by Joe Millard
“Five hundred dollars.” Sentenza pursued a last bean around the bottom of the bowl. “It’s my standard price for easy jobs like this. But I’m waiting for that name you’re going to tell me fast—Jackson’s new name.”
“Carson. He calls himself Bill Carson now.” Mondrega rose, holding out his palms. “But wait, señor.”
He went to a carved chest opened a drawer and brought out a heavy drawstring purse. It clinked dully as he thmw it on the table in front of Sentenza.
“Here is a thousand dollars—all the money I have. It is for you, señor. Take it.”
The gunman opened the purse and spilled a pile of coins.
“Half in gold, too,” he murmured. “Not bad at all. But this is double my fee, Mondrega.”
“For two jobs, señor. I know now that I will never live in peace while Baker is alive. That is your second job.”
“Fair enough,” Sentenza said briskly. He scooped the coins back into the purse and stowed it under the frock coat. Under cover of the table the long-barrelled pistol slid into his hand, tilting slightly upward. “Since you’re hiring me, Mondrega, there is something you should know about me. I have one rule I will never break. When anyone pays me to do a job—I always do that job.”
The gun slammed twice. Mondrega was hurled backward and down by the heavy slugs. Sentenza rose to his feet without haste and holstered his gun. He broke off a piece of bread and put it into his mouth, chewing with relish.
The young boy, Mondrega’s son, ran down a stairway, carrying a rifle taller than himself. He was trying to level and cock it when Sentenza shot him in the head.
The killer blew smoke from the long barrel, holstered the pistol and strolled out. The woman’s keening screams followed him out. He shook his head.
“Women,” he murmured aloud to some part of him that was not quite dead, although it felt nothing, “get too emotional over small change. She is still young. There must be hundreds of lusty men in the Territory who would be overjoyed to father more sons for her.”
The man, Baker, awoke sharply in the inky blackness of his room. His hand slid under the pillow to close on the butt of his pistol.
“Who is it? Who is in my room?”
The effort brought on a paroxysm of coughing, a legacy of his wound. A harsh, scraping sound came dose by. A marsh flared to light, glinting on high cheekbones and pale sorrel eyes.
“It’s you,” Baker struggled to lift himself upright. “Did you find him? Did he talk?”
Sentenza finished lighting an oil lamp. He replaced the chimney and stood looking down at Baker.
“Yes to both questions. He told me something that will interest you—and something else that interests me.”
“Get on with it,” Baker wheezed impatiently.
“The name Jackson is hiding under now is Carson—Bill Carson.”
“Ah. Go on. What else did you learn ?”
“Something you forgot to mention. About a chest full of gold army dollars that somehow disappeared. That’s the part of his talk that interests me.”
“All right, all right. What more did he say?”
“Isn’t that enough? But you can stop worrying about his tongue. He will never wag it to anyone on this earth again.”
“Good, good—” Baker gasped. He fumbled under the pillow and tossed a heavy purse to the gunman. “Here is your five hundred dollars, Sentenza. You earned it.”
The killer tucked the purse away, turned as if to leave and then stopped.
“Oh, one thing you didn’t ask about. I’ll tell you anyway, so you’ll understand what happens next. Mondrega gave me a thousand dollars—to get you off his back.”
“What? Oh, that’s a good one, eh? A thousand to kill me. Ho-ho, that’s a real good joke.”
“A rich one,” Sentenza agreed. He stood over the bed, looking dawn. “But the funniest part of all is that when I accept a man’s money, I always go through with my job. I took Mondrega’s money, Baker.”
Baker had only time to scream, “No, Sentenza—” before the soft pillow closed down on his face, cutting off his breath and voice.
His body threshed feebly. His hands found a wrist like iron and clawed at it futilely.
Muffled by the pillow, the sound of the shot was little more than a dull thud. The figure on the bed threshed for a moment, then went limp, stilled. Sentenza straightened and holstered the long-barrelled pistol
“A really funny joke,” he murmured softly.
CHAPTER 3
TUCO, the bandido, who yearned to become notorious as Tuco the Terrible, was in an ebullient mood. He had spent a most lively, though tiring, night with a lady of infinitely varied talents and insatiable ardour. Better still, her husband had not interrupted the fun by returning home early and getting himself killed. Such lighter moments were all too rare in the life of a hard-working bandit.
His pleasant musings were interrupted by the sudden violent shying of his horse. A man had stepped from behind a high rock and stoat blocking the narrow part of the trail. He was a stranger to Tuco, a thick-bodied, brutish figure with small, nervous eyes and a knife-scarred cheek. He wore his gun low, the holster tied down for a fast draw. His clawed hand hovered close to its worn butt.
Tuco’s hand started towards his own gun and from as the stranger growled, “Uh-uh. I wouldn’t try it if I was you, friend. It just so happens there’s three of us.”
Two more men stepped into view. One was young and lath-thin, the other an older man with an unkempt tangle of whiskers. The scarred man jerked his head.
“Light down and step up a little. I want a closer look at that ugly face.”
“You are no raving beauty yourself,” Tuco snarled. But he swung down and reluctantly stepped a few paces loser to the trio. “If it’s money you want, my saddlebags are empty.”
“It figures. I’ve seen your face before—on a sheriff’s poster. In fact, friend, it looks like the face of a man worth two thousand dollars in bounty.”
“You could be right, friend,” a new voice said from somewhere off to the side. “But yours doesn’t look like the face of a man who’s going to collect it.”
Tuco and his visitors whirled. A stranger to Tuco was framed in a narrow gap between rocks. He stood tall—inches above six feet—lean and hungry. A line of pale blond hair showed above the weathered bronze of his face. A stubby Mexican cigarro jutted from a corner of his wide, unsmiling mouth. His face was without expression. Except for narrowed, glittering eyes, there was nothing sinister in his appearance but Tuco felt a sudden coldness brush his spine.
The tall man jerked his head at Tuco.
“Step back a little, ugly one, out of line of fire.”
Tuco gulped and scrambled back to stand beside his horse. The scar-faced gunman cleared his throat noisily.
“I don’t know who you are, mister, but it’s plain you ain’t too bright in the head. Nobody in his right mind would butt into our private business the way you just done.”
“If I bother you,” the tall man said pleasantly, “butt me out.”
Everything happened so fast that Tuco was never afterward certain of the sequence. The three gunmen were no amateurs at their trade. Their hands slapped down in practised unison. The tall stranger’s gun simply appeared in his hand, pressed tight against his hip and spewing sound, smoke and bullets. After the first shot the heel of his left hand fanned the hammer, getting off two more shots so close together that the sound was continuous and single.
Only one of the trio managed to get his own iron clear of its leather before he died.
Tuco gaped at the sprawled figures and suddenly thrust his hands behind him to hide their trembling. He turned dazed eyes to his rescuer.
“Thanks, amigo. You saved me from a most unpleasant dance at the end of a rough rope.”
The thin stranger finished reloading without answering. He reached back among the rocks and led a saddled horse out to the trail. He swung into the saddle and sat looking down, studying Tuco w
ithout a trace of expression on his dark face.
“So you’re worth two thousand dollars,” he said thoughtfully. “Dead or alive.”
“True,” Tuco said sadly. “It is a disgrace—only two thousand for a man of my reputation. But out here the law is very tight-fisted with its bounties.” A look of sudden alarm came over his face. “Señor—you wouldn’t be thinking of turning me in yourself for such a miserable, stinking Judas price?”
“I haven’t decided,” the other said coldly. “We’ll ride on together while I make up my mind.”
Tuco shivered and swung into his saddle. He was tempted to dig in his spurs and try flight but from what he had witnessed he knew how hopeless his chances were.
He reined in beside the stranger. They jogged along side by side, while the miles crept by. At last the lengthening silence began to get on the bandit’s nerves.
He said, “Amigo, if you have faults, running off at the mouth is not one of them. Conversation makes a long trail seem shorter.”
The other glanced at him, looked away without replying. Tuco moistened dry lips and tried again.
“At least, señor, since we ride together we can at least introduce one another. I am Tuco, the Bandit. You have surely heard of me. Everybody has heard of Tuco the Terrible. Eh?”
The expressionless face turned toward him again.
“No.”
“No? Then one thing is sure. You are not from these parts if you have never heard of Tuco. From where do you hail, amigo?”
“Nowhere,” the stranger said.
“A Man from Nowhere, eh? Very well. Your business is your business. I do not pry. But at least you have a name to call you. Whether it is yours or not is of no matter to me.”
“I have no name.”
“Look, Man from Nowhere With No Name,” Tuco burst out with a touch of irritation. “Suppose I saw a cocked gun aimed at your back and you didn’t know it was there. By the time I yelled, ‘Man From Nowhere With No Name, look behind you—’ you would be stone dead. So I will give you a name. Because of your hair, I will call you Whitey. So if you hear me yell, ‘Whitey, behind you—’ you will know I am not talking to my horse.”
The other shrugged indifferently. Some miles farther Tuco made one last attempt to open communications. “You do not have the look of a cowman, farmer or an outlaw. What is your trade, amigo?”
The blond man turned and looked full into Tuco’s eyes. The ghost of a smile twitched his lips.
“Why,” he said softly, “I’m a bounty-killer. Let’s you and me make a deaL”
The yelling and swearing brought out most of the town to witness their arrival. The Man From Nowhere rode in front, leading Tuco’s horse. The bandit, bound hand and foot, was ignominiously draped across his saddle like a trussed chicken, head hanging down on one side, legs on the other. His private opinion of such treatment was clearly audible to anyone within miles.
“I’ll get you for this,” he howled. “I’ll see you dead of cholera, of rabies, of the black pox! Untie me! Untie me, you mangy son of a dog! Put me down! Listen, there’s still time. If you let me go I’ll forgive you. If you don’t—I’ll see that the worms eat your eyes out, you whore’s by-blow!”
The lean stranger ignored both the gaping, grinning crowd on the board sidewalk and the uproar at his back. Tuco’s voice fell to a shrill whine.
“Damn it, Whitey, I feel sick. Take me down. I can’t stand it any longer. My head’s bursting with blood. Water, Whitey—water, in the name of—”
The parade—though not the tumult—came to a halt at the hitchrail in front of a building bearing the sign: SHERIFF’S OFFICE. The tall man swung down, hoisted Tuco off his horse by his belt and dumped him unceremoniously on the board walk.
“Dog!” the bandit screeched. “Son of a saloon tramp. You’re real tough with a man who’s tied hand and foot, aren’t you? Let’s see you untie me if you’ve got the guts, you miserable seller of souls—”
His captor eluded a vicious kick with the bound feet and strode into the sheriff’s ooicn
On the sidewalk, still bound, Tuco raged: “So you’re afraid. Come back here, you stinking vulture—I’ll kick your guts out—”
The lean man came out, followed by a grizzled sheriff carrying a reward poster. The sheriff squatted, caught the bandit by the hair and twisted his head around, comparing his face with the picture on the poster.
“So one louse becomes two,” Tuco yelled. “Take your dirty paws off me, you polecat’s brother. Roll that thing up and I’ll tell you where you can stick it. To hell with sheriffs and those who give birth to them—”
The lawman nodded and stood up.
“It’s him, all right. Come along, mister. I’ll get the bounty money out of my safe.”
“Judas,” Tuco yowled. “Bastard offspring of a thousand bastards! If there’s any justice in this world you’ll never get to enjoy your blood money. The undertaker’ll get it all. Feel good, don’t you, sending a poor man who never hurt nobody to his death?”
The tall man came out, stuffing a wad of banknotes into his pocket. He mounted his horse, rode off.
The sheriff came out and cupped hands to his mouth to bawl, “All right, folks, let’s get a jury together here—on the double. Alex, you to the noose and get the rope up on the hangin’ tree while we’re givin’ this son of a bitch a fair trial.”
CHAPTER 4
AT the end of the street the Man With No Name reined in. He turned in the saddle to watch the eager crowd converge in front of the sheriff’s office. Two men came out of the saloon, supporting a third who was having difficulty with his equilibrium. The bartender in a white apron followed them out, slamming the saloon door before galloping past to join the excitement. The rest of the street was deserted except for two horses drooping at the saloon hitch-rail.
The tall man reined around to the rail and leaned down to untie the two horses. He slapped their rumps with his hat.
“Get going, you jugheads. Clear out.”
He watched them vanish beyond the last shanty, galloping wildly.
The livery stable was behind the row of false-fronts. Wagons and buggies were lined up before it and the corral at one side held a dozen or more unsaddled horses. A pimply attendant popped into sight as he rode up. The bounty-hunter scowled at him.
“How come you’re not over at the sheriff’s office with everybody else, watching the trial and hanging?”
“Hell and Maria, mister, nobody told me about no hangin’. Is that what all the yellin’ was about? I’d sure hate to miss it but—”
“Go along,” the hunter said, swinging down. “I’ll put up my own horse and be there in a minute.”
“Gees, thanks, mister.”
He took off at a gallop, arms flapping.
The hunter unbarred the corral gate and drove the penned horses out. A few well-aimed rocks sent them stampeding out into the bleak desert. He grinned faintly and led his own mount into a gap between buildings, dismounted and ground-reined the animal. He took his rifle from its scabbard and moved up to a point where he could see the street.
The trial was in its final stage. Tuco, mounted on his horse, his hands tied behind him, was the centre of the mob’s attention. A gaunt man in a black hat, obviously the judge, stood on a barrel, facing him. The sheriff held the bridle of Tuco’s horse.
The judge held up his hands to quiet the crowd.
“All right, you’ve heard all the crimes this no-good bastard’s committed. What’s your verdict—guilty or not guilty? And don’t no more than twelve of you answer. The law says a jury can’t have no more than twelve men and we got to keep this trial legal.”
A score of voices bellowed, “Guilty—hang the son—”
“So be it,” the judge shouted above the uproar. “Let justice be done.”
Tuco slumped in his saddle, dazed and silent as the sheriff led the horse to an ancient cottonwood. A noose dangled from a lower limb. A gaunt man wearing a deputy’s badge rolled up an
other barrel and climbed on it to fit the noose over Tuco’s head. The bandit began to whimper wordlessly while tears rolled down his swarthy cheeks. The watching hunter chuckled softly and cocked his rifle.
The judge unfolded a long sheet of paper and perched steel-rimmed spectacles on his nose. “This here dee-fendant, previously wanted in fourteen counties of this Territory, has been found guilty of the crimes of murder, armed robbery of individuals, banks and post offices, the theft of sacred objects, arson of a Territorial prison, perjury, bigamy, desertion of family, incitement to prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, receiving stolen goods, passing counterfeit money, using marked cards and loaded dice, assault and battery against individuals, justices of the peat county, district and Territorial officials. Have you any last word, you skunk?”
Tuco turned his head as far as the taut rope would permit.
“You left out rustling cattle.”
The judge reddened. He waved his arms violently for silence.
“Uphold the dignity of this here court, dammit.” He peered at his paper. “Therefore, accordin’ to the powers vested in us, we sentence the accused here before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, to hang by the neck until dead, and may God have mercy on his soul—if any. Sheriff, proceed with your duty.”
The sheriff raised his whip. At its stinging lash the horse would lunge from under Tuco, leaving him to dance at the end of the rope.
The hunter in the alley settled his left hand on the wall and rested the rifle across his ann. He sighted carefully.
The crack of the sheriff’s whip was lost in the thunder of the shot. The rope parted with a twang a foot above Tuco’s head as the horse lunged forward, scattering the yelling crowd. The animal pounded down the street and out of town at a dead run before anyone could recover his wits and open fire on the bandit crouched over its neck.
The hunter ran to his own mount and set off, following the dwindling dust cloud of the bandit’s horse. He rode at a leisurely gallop, unworried at the possibility of pursuit. It would take the sheriff and his pow at least the rest of the day to find and round up their own horses on foot.