Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“All right, you. Move along. Get inside.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Tuco said indignantly. “Where’s my receipt?”

“Receipt?” The corporal came toward him, his eyes narrow, his mouth a thin, cold line. “What receipt?”

“You’re supposed to give me a receipt for everything you take away as when the war’s over or we’re exchanged I show it and get my stuff back again.”

“Oh, that receipt,” the corporal said. “Here—”

He slugged from the hip, pivoting on his toes and putting the full weight of his body behind the blow. His fist sank deep into Tuco’s unguarded belly. Tuco fell, retching and sobbing for breath.

The corporal jerked his head at the grinning guards.

“Throw him in the pen with the rest.”

The newly arrived prisoners were herded into a line. A hulking bruiser in a corporal’s uniform walked along the line. His thick lips curled in an expression of exaggerated disgust. He turned back and planted himself before the prisoners

“All right, you Rebs. Straighten up and listen to me. I’m Corporal Wallace and there’s nothin’ in this stinkin’ world I hate worse than stinkin’ Johnny Rebs. I’ll give you orders and I expect you to squeal like pigs when I say squeal. Understand? Whatever I tell you to do, you do—and do it damn fast. Otherwise, you and we’ll take a little walk to the guard-room and have as a little, quiet heart-to-heart talk about discipline.” He glared ominously at the sullen faces. “All right, we’ll call the roll. When you hear your name answer, ‘Present’. I’m a mite hard of hearing sometimes—so make damn sure you call out loud and clear, John Cooper.”

“Present.”

“Charles Louis.”

“Present.”

Tuco suddenly nudged his tall companion and whispered excitedly, “Do you see that big fellow over there, wearing a sergeant’s stripes? The one with eyes like a cougar’s? That’s Sentenza, the hired gun. You know him, Whitey?”

The bounty-hunter studied the distant figure.

“I know about him and his fast gun but we’ve never met. Are you sure, Tuco?”

“Sure I’m sure. I’ve worked with him on a couple of deals and against him on some. The son of a bitch beat me out every time. I don’t know what he’s doing in a Yankee uniform but one thing’s for certain. He sure as hell didn’t join up for honest soldiering any more than we did.”

Corporal Wallace had bellowed the same name three times without a response. His voice was growing thick with rage.

“Bill Carson!” he roared. “I hope Bill Carson’s enjoying himself, because when he finally wakes up, he’ll wish he hadn’t. Bill Carson—”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you muttonhead,” the hunter said from the corner of his mouth, “you’re supposed to be Bill Carson.”

“Oh, oh,” Tuco bleated. He waved his arm. “That’s me, General. Right over here!”

The corporal strode toward him, eyes glittering.

“So you’re Bill Carson, are you? I trust you had a nice, sound nap, Bill Carson. You must’ve been already asleep when I told everybody to answer ‘Present’ when his name was called.”

He was quick as a cat for so big a man. He caught Tuco by the wrist, spun him around and twisted the arm up between the bandit’s shoulder blades so savagely that the creak of tortured joints was clearly audible.

“Present, Bill Carson?”

A moan of agony was the only sound that forced itself past Tuco’s clenched teeth. Wallace grunted and shoved the arm still higher. Tuco’s eyes closed to slits and great drops of sweat crawled down his forehead.

“Big men like you,” Tuco ground out. “I like them because when they fall they make such a big noise—”

Wallace howled in wordless fury and brought up a fist like ham.

A cold voice barked, “Corporal, that’s enough. Let go of that prisoner.”

Sentenza stood a dozen feet away.

He repeated, “Let go of that prisoner, Corporal. That’s an order.”

Panting with fury, the big man slowly and reluctantly released his grip and stepped away. Tuco’s arm dangled limply. He hugged it, moaning softly.

A soldier trotted up.

“Sergeant, the captain wants to see you immediately.”

Sentenza’s pale cold eyes moved from the whimpering Tuco to the tall hunter.

He snapped, “Corporal, you are to see that these two are treated well. And that also is an order.”

He turned and strode toward the row of buildings across the compound.

Wallace glared at the two, breathing in heavy gasps. Slowly his big fists unclenched.

“Prisoners—dismissed.”

“Did you hear that, Whitey?” Tuco panted. “Sentenza told that big bastard to treat us well. He recognized me and he knows how to treat old friends. Our worries are over from here on, Whitey.”

Captain Harper, Commandant of Battleville, was a dying man. He lay in his quarters, grossing steadily weaker day by day, his eyes bright with fever in a bloodless, emaciated face. Thin, bony hands plucked aimlessly at the bedclothing. One leg was swathed to the hip in a great mass of stained bandages that gave off a foul odour.

He aroused himself with an effort as Sentenza gave a perfunctory rap and strode in, flicking a careless salute.

“I hope you’re feeling better today, sir.”

The captain ignored the amenities.

“Sergeant. I’m telling you for the last time—I want the prisoners in this camp treated as honourable prisoners of war. I will not stand for any more of the kind of man-handling I just witnessed through the window.”

Sentenza said harshly, “There are hundreds of those bastards out there just itching to jump us the moment our backs are turned. I’ve got a handful of guards to maintain order. How are we supposed to make them respect our authority if we let them get away with openly defying it?”

“You’d have better success treating them as human beings.”

“Do you think our men are getting better treatment at Andersonville? Breakfast in bed, maybe, with a rose-bud on every tray?”

“How our men are treated as prisoners in Confederate camps is not my responsibility. I’m responsible for the treatment prisoners receive here. I will not stand for having the prisoners in my camp regularly robbed, tortured, even murdered.”

Sentenza’s eyes glittered.

“Is that an accusation—sir?”

“Sergeant, gangrene is eating my leg away but not my eyes. I am well aware that incoming prisoners are systematicallp robbed of all their possessions, which are then peddled to a pack of filthy jackals who are staked out around the camp. My mistake was in giving you almost unlimited authority to take over until my replacement arrives—if he arrives. I’m not even certain that my dispatches to headquarters ever leave this camp.”

“If you’re dissatisfied, sir,” Sentenza said, “I would be happy to step down and let you resume personal command.”

“Damn your arrogance,” Captain Harper gasped. Each rasping breath was taking its toll of his fading strength. “As long as I’m in charge here I will not permit those vicious practices to continue. Have I made myself clear?”

“Oh, sure,” Sentenza said. He grinned, “As long as you’re in charge.”

“I know—I’m dying, Sergeant, but I’m not yet dead. I intend to hang on long enough to gather proof of the charges I’ve made. Then a court-martial can deal with those who dishonour the uniform of the Union,”

“A worthy ambition, Captain,” Sentenza said. “I hope it meets with success.”

He turned and went out without bothering to request permission or to salute.

Outside, Wallace was deep in conversation with a thin-lipped, sharp-featured man in the uniform of a camp guard. Sentenza strode past them with a barely perceptible jerk of his head. In a few minutes they joined hint in his private quarters.