Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“So now you have seen me,” the monk said coldly.

“And I am glad, brother—or Father. Ah, you are eyeing my uniform. It is a long story, too long to tell now. But let’s talk about you, not about me. You’re more important. You look very well. A little thin, perhaps, but—ch—still in good form, Pablito? And how are the old ones?”

“Only now you remember them, Tuco? After nine years?”

“Nine years? Is it that long? Well, well. Nine years” Tuco laughed nervously and mopped a glistening forehead.

“Our father has been gone for a long time. Our mother died only a few days ago. That was what took me away from the monastery. She looked and hoped for you until the very last. But only I was there.”

Tuco muffled noisily and rubbed a sleeve across his eyes.

“And besides doing evil, what else have you accomplished, Tuco? Did I not hear that you had a wife somewhere?”

“A wife, brother? I have had lots of wives. One here, one there—all over the place. And plenty of mistresses, too. Now go ahead, brother. Preach me that sermon you’ve been saving up for me for all these years.”

The monk spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “What good would it do? Go on your way, Tuco, now that you have seen me. Go—and God have mercy on you.”

“Sure, I’ll go,” Tuco cut in harshly. “But while I’m waiting for that heavenly mercy I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, will tell you something, brother of mine. You think you are so much better than me because of that robe, eh? Where we came from—a man who didn’t want to starve had only two choices. He became a priest or a bandit. You chose your road and I chose mine.”

Father Ramirez had turned his back. Tuco tramped around until they were again face to face.

“The hard road is mine. You talk of our mother and father, eh? But when you left to take your vows—who was it who stayed behind to help them? I was ten or twelve years old then, brother, and I had to sweat and sweat plenty even when I knew all I could do was useless.”

He wagged an angry finger in his brother’s face.

“Do you know what I have to say to you now, brother? You became a monk only because you were a coward—without the guts to become a bandit.”

The monk’s hand whipped out and cracked against Tuco’s face. Tuco fell back. His eyes widened in shock that turned to rage.

“Tuco—forgive me, brother. I didn’t mean—”

Tuco cursed, whirled and ran out of the room

An hour later, on the seat of the ambulance, he sucked his teeth and watched enviously as the hunter lit one of his cigarros .

“Ah, yes, Whitey. After a fine meal like the ones the monks gave no back there, nothing is as fine as a cigar to top it off, eh?”

The bounty-hunter fished out another stubby cigar and silently banded it over. Tuco fired it and sucked in the fragrant smoke.

“Now it is perfect, Whitey. What a meal they gave as for a send-off, eh? Those monks eat well and feed well. My brother saw to it that we had the best You didn’t know, did you Whitey, that the head of the monastery is my brother? Pablito—little Pablo. What a fine man my brother is. He told me whenever I was near to stop in again. He said there would always be food and shelter for me. And he told me to bring my friend with me. That is you, Whitey. How my brother hates to see me leave. Even for a sinner like me there is always a welcome—no matter what I have done or what has happened.” He fished a worn map out of a pocket and studied it, frowning. “Let’s see. We cross the Rio Grande here and follow the trail this way.”

“To where?” the hunter asked innocently.

“Uh-uh. When we arrive where we are going I will tell you where we are, Whitey. That way you don’t have to worry, with our destination on your mind all the tine.”

“Thanks,” the other said dryly. “But as long as I’m still alive and we’ll undoubtedly be passing through both Union and Confederate lines several times—wouldn’t it be just plain common sense to give me some idea of where we’re going?”

“Toward two hundred thousand gold dollars, Whitey. Isn’t that enough for any man to know?”

The hunter shrugged, handed over the reins to Tuco and settled himself for a nap.

Some time later he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder and Tuco’s urgent voice in his ear. “Whitey—Whitey, wake up. Soldiers are coming—a troop of cavalry.”

The hunter opened his eyes. “Blue or grey?”

The wagon had halted in a little glade where they were hidden from casual view by bushes. Tuco stood on the seat, shading his eyes as he peered over the bushes. He jumped down, beaming.

“Grey, like us—Confederates. We’re in luck, Whitey. We don’t have to hide here. We’ll just give them a salute and keep right on going. Long live the Confederacy—hooray for the South and damnation to all Yankees. Long live General—eh, what’s that General’s name, Whitey?”

“Lee—Robert E. Lee. But d think we’d be smart just to stay right here, out of sight, until they’ve gone on.”

“Eh? You worry too much, Whitey. Why should friends hide from friends? Giddup, you knotheads. God is with us because he too, hates Yankees.”

The ambulance lurched out of the glade into the open. The officer leading the oncoming troop lifted his hand and the double line of cavalry swerved to intercept their pads.

Tuco waved his hat and yelled, “Long live General Lee—”

The officer stared at him in silence. Then he stripped off a gauntlet and used it to slag vigorously at his jacket sleeve. A cloud of grey dust smoked up with each slap. After a moment a dark patch began to appear on the sleeve. Beneath the mantle of dust the jacket was unmistakably Yankee blue.

“God,” said the hunter bitterly, “couldn’t hate Yankees half as much as he must hate idiots.”

CHAPTER 11

BATTLEVILLE Prison Camp was big, rambling and enclosed by a stockade fence. High watch-towers rose at intervals above the stockade. From these the guards could see and shoot into every part of the camp. More than a thousand Confederate prisoners were already jammed into the place and more were arriving daily.

Tuco and his tall companion were shoved into a small receiving compound with some fifty other captives. These were being processed, one at a time, at a guarded inner gate, then passed through into the main prison yard. The processing seemed to consist mainly of stripping each man of whatever money and other possessions were on his person.

Tuco’s eyes glittered as he studied the growing pile of watches, jewellery and money on the table.

“What a haul, Whitey. Maybe we can figure a way to start our own prison camp and rob everybody all legal like that. Only I wouldn’t bother with privates. I’d have my camp just for officers—rich officers, eh?”

“You’d better use whatever wits you have to figure a way to get us out of this camp.”

A gate guard threw his rifle to his shoulder.

“You, over there. Shut up. Open your mouths once more and you’ll be tasting lead.”

The number of waiting prisoners dwindled rapidly until only the hunter and Tuco remained. The guard jerked his thumb at Tuco.

“You’re next, Reb. Get up here—on the double.”

A corporal snatched his enlistment paper and added “Bill Carson” to his list. Meanwhile one of the guards went through Tuco’s pockets methodically and thoroughly. Tuco glowered as the watch, jewellery and cash he had taken from the dead soldiers was tossed on the table. Last of all was the gold cigar case with Bill Carson’s name engraved in the lid.

The corporal glanced at the case and stiffened. He snatched it up and went to whisper urgently to one of the guards at the gate. The guard nodded, took the case and trotted briskly toward a row of flat-roofed wooden buildings. The corporal turned and gestured to Tuco.