Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“You are a fine fellow, Sentenza. Like I have always said, ‘That Sentenza—he is one of the best.’”

“And also—” Sentenza still spoke softly—“one of the most curious. For instance, how did you happen to start calling yourself Bill Carson?”

Tuco’s eyes shifted

“It’s as good a name hs any, isn’t it? You know using my own name too much might not be so healthy, eh? It could give me a very sore throat” He guffawed at his own joke but the sound was strained. “Besides, I don’t see you using your name so much, either, Sentenza. Sergeant Sentenza? That might not sound so nice in some places, eh?”

“I see. Then you mean Bill Carson is just a name that popped into your head for no reason at all. Is that the way it was, Tuco? It wasn’t one you might have—ah—borrowed from a real Bill Carson?”

“Is there a real Bill Carson?” Tuco asked. “The name just came into my mind.”

“I see,” Sentenza purred. “And the eyepatch. That just came into your mind, too?” He watched big drops of sweat form and crawl down the swarthy cheeks. “Tell me, Tuco, do you like music? Band music?”

The bandit looked puzzled, then shrugged.

“Well, sure, I guess so.” He patted his bulging belly. “Anyhow, they say it is good for the digestion.”

Wallace said eagerly from his post beside the door, “Now, sergeant?”

“I think very shortly now,” Sentenza replied quietly. “Just be patient a little longer, Wallace.”

Tuco’s gaze shuttled nervously from one man to the other. The meaning of the cryptic exchange eluded him but it had had an ominous sound. He swallowed noisily and wet his lips.

“So the whole Bill Carson identity is just a fake? Is that your story, Tuco?”

“That’s right.”

Sentenza drew the gold cigar case from his pocket, opened the lid and set it on the table where Tuco could stare at the engraved name.

“Then this cigar case is part of the fake, too. It seems to me you went to a great deal of trouble and expense to build up the identity of a man who never existed.” His hands slapped down on the table and be bent forward, the pale eyes cold and deadly. “Carson was alive when you found him, wasn’t he? Alive and able to talk. What did he say? What did he tell you about two hundred thousand gold dollars? Where did he tell you he hid it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sentenza leaned back again, his pent breath hissing out through clenched teeth.

“Now, Wallace.”

The big corporal whirled, snatched open the door and poked his head out. “All right, you Rebs. Start the music—and make damn sure it’s good and loud.”

The band began to play raggedly and off-key but with tremendous volume.

CHAPTER 13

TUCO was no weakling. He made a valiant, if hopeless, effort to defend himself. He struck first, driving a left and a right with all his force into Wallace’s heavy middle. Tuco’s fists rebounded from a mass of iron-hard muscle.

The big man bellowed and sledged with a fist that almost tore Tuco’s head off. He flew backward, skidded across the table on his shoulders, taking the stew bowl with him. He crashed to the floor. Wallace was on him like a tiger, hitting, mauling, picking him up and slamming him to the floor. Blood began to pour from the bandit’s nostrils and a crimson trail ran down from one corner of his mouth.

Sentenza blew a cloud of smoke from the yellow meerschaum.

“Easy, Wallace. Take a breather.” He knocked the dottle from the pipe and stowed it away. “How’s the digestion now, Tuco? Does that music get on your nerves? We can stop it, you know, if you’d prefer to have it quiet while you tell me what I’m waiting to hear.”

Tuco stirred feebly and mumbled, “Nothing—to tell.”

Sentenra sighed.

“You’re a stubborn man, Tuco. But then, so is Wallace.”

The corporal opened the door, put out his head, yelled, “Play louder, you Reb bastards.”

He came back across the room, grinned and bent over the limp and battered figure. His huge hands reached for the bandit’s throat.

Suddenly the bundle of bloody rags on the floor exploded into life. Tuco’s bent legs straightened, lashing out and up to drive both heels full into Wallace’s meaty face. Wallace rocked back, blood spurting from his smashed nose and a long cut over one eye.

Tuco tried to roll over and scramble to his feet. He made it as far as his hands and knees before the agony of injured nbs arrested him. Wallace heaved to his knees and flung himself forward. His massive body hit Tuco, rolled him over and slammed down on him, driving the breath from Tuco’s lungs in a bubbling scream of pain.

Wallace straddled the squirming figure, trapping Tuco’s arms with his knees. His huge hand cupped the battered face, holding it in a vice while his thumbs clamped down on Tuco’s eyes.

“You’ll need two eye-patches when I’m through with you—”

Wallace pushed down with both thumbs.

Tuco screamed again.

Then he moaned, “I’ll talk—I’ll talk—”

“That’s enough, Wallace,” Sentenza said sharply. Slowly and reluctantly the big man took his thumbs from Tuco’s eyes and rose to his feet. He mopped his bloody face on his sleeve, swearing thickly under his breath.

Sentenza moved his chair around to face the figure on the floor, bending forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Now let’s hear everything Bill Carson told you about that money.”

“It’s—hidden—in a—grave.”

“Where?”

“Sad Hill—the Sad Hill—cemetery.”

“In which grave? What’s the name or number on it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wallace,” Sentenza said.

The big man started forward, Tuco screamed again wordlessly.

Then: “No more.” Fear gave him the strength to sit up. He flung out a pleading hand. “Listen to me. I swear to heaven that I don’t know which grave. Whitey—Whitey knows the—the name on it. Whitey—the big white-haired man who was captured with me.”

Sentenza’s sharp gesture stopped Wallace in his tracks.

“You’d better explain that, Tuco, and tell it so it makes good sense. I don’t buy fairy tales.”

“Yes. Carson was dying. He told about the money and the cemetery but when he tried to name the grave he couldn’t get the words out. All he could do was croak for water. I ran to get the canteen from my saddle. When I got back Whitey was hanging over him and he was dead. But with his last breath he got out the name on the grave. That’s why we had to—stick together. Whitey knew the grave but not which cemetery. I knew the cemetery—but not the grave.”

Sentenza straightend, the sorrel eyes glittering. “I’ll be everlastingly damned.”

A guard found the bounty-hunter sitting by the barracks. He jerked a thumb by way of command. “The sergeant wants to see you right away. Come along.”

Sentenza was perched on the edge of the table swinging one leg when the hunter was brought to him. He had exchanged his sergeant’s uniform for his regular clothing. The butt of the long-barrelled pistol showed under the frock coat. More civilian clothing was piled on the end of the table. He nodded toward it.

“Get out of the Reb uniform and into these clothes. As far as you and I are concerned, my friend, the war is over.”

The hunter remained where he had stopped, just inside the door.

“Why?”

“Because we’re leaving here right away.”

“Leaving for where?”

“For the spot where two hundred thousand gold dollars lie waiting to be found. I know the name and location of a certain cemetery and you know the name on a certain grave. That makes us what you might call travelling companions, doesn’t it?”