Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

The hunter crawled towards it. His outstretched hand was almost on the canteen when Tuco shot again and again, riddling the canteen. The last drops of water gushed out and vanished in the parched air and the thirsty sand. The bounty-hunter collapsed and lay unmoving.

Tuco rode to the sparse shade of a sand dune some distance away and dismounted. Carrying the other canteen and a package of bread and meat from his saddlebags he sat down in the shade and finished a leisurely meal. He stood up and looked towards the sprawled figure.

“I’m afraid I have to leave you now, Whitey. Goodbye, amigo , and pleasant journeying. Remember me to the coyotes.”

He had his foot in the stirrup, ready to swing into the saddle, when the wagon rose into view, cresting a dune. The vehicle was a Confederate army ambulance drawn by two running horses. No driver was visible on the seat, no sign of life showed from behind its drawn curtains. The horses had obviously been running for a long time. Their flanks were white with dried lather and their running was little more than a wobble-legged trot.

Tuco snatched his foot down and ran to intercept the runaways. He had no difficulty grabbing the bridles and bringing the exhausted team to a halt. He ran around and snatched open the side door of the ambulance. The dead body of a Confederate major pitched halfway out. Beneath and beyond it were other bodies, thrown into a tangled heap by the jouncing of the wagon. Tuco dragged the corpse of the major to the ground and rifled the pockets. They yielded a gold watch, a few coins and a packet of Confederate banknotes. The last he contemptuously threw aside.

The next body wore the blood-stained uniform of a cavalryman. A black patch covered the empty socket of one eye. Tuco stripped off the patch and tried it on. It fitted well and he put it away in his pocket. It could serve him as a disguise on his next robbery.

He took hold of the body to drag it out and nearly leaped out of his boots when it stirred in his grasp and uttered a feeble moan. Swollen lips moved in a croaking whisper.

“Water, in the name of heaven. Water, water—”

“Aiee.” Tuco spat. “Water is too precious in this desert to be wasted on a man as good as dead. Be quiet while I see if you have anything worth stealing “

He found a handful of small coins, a cigar case engraved with the name Bill Carson. A folded paper proved to be the enlistment record of one Bill Carson in the Third Cavalry, C.S.A.

Tuco put this carefuly away. His eyes glittered as ha considered the infinite possibilties inherent in carrying the identy of a man already dead.

The figure stirred again and the one eye opened. “Water—I’ll pay—for it—in gold dollars. Two-hundred thousand dollars.”

“What?” Tuco grabbed the dying man and shook him roughly. “What is this? What about two hundred thousand gold dollars, Carson? Where would you get that much money? If you’re lying—”

“No,” the feeble whisper came. “Not Carson. Real name—Jackson. I stole—Fourth Cavalry funds—hid them. Only I—know—where. Water—”

“You’ll get the water,” Tuco rasped, “as soon as you tell me where the money’s hidden. I remember the story now. There was a court-martial. You went free. Out with it. Where is the money?”

“In—cemetery—grave.”

“What cemetery? Where? Talk, you filthy vermin.”

“Sad—Hill. In the—grave.”

“What grave? There are thousands there. What’s the name? What’s the number on it? Come on—talk, talk, you dirty louse. The name or the number. Quick. Spit it out”

“Name—on head—board. Name—wa—”

Tuco yelled, shookthe dying man savagely.

“What, you stinking rat? Get it out and I’ll give you water! What’s the name on that headboard, damn you?”

The dying man strained but only a wordless croak came from his lips. The one eye closed and his head fell back.

Tuco scrambled up, his eyes wild. “Don’t die—don’t pull a dirty, stinking trick like that on me. Don’t move. I’m going for the water. Don’t you dare die before I come back, you dirty scum.”

He whirled and ran madly towards his horse, which had wandered several hundred yards from the ambulance in search of grass. In his panic he failed to see the figure of the bounty-hunter crawling slowly towards the ambulance.

Tuco snatched the canteen from the saddle and raced back. He had almost reached the ambulance when he saw his hated enemy huddled in the tiny patch of shade beside the figure of Carson-Jackson.

“Get away from there,” Tuco screamed. “Get away, damn your black soul. Get away from him—”

“It doesn’t matter,” the hunter croaked. “He’s dead,”

Tuco threw himself down, shaking the lifeless body,. beating it in a fury of frustration.

“Damn you, damn you, damn you—” He reared back, his face working crazily. He jerked out his gun. “I’ll kill you.”

“I wouldn’t—if I were—you,” the hunter croaked “Kill me—now—and you’ll—stay the beggar—you are for the—rest of—your life.”

“He talked?” Tuco screamed. “He told you something? But, no. He was too far gone to talk. You’re lying to make me spare your stinking hide. He couldn’t talk.”

“He told name—grave—full of gold—somewhere—”

Tuco flung himself on the limp figure, shaking it furiously.

“The name, Whitey. Tell me whose grave.” The only response was a feeble moan.

“Whitey, you aren’t dying, too, like that pig? You can’t die—I won’t let you die. I’m your friend, Whitey. Wait, here is water. Suck a little but don’t swallow just yet. It will make you sick. Don’t die, Whitey—at least not for a while.”

The water brought some strength back to the hunter but now he was delirious. His eyes rolled wildly while wordless sounds came from the swollen lips. Tuco turned his eyes heavenward.

“Mother of God, don’t let him die. He is dearer than a brother to me.”

He scrambled up and dragged the remaining bodies out of the ambulance. One had been a very tall man, over six feet. Alternately praying and cursing, Tuco stripped the Confederate uniform from the corpse and somehow got it on to the inert figure of the bounty-hunter.

Another change transformed Tuco into the late Corporal Bill Carson, complete with eyepatch. He gathered up the limp figure of the hunter and deposited it tenderly on the ambulance floor.

“Don’t die, Whitey. Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die—.” He scrambled to the driver’s seat and slapped the reins. “Giddyup, you vulture’s bait. Move. If he dies—a part of me will die, too.”

CHAPTER 10

THE Rebel sentry lifted his gun and peered nervously into the darkness.

“Halt. Who’s there? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot.”

“What do you mean, who’s there?” Tuco bawled back. “Who were you expecting—Colonel Canby with the Yankee army at his heels, idiot? If I were the enemy you wouldn’t be alive to ask stupid questions. I’ve got a man here who’s in a terrible condition—maybe dying or already dead.”

The sentry lit a hooded lantern and cautiously approached the ambulance. He studied Tuco, then leaned into examine the figure of the hunter.

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?” Tuco called anxiously. “He’s breathing but that’s about all. What happened?”

“Our troop was ambushed. Only the two of us got away.”

“Your name, rank and unit—and show me your travel orders.”

“Travel orders?” Tuco choked. “The only travel orders we got came spitting out of Yankee gun muzzles, you jughead. I’m Corporal Bill Carson, Third Cavalry Regiment, Second Squadron, You got more damfool questions to ask while a man is dying? Or do you show as to the infirmary?”