Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“Don’t get yourself killed, Whitey,” Tuco pleaded. “Let me take him, eh? What would my life be without you?”

“Fry your own fish,” the hunter said.

He dropped his gun into its holster, Slowly and deliberately he fished out one of his stubby cigarros . By the time it was lighted to his satisfaction he and Andy were no more than a dozen paces apart. He held up the flaming match.

“When I drop this—”

His fingers opened. The match was still falling when the shots came almost together.

The two men stood, feet wide apart, each staring into the other’s face for a long moment. Then Andy’s knees buckled and he pitched forward on to his face. A cloud of grey dust pulled up from the street. The hunter threw a quick glance at a fresh bullet hole through a fold of his poncho. An inch to the right and he, too, would be lying in the dust

Then the others were yelling and shooting as they came forward. Slugs whistled around him and kicked up dust at his feet. He heard Tuco’s gun bang and the scar’faced killer known as Emil spun around and fell. The hunter’s left hand slapped his gun hammer in a blur of motion.

It was over in seconds. Tuco’s voice rose in a bellow as he pushed out the empty shells and reloaded.

“Eh, there, Sentenza, you miserable coward! Come out from wherever you are hiding and trembling as I can kill you, too.”

“He’s probably miles away by now,” the hunter said, “but come on.”

With Tuco at his heels he sprinted to the store with the shattered front that was to have been their night’s shelter. It was empty now but a message had been printed boldly on the one undamaged wall. It was signed with the initial S. Tuco scowled at it, laboriously picking out the words.

“We’ll—meet—again—id— What is that last word, Whitey?”

“Idiot,” the hunter said dryly. “He probably meant the message for you.”

CHAPTER 17

THEY lay belly down on the crest of a high, grassy ridge. Below them a broad river flowed sluggishly southward. Tuco’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He moaned softly and pounded his head with the heel of his hand.

“Those thieving brothers of vultures at Battleville Prison Camp. May the coyotes fight over their guts and the worms feast on their eyeballs. If they had not robbed me of my map, along with everything else, I would not have to give myself a headache trying to remember our route.”

“Maybe I could help you,” the hunter said, “if you’d tell me where we’re headed. I know most of this country pretty well.”

“We’re headed toward a grave, Whitey. That’s enough.” Tuco’s eyes flew open and he sat up, beaming. “Eh, now I have it. I can see the river as clearly as if it were right in front of me.”

“It is,” the hunter said.

Tuco ignored the jibe. “Below this point the river makes a bend and beyond the bend is a bridge. We cross it and turn north—and almost before we know it we will be at the cemetery. Come on, Whitey.”

He scrambled to his feet

“Hold on a minute, Tuco,” the hunter said dubiously. “Don’t you think we’d be smarter to wait until night fall and cross the bridge in the dark? After all, a bridge is a pretty exposed spot. Anyone on the ridge could see us and pick us off with a rifle if he had a mind to. And what about our horses?”

“Ah, Whitey, you worry too much all the time.” Tuco flung out his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Who is there to see us, eh? Look at all this great big empty country. Leave everything to me. Tuco knows what he is doing. He is getting us to that two hundred thousand gold dollars before that pig of a Sentenza can get there. Don’t forget, Whitey, he knows where the cemetery is and he has not given up hope by any means.”

“Maybe you’re right,” the hunter said.

He rose reluctantly and followed the bandit down the ridge slope to the riverbank. Tuco’s memory proved accurate—the river almost immediately began a aweeping curve eastward. Here its banks were higher, covered with lush grass and dotted with stands of timber.

“Eh, Whitey, how calm it is here. How peaceful. Maybe with my share of the two hundred thousand dollars I will settle down here where no one will ever bother me. Just Tuco and a few choice women, eh?”

Behind them a harsh voice said, “All right, you two. Turn around. Slow. Then stand where you are.”

The hunter and Tuco turned. A squad of Union cavalry troopers sat their mounts at the edge of a small woods, covering them with carbines. A sergeant gestured with his pistol.

“Drop your gunbelts and step away from them. Then keep going as you were. We’ll ride along. You can explain to the captain why you were prowling around here on foot. We’ve got your horses.”

The hunter gave his companion a look of sour disgust.

“Look at all this great big empty country,” he mimicked. “Then look at this great big empty head that’s dumb enough to go along with your stupid ideas.”

He started to walk. Tuco ambled silently beside him. The mounted troopers followed.

They emerged from a stretch of open woods and stopped short. The bridge Tuco had remembered was there—just beyond the bend—but nothing on his map had indicated that now it was guarded by Union pickets.

Above the bridge the whole slope of the ridge was criss-crossed with a network of entrenchments, fortifications and artillery emplacements. The muzzles of giant mortars loomed like tree stumps along the crest of the ridge. Troops in Union blue were everywhere.

Directly across the river an almost identical strong-hold was occupied by an army of grey-clad soldiers. From a tall flagpole floated the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy above the Lone Star flag of Texas.

“Ah,” the hunter said softly. “How calm it is here. How peaceful. I’m almost tempted to settle down here with you, Tuco, where no one will ever bother us.”

The sergeant and two of his men dismounted The hunter and Tuco were herded along a narrow stretch and to a closed shelter, its timbered roof shielded and fireproofed with earth and sod. A guard with a rifle jumped up from a bench near the door.

The sergeant holstered his pistol.

“Tell the commanding officer we found these two wandering around on foot just upriver. Their mounts were concealed nearby.”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard vanished inside. He returned in a moment, a dubious expression on his face.

“Captain’s drunk again—but I guess it’s all right to go on in.”

He and the sergeant exchanged veiled glances. Tuco and the hunter were prodded into the shelter. An officer sat at a table littered with maps and official forms. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned and his dark hair was mussed. He peered drunkenly, then jerked his head.

“Clear out, sergeant. I’ll take over.” When the sergeant had gone he squinted at his visitors. “Where are you from?”

The bounty-hunter gestured.

“That would take a long time to tell.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Tuco said, “I travel with him.”

“What were you doing wondering on foot near a military installation? Spying for the R bs?”

“Oh, no, General,” Tuco said hastily. “We came to sign up as soldiers.”

He ignored his companion’s withering glare.

“So you want to be soldiers. Well, your first duty can be to learn the differences in rank. I’m a captain, not a general—Captain Clinton, in command of this oversized burial detail.” The captain pronounced each word with exaggerated care and his voice was faintly slurred. “Sit down, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable. The only ceremonies we stand on here are funeral ceremonies. You’d better start perhaps, by making out your wills—today could be your turn.” He blinked at them owlishly. “You should go far in this man’s tinny, spies or not. You ought to make colonel at the very least.”