earth on wood. It was coming from somewhere close by but the sideboard of the wagon blocked his line of sight. He tried to raise himself up enough to see but the effort proved too much. With a low, gurgling moan he fell back into unconsciousness.

  Mondrega’s eyes flickered open at Baker’s movement, stared blankly around far a moment, then closed again.

  The court martial, held in Santa Fe’s Palace of Governors was little more than a formality. A lieutenant testified to finding the entire cavalry escort dead in the pass and bringing in the bodies for identification and burial.

  Jackson was next on the stand. His story was brief and convincing. He had been the first one hit and knocked from the seat. Then Mondrega and Baker, in succession, had taken bullets and fallen across him, drenching him with their blood.

  “Pretty soon the shooting stopped and the Yankees came to the wagon. I kept still and they thought we were all corpses, I guess. They hauled out the chest and were starting to chop it open when something scared the mules and they bolted.”

  “Was there no pursuit, Private Jackson?”

  “No, sir. I guess they figured a wagonload of corpses wasn’t worth the trouble. After a while I got loose and got the wagon stopped. I did what I could for the others and found the trail to Santa Fe. That’s all I know, sir.”

  Mondrega, one arm in a sling and his head swathed in a turban of bandages, had listened intently to Jackson’s testimony. He had nothing to add on the stand.

  “I saw Private Jackson falling. Then I was hit and fell on him. That’s all I remember until I awoke here in the infirmary.”

  A surgeon followed him to the stand.

  “Private Baker is still in critical condition and unable to appear or testify. He is out of his head most of the time but in lucid moments he recalls only seeing the others go down and then receiving his own wound. In his delirium he appears to be obessed with dying. He mumbles constantly of graves and graveyards.”

  Mondrega started violently at the words. His eyes widened. He controlled himself with a visible effort and sat back, his expression carefully veiled.

  The presiding officer struck the table with his gavel. “In the absence of evidence to the contrary, this court concludes that the two hundred thousand dollars fell into the hands of the enemy through no fault of Private Jackson. We hereby find him not guilty of any misconduct. Court dismissed.”

  A short time later a sergeant appeared in the office of the colonel commanding. He saluted.

  “Sir, it is my duty to report that Private Jackson is gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean—gone?”

  “Right after the trial, sir, he gathered up all his personal belongings, stole the lieutenant’s horse and skedaddled.”

  CHAPTER 2

  HIS name—Sentenza—was known and feared from Texas to the Tetons. Some men crossed themselves at its mention. Others swung hastily to their horses and left the country. Still others reached for fat purses and smiled and prepared to pay off, thinking of enemies who would plague them no longer.

  Sentenza was rangy, lean and hard. He possessed the lithe grace of a catamount. His wedge-shaped face was the colour of old saddle leather. His high cheekbones set off eyes of palest brown. In his long blue frock coat—his habitual costume—he could be mistaken for a circuit-riding preacher until the coat fell open to reveal the most notorious gun in the West. It rested above his left hip, the butt slanting to the right for a lightning-fast cross-draw that no man had ever matched. It featured a custom-made fourteen-inch barrel for balance and accuracy.

  By profession Sentenza was a hired killer. His deadly skill was for sale to any man who could pay the price. It was said that he would gun down his own mother without a qualm if someone hired him for the task and Sentenza himself had never denied the charge. If he had ever known emotions they had long since burned to ashes. He neither loved nor hated. He only killed.

  He smiled seldom. Sometimes, in fanciful moments he thought of himself as already dead. The thought sharpened his enjoyment of living.

  He dismounted in front of the adobe ranch house. Leaving his handsome coal-black horse at the worn hitchrail, he stood for a moment, looking at the house.

  The door was open. After a moment he walked in on silent feet.

  A pretty Mexican woman was in the act of setting a wooden bowl of beans and a chunk of crusty bread before a young boy in his teens, obviously her son. She and the boy looked up, startled at the sudden appearance of Sentenza.

  He stared at them, silent and unsmiling, until a look of fear came into the woman’s eyes. She caught the boy’s arm and drew him out of the chair. Watching the stranger from frightened eyes, she backed away, pulling the boy with her. She darted through an inner door.

  A faint mutter of voices reached Sentenza. Then a swarthy man stepped into the room. He studied Sentenza, frowning faintly.

  “What may I do for you, señor?”

  “You’re Mondrega?”

  The swarthy man nodded.

  “And I know you, too, now. Yost are the gunman they call Sentenza.”

  “My reputation has travelled far,” the killer said with a dead smile. “But for that matter, so have I—and without food. I thank you for your generous hospitality.”

  He sat down at the boy’s place, broke off a piece of the bread and began to eat the beans with a wooden spoon. The other watched him steadily from wary eyes.

  After a moment he said, “Baker sent you, didn’t he?”

  Sentenza nodded, his mouth full of beans and bread.

  Slowly Mondrega pulled back a chair and sat down opposite the visitor. He put both palms flat on the plank table and bent forward.

  “Tell Baker I have already told him everything I know. Tell him all I want is to be left in peace, understand? It will do him no good to keep on bothering me. I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told him abou
t that damned boxful of gold dollars.”

  There was a barely perceptible break in the rhythm of Sentenza’s chewing. He swallowed heavily.

  “How many gold dollars?”

  “Two hundred thousand, they said.”

  Sentenza’s pale eyes narrowed.

  “No wonder Baker was close-mouthed about this business. Now I know why the names seemed familiar. The missing Confederate cavalry fund. Tell me more about the dollars, Mondrega”

  “How can I?” the Mexican said, with a trace of irritation. “I was unconscious almost the entire time.”

  “Almost?”

  Mondrega spread his hands. “I must have come to for a moment once, in my mind is a picture of graves, thousands of them on a hillside. I thought it was only another of the crazy dreams until I learned at the hearing that Baker also had babbled of graves. But Baker already knows that because I told him. I swear I have told no one else until now, señor.”

  “Baker knows something else, too. He knows that Jackson came to see you last week. Is it true Jackson came here? Or is Baker wrong about that?”

  “He’s not wrong. Jackson did come here.”

  “What name is he using now? What does he call himself?”

  Mondrega’s eyes narrowed.

  “What makes you think he has changed his name?”

  “Because I haven’t found him. When I look for someone I always find him—eventually. That’s what I’m usually paid for. And Baker will also want to know why Jackson came here, what he wanted to know and what he said about that box.”

  “He wanted the same thing Baker wants—to find out how much I know and to make sure I would not talk.”

  The ghost of a smile touched the gunman’s lips.

  “By some strange coincidence, Baker sent me to make sure of the same thing.”

  The silence grew. Beads of perspiration began to dot Mondrega’s forehead.

  He asked hoarsely, “How much is Baker paying you to kill me?”