The Good the Bad and the Ugly

by Joe Millard

  “I see. Then you mean Bill Carson is just a name that popped into your head for no reason at all. Is that the way it was, Tuco? It wasn’t one you might have—ah—borrowed from a real Bill Carson?”

  “Is there a real Bill Carson?” Tuco asked. “The name just came into my mind.”

  “I see,” Sentenza purred. “And the eyepatch. That just came into your mind, too?” He watched big drops of sweat form and crawl down the swarthy cheeks. “Tell me, Tuco, do you like music? Band music?”

  The bandit looked puzzled, then shrugged.

  “Well, sure, I guess so.” He patted his bulging belly. “Anyhow, they say it is good for the digestion.”

  Wallace said eagerly from his post beside the door, “Now, sergeant?”

  “I think very shortly now,” Sentenza replied quietly. “Just be patient a little longer, Wallace.”

  Tuco’s gaze shuttled nervously from one man to the other. The meaning of the cryptic exchange eluded him but it had had an ominous sound. He swallowed noisily and wet his lips.

  “So the whole Bill Carson identity is just a fake? Is that your story, Tuco?”

  “That’s right.”

  Sentenza drew the gold cigar case from his pocket, opened the lid and set it on the table where Tuco could stare at the engraved name.

  “Then this cigar case is part of the fake, too. It seems to me you went to a great deal of trouble and expense to build up the identity of a man who never existed.” His hands slapped down on the table and be bent forward, the pale eyes cold and deadly. “Carson was alive when you found him, wasn’t he? Alive and able to talk. What did he say? What did he tell you about two hundred thousand gold dollars? Where did he tell you he hid it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Sentenza leaned back again, his pent breath hissing out through clenched teeth.

  “Now, Wallace.”

  The big corporal whirled, snatched open the door and poked his head out. “All right, you Rebs. Start the music—and make damn sure it’s good and loud.”

  The band began to play raggedly and off-key but with tremendous volume.

  CHAPTER 13

  TUCO was no weakling. He made a valiant, if hopeless, effort to defend himself. He struck first, driving a left and a right with all his force into Wallace’s heavy middle. Tuco’s fists rebounded from a mass of iron-hard muscle.

  The big man bellowed and sledged with a fist that almost tore Tuco’s head off. He flew backward, skidded across the table on his shoulders, taking the stew bowl with him. He crashed to the floor. Wallace was on him like a tiger, hitting, mauling, picking him up and slamming him to the floor. Blood began to pour from the bandit’s nostrils and a crimson trail ran down from one corner of his mouth.

  Sentenza blew a cloud of smoke from the yellow meerschaum.

  “Easy, Wallace. Take a breather.” He knocked the dottle from the pipe and stowed it away. “How’s the digestion now, Tuco? Does that music get on your nerves? We can stop it, you know, if you’d prefer to have it quiet while you tell me what I’m waiting to hear.”

  Tuco stirred feebly and mumbled, “Nothing—to tell.”

  Sentenra sighed.

  “You’re a stubborn man, Tuco. But then, so is Wallace.”

  The corporal opened the door, put out his head, yelled, “Play louder, you Reb bastards.”

  He came back across the room, grinned and bent over the limp and battered figure. His huge hands reached for the bandit’s throat.

  Suddenly the bundle of bloody rags on the floor exploded into life. Tuco’s bent legs straightened, lashing out and up to drive both heels full into Wallace’s meaty face. Wallace rocked back, blood spurting from his smashed nose and a long cut over one eye.

  Tuco tried to roll over and scramble to his feet. He made it as far as his hands and knees before the agony of injured nbs arrested him. Wallace heaved to his knees and flung himself forward. His massive body hit Tuco, rolled him over and slammed down on him, driving the breath from Tuco’s lungs in a bubbling scream of pain.

  Wallace straddled the squirming figure, trapping Tuco’s arms with his knees. His huge hand cupped the battered face, holding it in a vice while his thumbs clamped down on Tuco’s eyes.

  “You’ll need two eye-patches when I’m through with you—”

  Wallace pushed down with both thumbs.

  Tuco screamed again.

  Then he moaned, “I’ll talk—I’ll talk—”

  “That’s enough, Wallace,” Sentenza said sharply. Slowly and reluctantly the big man took his thumbs from Tuco’s eyes and rose to his feet. He mopped his bloody face on his sleeve, swearing thickly under his breath.

  Sentenza moved his chair around to face the figure on the floor, bending forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Now let’s hear everything Bill Carson told you about that money.”

  “It’s—hidden—in a—grave.”

  “Where?”

  “Sad Hill—the Sad Hill—cemetery.”

  “In which grave? What’s the name or number on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wallace,” Sentenza said.

  The big man started forward, Tuco screamed again wordlessly.

  Then: “No more.” Fear gave him the strength to sit up. He flung out a pleading hand. “Listen to me. I swear to heaven that I don’t know which grave. Whitey—Whitey knows the—the name on it. Whitey—the big white-haired man who was captured with me.”

  Sentenza’s sharp gesture stopped Wallace in his tracks.

  “You’d better explain that, Tuco, and tell it so it makes good sense. I don’t buy fairy tales.”

  “Yes. Carson was dying. He told about the money and the cemetery but when he tried to name the grave he couldn’t get the words out. All he could do was croak for water. I ran to get the canteen from my saddle. When I got back Whitey was hanging over him and he was dead. But with his last breath he got out the name on the grave. That’s why we had to—stick together. Whitey knew the grave but not which cemetery. I knew the cemetery—but not the grave.”

  Sentenza straightend, the sorrel eyes glittering. “I’ll be everlastingly damned.”

  A guard found the bounty-hunter sitting by the barracks. He jerked a thumb by way of command. “The sergeant wants to see you right away. Come along.”

  Sentenza was perched on the edge of the table swinging one leg when the hunter was brought to him. He had exchanged his sergeant’s uniform for his regular clothing. The butt of the long-barrelled pistol showed under the frock coat. More civilian clothing was piled on the end of the table. He nodded toward it.

  “Get out of the Reb uniform and into these clothes. As far as you and I are concerned, my friend, the war is over.”

  The hunter remained where he had stopped, just inside the door.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re leaving here right away.”

  “Leaving for where?”

  “For the spot where two hundred thousand gold dollars lie waiting to be found. I know the name and location of a certain cemetery and you know the name on a certain grave. That makes us what you might call travelling companions, doesn’t it?”

  “So Tuco talked,” the bounty-hunter said.

  “He really didn’t have a great deal of choice,” Sentenza said dryly.

  “I can see that,” the hunter said.

  He used the toe of his boot to smear a small puddle of fresh blood on the floor.

  Sentenza nearly smiled.

  “Wallace is proficient in many ways. Housekeeping isn’t one of them.”

  “Aren’t you going to honour me with a band concert, too?” the blond hunter asked.

  “Would it encourage you to talk?”

  “I don’t think it would.”

  “I didn’t think so, either. Not because you’re tougher than Tuco, necessarily, but because I think you’re smarter. You would realise that while talking might save you a beating—it wouldn’t save your
neck.”

  “Is that what happened to Tuco? You had him killed?”

  “Oh, no. As a matter of fact, he and Wallace are getting ready to leave on a little errand for me. They’re going to the bank to get some money for me.”

  The hunter’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Like about three thousand dollars, maybe?”

  “Exactly,” Sentenza said. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? After all, why should I let the U.S. Army hang him free when a sheriff will pay me three thousand dollars bounty for the some privilege?” He got to his feet “You’re changing partners—but you’re not making a bad deal. I’m not a greedy man. When I make a bargain I stick to it and I’m easily satisfied. All I want is half that gold. The other half is yours. Is it a deal?”

  The hunter’s lips twitched in a trace of a smile. “You don’t leave me a great deal of choice, either.”

  He began to unbutton his uniform jacket.

  The last item of clothing in the pile was a Mexican poncho, slit in the centre to drop over the wearer’s head and cover him to the knees, both front and back. The bounty-hunter stared at it, then at Sentenza.

  Sentenza nodded.

  “Although we never met—I’ve heard a great deal about you in my travels. You, your Mexican cigarros and your poncho are becoming a legend. The Man From Nowhere. The Man With No Name, no nerves—and no scruples. You’ll find a supply of your cigarros in that box. And the gun hanging on the chair there is for you.”

  The hunter spun the cylinder and saw that the pistol was fully loaded. The belt was filled with spare cartridges. He strapped it on.

  “Aren’t you taking a chance?”

  “Not,” Sentenza said, “as long as each of us keeps his own little secret to himself. What better life insurance Could either of us have?”

  It was late in the afternoon when Sentenza led the way into a small clearing shielded by a circle of dense underbrush and well away from the prison camp.

  “This is a good, safe camping spot I’ve used before. We’ll unsaddle and let the horse browse while we build a small fire.”

  As they finished unsaddling the bounty-hunter said casually, “If your men stay out in that damp brush much longer, they’re likely to catch either a cold or a bullet.”

  Sentenza grinned faintly and raised his voice: “Did you hear that, boys? Come on out.”

  They filed into the glade, looking slightly sheepish. They had abandoned their guards’ uniforms and were now dressed as the gunslingers they dearly were, holsters tied down for a fast draw, gunbutt worn slick with use.

  “As long as we’re all going the same way,” the hunter said, “we might just as well keep each other company. Let’s see—” He counted as they stepped into sight. “One, two, three four, five six. A perfect number.”

  Sentenza’s eyebrows lifted. “What makes six perfect?”

  “Why,” the hunter said pleasantly, “that’s how many bullets I have in my gun.”

  Sentenza eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment.

  “I see your point,” he said finally.

  CHAPTER 14

  CORPORAL Wallace snapped one end of the handcuff to Tuco’s right wrist, the other to his own left wrist. He gave the short chain a vicious jerk.

  “Get moving. That’s our train coming in now.”

  As they emerged from the guardhouse there was a stir among a group of lounging prisoners.

  An old man with one arm cackled, “Be ye afeared of losin’ him, Corporal? Where ye takin’ him?”

  “To the gallows,” Wallace growled. “This man has a fat price on his head.”

  “Three thousand dollars, amigo,” Tuco added. “That’s a lot of money for one head, eh? And how much did they give you for that arm?”

  Wallace cursed and gave the handcuff a savage twist that sent Tuco to his knees, stilling a groan of pain. He struggled back to his feet, nursing a bleeding wrist. He glared at his tormentor.

  “Don’t forget what I told you before, Corporal. When I knock you down you will make one big crash. It will make louder and sweeter music than your Battleville band ever played.”

  A long freight train stood puffing at the prison station. Flatcars loaded with cannon and cases of ammunition were interspersed with boxcars full of Union soldiers. A single coach on the end of the train was obviously reserved for officers.

  Wallace clambered into one of the open boxcars and hauled Tuco up after him. A dozen soldiers sat around the walls, staring with open curiosity. The car stank of sheep and manure and the mildewed hay that covered the floor. They found a space and sat down with their backs against the wall. A whistle tooted and the train lurched into motion with a crash of couplings and a squealing of flanges.

  Tuco leaned his head back against the wall and fell into a fitful doze. From far off he could faintly hear the voice of Wallace answering the questions of the soldiers.

  “I’m staying around for the hanging,” he heard the big corporal saying. “It’ll be a sight to remember—this bastard doing a rope dance in the air and no partner around to shoot him down like he always had before.”

  Hours later Tuco awoke and peered around. Everyone else in the car was sound asleep. Wallace breathed in rasping mores beside him, his head tipped back and blubbery mouth sagging open.

  Tuco sat up cautiously. Beyond the inert mountain of beef and muscle he could see the butt of the corporal’s pistol peeping enticingly from it’s holster. Tuco’s eyes glittered behind dark puffs of battered flesh. Holding his breath and moving with infinite caution he reached his free hand towards the gun.

  He was barely inches from his goal when the rasping snore ended in a choked gurgle. He snatched his hand back an instant before Wallace’s pig eyes flew open.

  “What the hell are you—what do you want?”

  “What do you think I want?” Tuco whined. “A place to go. How many hours you think a man can bounce around in this damn car before his bladder bursts, eh? How would I look, hanging from the gallows with my pants soaking wet?”

  “Not in here,” Wallace yelped, scrambling up. “Out the door. This car stinks bad enough as it is.”

  He jerked Tuco to the open door of the boxcar. They stood side by side facing out from the opening, Wallace bracing his free hand against the side. Tuco reached to his trousers, then stopped, glaring at the other.

  “Well, can’t a man even take care of his private business without you watching? You think I’m a little baby, eh? I got to have papa hold me on the potty and see that I do it right?”

  Wallace cursed him but he turned so that his back was partially to Tuco. Tuco took a step backward, braced himself and sprang. His shoulder slammed into Wallace’s back. The big man yelled wildly and flew through the open door, dragging Tuco with him.

  They struck the embankment with Wallace underneath, cushioning Tuco’s fall and taking the full impact of his weight. Then they were rolling helplessly, gouged and clawed by the sharp gravel of the ballast.

  The train was vanishing around a distant curve when they stopped at last.

  Tuco sat up. He was covered with scratches and bruises and his ribs were a mass of agony but necessity gave him strength. Wallace was unconscious, a darkening lump rising from the side of his head. He looked to be out for some time but Tuco was taking no chances, He found a big chunk of jagged rock and brought it down hard on the corporal’s skull. Then he rose to his knees and began ransacking the big man’s pockets.

  He had gone through every imaginable hiding place three times before he could make himself accept the terrible truth. He rocked back on his heels, sobbing with mingled rage and frustration.

  “Oh, that bastard!” he sobbed. “That miserable, black-hearted bastard. He wouldn’t even trust Wallace to carry the handcuff key. He most have sent it on ahead to the sheriff—along with the word that I was being brought „

  He stared around wildly and his gaze fell on a sharp outcropping of granite some yards away. He scrambled up, hooked both hands into Walace’s
belt and dragged the heavy figure to the rock. He found a chunk of rock, stretched the handcuff chain over the sharp ridge of granite and hammered with all his strength. The rock shattered after a few blows without leaving a visible mark or dent on the tough steel links.

  He found another rock and renewed his efforts, panting.

  “So you don’t want to leave me, eh? You are beginning to like me a little, eh, and you want me with you everywhere you go? Well, I don’t like you and I’m not going to stay. You hear me, you big piece of bull-blossom, you?”

  The second rock shattered. Maybe a bullet would cut the chain—if the impact didn’t tear his hand off. But Wallace’s holster was empty. The pistol had been jarred loose by their fall.

  Tuco peered wildly along the embankment. He saw no glint of metal, no sign of the gun.

  Dragging the heavy body, sobbing and panting, he inched his way along the course of their rolling tumble, searching in vain for the weapon. It could be anywhere among the rock fragments that formed the embankment —or it could be lost in the thick mesquite below. It might even have been buried by a landslide started by their own rolling bodies.

  The full impact of his self-made predicament was beginning to hit him. In every direction he could only see the arid landscape without a tree or a sign of human habitation.

  He fell on the unconscious man, shaking and slapping him.

  “Wallace, wake up—wake up. You’ve slept long enough. Wake up and help me. I can’t drag you for miles, you big tub of rotten guts. Wake up and walk with me.” A new and more terrifying thought struck. “Wallace, you aren’t dying, are you? You wouldn’t die and leave me here like this. You can’t die when I need you.”

  He collapsed across the limp figure, whimpering, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  A dark speck appeared suddenly overhead, then another and another. Silently, patiently, the vultures were taking up their vigil in the brassy sky. Somehow they knew, as they always did, that it would soon be time for the feast.