Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“So Tuco talked,” the bounty-hunter said.

“He really didn’t have a great deal of choice,” Sentenza said dryly.

“I can see that,” the hunter said.

He used the toe of his boot to smear a small puddle of fresh blood on the floor.

Sentenza nearly smiled.

“Wallace is proficient in many ways. Housekeeping isn’t one of them.”

“Aren’t you going to honour me with a band concert, too?” the blond hunter asked.

“Would it encourage you to talk?”

“I don’t think it would.”

“I didn’t think so, either. Not because you’re tougher than Tuco, necessarily, but because I think you’re smarter. You would realise that while talking might save you a beating—it wouldn’t save your neck.”

“Is that what happened to Tuco? You had him killed?”

“Oh, no. As a matter of fact, he and Wallace are getting ready to leave on a little errand for me. They’re going to the bank to get some money for me.”

The hunter’s eyebrows lifted.

“Like about three thousand dollars, maybe?”

“Exactly,” Sentenza said. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? After all, why should I let the U.S. Army hang him free when a sheriff will pay me three thousand dollars bounty for the some privilege?” He got to his feet “You’re changing partners—but you’re not making a bad deal. I’m not a greedy man. When I make a bargain I stick to it and I’m easily satisfied. All I want is half that gold. The other half is yours. Is it a deal?”

The hunter’s lips twitched in a trace of a smile. “You don’t leave me a great deal of choice, either.”

He began to unbutton his uniform jacket.

The last item of clothing in the pile was a Mexican poncho, slit in the centre to drop over the wearer’s head and cover him to the knees, both front and back. The bounty-hunter stared at it, then at Sentenza.

Sentenza nodded.

“Although we never met—I’ve heard a great deal about you in my travels. You, your Mexican cigarros and your poncho are becoming a legend. The Man From Nowhere. The Man With No Name, no nerves—and no scruples. You’ll find a supply of your cigarros in that box. And the gun hanging on the chair there is for you.”

The hunter spun the cylinder and saw that the pistol was fully loaded. The belt was filled with spare cartridges. He strapped it on.

“Aren’t you taking a chance?”

“Not,” Sentenza said, “as long as each of us keeps his own little secret to himself. What better life insurance Could either of us have?”

It was late in the afternoon when Sentenza led the way into a small clearing shielded by a circle of dense underbrush and well away from the prison camp.

“This is a good, safe camping spot I’ve used before. We’ll unsaddle and let the horse browse while we build a small fire.”

As they finished unsaddling the bounty-hunter said casually, “If your men stay out in that damp brush much longer, they’re likely to catch either a cold or a bullet.”

Sentenza grinned faintly and raised his voice: “Did you hear that, boys? Come on out.”

They filed into the glade, looking slightly sheepish. They had abandoned their guards’ uniforms and were now dressed as the gunslingers they dearly were, holsters tied down for a fast draw, gunbutt worn slick with use.

“As long as we’re all going the same way,” the hunter said, “we might just as well keep each other company. Let’s see—” He counted as they stepped into sight. “One, two, three four, five six. A perfect number.”

Sentenza’s eyebrows lifted. “What makes six perfect?”

“Why,” the hunter said pleasantly, “that’s how many bullets I have in my gun.”

Sentenza eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment.

“I see your point,” he said finally.

CHAPTER 14

CORPORAL Wallace snapped one end of the handcuff to Tuco’s right wrist, the other to his own left wrist. He gave the short chain a vicious jerk.

“Get moving. That’s our train coming in now.”

As they emerged from the guardhouse there was a stir among a group of lounging prisoners.

An old man with one arm cackled, “Be ye afeared of losin’ him, Corporal? Where ye takin’ him?”

“To the gallows,” Wallace growled. “This man has a fat price on his head.”

“Three thousand dollars, amigo ,” Tuco added. “That’s a lot of money for one head, eh? And how much did they give you for that arm?”

Wallace cursed and gave the handcuff a savage twist that sent Tuco to his knees, stilling a groan of pain. He struggled back to his feet, nursing a bleeding wrist. He glared at his tormentor.

“Don’t forget what I told you before, Corporal. When I knock you down you will make one big crash. It will make louder and sweeter music than your Battleville band ever played.”

A long freight train stood puffing at the prison station. Flatcars loaded with cannon and cases of ammunition were interspersed with boxcars full of Union soldiers. A single coach on the end of the train was obviously reserved for officers.

Wallace clambered into one of the open boxcars and hauled Tuco up after him. A dozen soldiers sat around the walls, staring with open curiosity. The car stank of sheep and manure and the mildewed hay that covered the floor. They found a space and sat down with their backs against the wall. A whistle tooted and the train lurched into motion with a crash of couplings and a squealing of flanges.

Tuco leaned his head back against the wall and fell into a fitful doze. From far off he could faintly hear the voice of Wallace answering the questions of the soldiers.

“I’m staying around for the hanging,” he heard the big corporal saying. “It’ll be a sight to remember—this bastard doing a rope dance in the air and no partner around to shoot him down like he always had before.”

Hours later Tuco awoke and peered around. Everyone else in the car was sound asleep. Wallace breathed in rasping mores beside him, his head tipped back and blubbery mouth sagging open.

Tuco sat up cautiously. Beyond the inert mountain of beef and muscle he could see the butt of the corporal’s pistol peeping enticingly from it’s holster. Tuco’s eyes glittered behind dark puffs of battered flesh. Holding his breath and moving with infinite caution he reached his free hand towards the gun.

He was barely inches from his goal when the rasping snore ended in a choked gurgle. He snatched his hand back an instant before Wallace’s pig eyes flew open.

“What the hell are you—what do you want?”

“What do you think I want?” Tuco whined. “A place to go. How many hours you think a man can bounce around in this damn car before his bladder bursts, eh? How would I look, hanging from the gallows with my pants soaking wet?”

“Not in here,” Wallace yelped, scrambling up. “Out the door. This car stinks bad enough as it is.”

He jerked Tuco to the open door of the boxcar. They stood side by side facing out from the opening, Wallace bracing his free hand against the side. Tuco reached to his trousers, then stopped, glaring at the other.

“Well, can’t a man even take care of his private business without you watching? You think I’m a little baby, eh? I got to have papa hold me on the potty and see that I do it right?”

Wallace cursed him but he turned so that his back was partially to Tuco. Tuco took a step backward, braced himself and sprang. His shoulder slammed into Wallace’s back. The big man yelled wildly and flew through the open door, dragging Tuco with him.

They struck the embankment with Wallace underneath, cushioning Tuco’s fall and taking the full impact of his weight. Then they were rolling helplessly, gouged and clawed by the sharp gravel of the ballast.