Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

Wallace growled the moment the door closed, “Why didn’t you let me finish the job on that smart monkey out there?”

“Because,” Sentenza said grimly, “that smart monkey out there happens to be the most important man in the world to me right now. But only if he stays alive and able to talk. You’ll get your chance at him in good time.” He turned to the sharp-faced guard. “Sambrell, the time has come for a change in scenery. The game here is played out. Any day now Harper’s replacement will arrive—then all hell will break loose.”

Sambrell patted the gun at his side.

“I can take care of Harper—and his replacement”

“And the rest of the U.S. Army, no doubt,” Sentenza said dryly. “But I’ll have a more important job for you. Round up the rest of the boys right away. Saddle up and go for a nice long ride—only don’t come back. Wait at the old camp spot until you get word from Wallace or me.”

When Sambrell had gone Sentenza tilted back his chair and put his feet on the table. He locked his hands behind his head and smiled at the brutish corporal.

“Wallace, Captain Harper wants the prisoners given more humane treatment. It might be a good idea to treat them to another one of those music concerts you arrange no admirably.”

“Yes, sir,” Wallace said. He grinned and licked his lips.

“Get every prisoner with a musical instrument into your band. It doesn’t matter whether or not they play well—as long as they play good and loud.”

“You bet.”

Wallace caressed scarred knuckles and his small piggish eyes glittered with anticipation.

“Then,” Sentenza said, “bring your friend, Bill Carson, in for a little visit with as. And Wallace—no rough stuff—yet.”

Tuco and the Man With No Name were lounging in the shade of a barracks with several other prisoners when Wallace came around the corner. Tuco winced and shrank back but the big corporal strode on past to where a bearded old man slept with his back against the wall.

Wallace drew back his boot and drove a vicious kick into the sleeper’s ribs. The impact sent the old man rolling. He peered up dazedly, then scrambled to his feet, holding his side and muffling a groan.

“We’re having another band concert for the boys, Simmons,” the corporal said, grinning. “Get your horn and get over there on the double.”

The old man muttered, “Yes, sir.”

He stumbled into the barracks, bent over and holding his side. He emerged lugging a battered tuba. He limped off across the compound to where other prisoners were converging, carrying a variety of instruments.

Still grinning, Wallace turned and crooked a finger at Tuco.

“You—Carson, Come along. The sergeant wants a word with you.”

Tuco wet his lips and his eyes shuttled wildly, searching in vain for help.

“On your feet,” Wallace snarled. “I’ve got strict orders not to lay a hand on you but don’t tempt me too far.”

Tuco dragged himself erect and tottered after the burly figure like a condemned man marching to the gallows. A prisoner named Angus looked pityingly at the bounty-hunter and wagged his head.

“I don’t know what your friend’s done—but God help him. I never seen a band concert set up so close to the sergeant’s quarters before.”

The hunter scowled.

“I don’t get it, friend. What’s the connection between the sergeant’s sending for Tuco and the band concert?”

“Don’t you know about the Battleville band, mister? They only give a concert when some poor bastard is due to get beaten within an inch of his life or maybe strung up by the thumbs. It’s supposed to play so loud Cap’n Harper can’t hear his screams.”

The hunter’s face went tight and icily blank. His fists clenched until the knuckles turned frosty white. Until that moment he had taken it for granted that only he and Tuco shared the dead Carson’s secret of the buried gold.

CHAPTER 12

“COME in, Tuco,” Sentenza said genially. “Don’t stand on ceremony. How long has it been?”

He was seated at a big table, ladling a rich-looking stew from a large bowl into a smaller one at his place. A chunk of crusty bread lay beside the stew. An open whisky bottle and a hall-filled tumbler of amber liquid stood close to his hand.

Tuco wet his lips and moved a few reluctant steps toward the table.

“A long time, Sentenza.”

“You can take off that silly eyepatch, too. I recognised you immediately out there in line.”

Tuco stripped off the patch with unsteady hands. The vapours from the succulent stew assailed his nostrils. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled with longing. Sentenza heard the sound and laughed. He gestured toward a chair at the end of the table.

“Hungry? I guess the standard prison fare does leave a little something to be desired. Sit down and eat, Tuco.” He pushed the large bowl of stew and the bread over. “Take it all. I’ve finished my dinner, except for the—ah—dessert.”

He sipped whisky appreciatively, his mocking gaze fixed on the bandit’s nervous, shifting eyes. Tuco slid into the mat, snatched up a spoon, then froze. Fear and suspicion came into his eyes. He looked longingly at the stew while an inner battle raged between doubt and hunger. Doubt won and he laid the spoon back on the table.

Sentenza reached over and dipped a heaping spoonful of the stew. He chewed appreciatively and swallowed.

“You see, Tuco—no poison. You always were a suspicious character. Now dive in and fill yourself.”

Tuco’s face cleared. He snatched the bread with one hand and the spoon with the other and wolfed down the food, making little animal squeals of delight. Sentenza watched him, sipping his whisky. Wallace stood just inside the closed door, a look of anticipation on his brute face.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Tuco mumbled between bites, “I knew it. The moment I saw you I said to myself, ‘Look at that pig of a Sentenza. He’s got himself set up real good here. And Sentenza is not the kind who forgets his friends. Especially not an old friend like Tuco.’”

“That’s right, Tuco. Particularly an old friend like you.”

“Good.”

Tuco beamed, swallowing a huge chunk of meat.

“And I do enjoy seeing friends once in a while. That way I know I’m not forgotten.”

“Right,” Tuco mumbled, nodding vigorously.

“Especially,” Sentenza went on smoothly, “when friends have travelled a long distance and have many interesting and exciting things to tell me.”

Tuco’s eyes were suddenly wary and hooded.

“Sure.”

“What do you have to tell me, Tuco?”

“Uh—you mean, like about the war and the fighting? And about getting captured?”

“Tuco,” Sentenza said softly. “Let’s see, you were captured at Fort Craig, or somewhere in that general area, I believe.”

Tuco’s reply was a cautious grunt that could have been either affirmative or negative.

Sentenza put his fingertips together and studied the outlaw thoughtfully.

“So, you were with Sibley’s Texans—which means you must have come from Santa Fe.”

“Uh,” Tuco grunted. He wiped sudden moisture from his forehead with a ragged sleeve.

“The desert has killed a lot of men. It must have been pretty terrible to cross.”

“Very bad,” Tuco agreed. He stared wistfully at the whisky bottle. “It is especially bad when you have nothing to drink.”

Sentenza pushed the bottle toward the bandit’s out-stretched hand.

“Help yourself, Tuco, and don’t feel obliged to stint. Good whisky is sometimes a help in loosening the tongue and yours needs it.”

Tuco tilted the bottle and his throat worked convulsively. He lowered it at last with an explosive breath. He wiped his mouth and belched.