Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“Infirmary?” the sentry hooted. “We’re on the edge of the desert, separated from our regiment and fleeing for our lives and you ask where’s our infirmary. I’ll tell you where the nearest infirmary is, Corporal. It’s in the Yankee camp.” He sobered. “Look, Corporal, we don’t even have a doctor here. Your best hope is to get him to the Mission of San Antonio.”

Turn started violently. “Did you say San Antonio?”

“Yep. It’s about eighteen miles in that direction. The friars there will take in any wounded man, never mind the colour of his uniform. Get along, but watch out for Federal troops. They’re all over the area.”

It was mid-morning when Turn drove up to the mission door. A gaunt, ascetic monk with a white beard came out as Tuco sprang down from the ambulance seat.

“Hello, Padre. I have a man here who is in bad condition. You must get to work on him at once.”

“But we are already overcrowded. There is no more room.”

“Then give him yours,” Tuco barked. “Where is Pablo Ramirez?”

“Father Ramirez is away from the mission now but we expect him to return any day.”

“It doesn’t matter. The important thing is to make my hurt friend well. See if he is still breathing, Padre.” The monk leaned into the ambulance.

“Yes, he still breathes.”

“God be praised. If you don’t know, Padre, God is with us because He, too, hates the Yankees. Give me a hand here and we’ll get this poor fellow inside. Easy, Whitey. Easy now, boy. They’ll have you as good as new in no time.”

The unconscious figure was deposited on the bed in a small cell. The white-bearded monk turned on Tuco and flapped his hands.

“Get out, now. Outside,”

“Padre, this man is like a brother tome.”

“But right now he needs nursing and I can’t take care of him if I’m falling over you constantly. So out with you. Wait outside and I’ll let you know his condition.”

For what seemed hours Tuco paced outside the cell, gnawing his knuckles and muttering prayers. Monks rushed past him, carrying towels and instruments and basins of hot water.

At last the cell door opened and the friar emerged. Tuco rushed to him.

“Padre, how is he? Has he spoken? Did he ask for me or perhaps speak a name? Even if he is out of his head, Padre, you must tell me at once if he speaks a name.”

“He can’t speak—and won’t be able to for some time But do not worry about him. He is a strong man or he would not be alive now. I would say that unless there are complications he should be fully recovered in a couple of weeks. In the meantime we’ll find some way to put you up so you can be close to him.”

“Thank you, Padre. And thanks to God and Saint Francis, too. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“You most be a very good friend.”

“Padre, I would follow him anywhere—to the ends of the earth if I had to.”

Two days later the sick man was judged strong enough for a brief visit. Tuco approached the bed nervously.

Then his fate lit.

“Whitey, you look good. The good padre tells me that in a couple of weeks you should be almost as good as new. At least strong enough to travel. Just think how lucky it was that I was there with you when—when it happened. Just think if you had been alone out there. When a man is sick he needs someone dear to him by his side—a friend, a relative. Do you have relatives, Whitey? A mother? No? You are alone like me. But now I have you and you have me.”

The hunter rolled his head and a throaty, barking sound came from his lips. Tuco bent over lean anxiously, then realised that what he was hearing was weak laughter. He sprang back, his face dark with rage.

“Pig—hastard. What is so funny, eh? Let me in on your grand joke, scum, so I can laugh, too.”

“You and me,” the other gasped weakly. “We hate each other’s guts—but we have to keep one another alive at all costs. Even in hell they must be laughing at as funny a joke, Tuco.”

“I’ll tell you another joke to laugh at, Whitey,” Tuco raged. “I lied to you a minute ago. You aren’t going to be well in two weeks—or ever. The padre says it’s all over for you. Whitey. Not even a miracle can pull you through. You’re going to die and it’s my fault. Mine, all mine—”

“Tuco.” The rasping whisper drew the bandit’s ear to the hunter. “Don’t grieve too much. I will die happy, knowing I leave such a good friend to cherish my memory.”

“Son of a pimp.” Tuco dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Listen, Whitey. If I knew my hour had come—I swear I would not carry a useless secret with me to the grave. I would not have such a thing on my conscience in Purgatory. I would tell you with my dying breath the location of the cemetery where the money is hidden.” He scrambled to his feet, “Here, Whitey, have a sip of this coffee. It will give you strength to speak clearly, to mention the name on the headboard of that grave. After all, what will you need the money for when you’re dead? Just speak the name, Whitey, and I swear to you when I lay my hands on the two hundred thousand dollars I will honour your memory. I will have a mass said for you every day. Better yet I’ll have the mass sung, even if it does cost a little more. Nothing will be too good for my dear friend.”

“Tuco,” the other said in an almost normal voice. “If you don’t stop you’ll have are laughing myself to death and then you’ll never find out the name on that grave.”

“Stinking black-hearted bastard,” Tuco growled.

The friar put his head in the door.

“Shame on you, using such language in a house of God. Clear out now. Go away and let this man rest.”

The following day Tuco encountered the friar hurrying with a glass of water.

“That is for my friend, Padre? Let me take it to him. I want to apologise for my outburst yesterday. I have been so worried over him that my nerves are on edge. I have burned candles and apologised to God for my wickedness, Padre. Now let me apologise to him.”

The bounty-hunter held out his hand for the glass as Tuco approached the bed. Tuco leered at him, keeping the glass just out of reach.

“You want water, eh? You are dying for water, your poor throat on fire? I’ll give you water, all you can swallow—as soon as you have told me the name, Whitey. The name. The name, you scum, you vermin from the dungheap—”

The hunter made a sudden lunge. He struck the bottom of the glass, throwing the water into Tuco’s face. The outlaw jumped back, sputtering and cursing.

“So you’re strong enough for tricks, eh? Then, damn your soul, you’re strong enough to travel. Your easy time is over. Get your butt out of that bed and get your clothes on, damn you. More wounded soldiers are pouring in by the cartload. The fighting is getting closer and if we don’t clear out fast we’re liable to wind up right in the middle of it.”

The friar put his head in the door.

“Father Ramirez has returned and will see you at once. Come with me.”

Tuco swung around in the doorway. “This is private business that will not take long. When I come back—see that you are up and ready to go.”

The tall monk rose from a writing table, his dark face devoid of expression as his visitor was ushered in.

When the door closed Tuco ran to him, clutching the robe.

“Pablo, Pablo—don’t you recognise me? It is your brother, Tuco. Let me embrace you.” He gave the other an awkward hug, then stepped back, looking embawassed. He laughed nervously. “It is only that—well—I don’t know how one is supposed to act with monks. I was passing near here so I said to myself, ‘Who knows if my brother still remembers me?’ Did I do wrong to come here? All the same—it is good to see you.”