Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“Whitey, Whitey you won’t forget that it was Tuco who saved your life in the desert? It was Tuco who took you to his brother’s monastery and watched over you like a father until you were strong and well. Without Tuco you wouldn’t be here today.” He whirled and held out pleading hands. “Sentenza, I forgive you for what you had that pig Wallace do to me. I am not a vengeful man or one to hold a grudge. It was simply a matter of business, what happened there in Battleville. I understand, Sentenza. I would have done the same thing myself.”

Neither man paid the slightest attention to his mnuthings. They faced one another, a dozen paces apart. The bounty-hunter took a long drag on his cigarro and flipped it away. His right hand hung just below and behind the butt of his gun.

Sentenza used his left hand to pull the long frock coat away front the holster on his left hip. His right hovered close to his belt.

“The count of five suit you?”

The hunter nodded.

“Tuco, stop that damn babbling and give us the count.”

Tuco moistened his lips and began to count in a high, quavering voice.

At the count of five the poised hands moved in a blurt of fantastic speed. The slap of palms against walnut butts sounded almost as one.

Only a single gunshot thundered.

Sentenza stood very still, the long-barrelled pistol only half drawn. He stared at the bounty-]hunter, his forehead creased in a frown of perplexity. He gave his head a little shake, as if some thought troubled him.

Then, very slowly, one knee began to buckle. He turned half around in a grotesque, dipping pirouette, then fell heavily on his side. His hand made one feeble effort to finishing drawing the pistol, then went limp.

The hunter strode to Ids fallen adversary, stirring the body with the toe of his boot. He holstered his gun and turned away.

Tuco found his voice. “Whitey, you did it. I knew you could. I told you you could take Sentenza and you did. The pig is dead and good riddance, eh?” He stumbled backward on rubbery legs and collapsed on the nearest grave. “Now there is only you and me, Whitey. Tell me where the gold is buried, eh? Which is the grave, eh?”

“You’re sitting on it,” the hunter said.

CHAPTER 21

TUCO gaped at the headboard with bulging eyes. “But—but, Whitey, there is no name on this grave. All the marker says is unknown.”

“That’s right.” The bounty-hunter nodded. “Carson said—the unknown grave nearest to Arch Stanton’s. So grab that head board and start digging.”

“But, Whitey,” Tuco wailed, “you will have to help me. I can’t dig it all by myself. Already I have dug up one grave. My muscles are like water.”

“Tuco,” the hunter said grimly, “as you’re so fond of repeating, there are two kinds of people in this world—those who have bullets in their guns and those who dig. You dig.”

He stood watching until the excavation was knee-deep to the sweating bandit, then turned and went down the slope to where his horse was tethered. He took something out of a saddlebag and came back, holding the object behind him.

Tuco loosed a wild shout.

“Aieee, it is here, Whitey! I can see the top and this one is not a coffin. It’s a money chest, all right.”

The lid came up protestingly. The cavity beneath it was packed full of bulging leather sacks. Their contents made a dull chinking sound as Tuco hoisted one after another out of the grave. The hunter knelt and pulled the drawstring on one sack. A stream of gold dollars cascaded out to the ground. Tuco scrambled out on his knees and ploughed shaking hands through the pile.

“Eh, Whitey, Whitey, what a lovely sight. And it’s all ours to divide. We’re partners, you and me, Whitey, to share and share alike, eh?”

“Oh, you’ll get your half,” the bounty-hunter said, “and here’s something else that belongs to you.” He held out a coil of rope with a hangman’s noose at one end. “Remember this, Tuco? Recognise your handiwork? I went back and got it that day—after the Yankee shell had conviniently interrupted your merry little game of shoot-the-stool-legs. I figured I might find a use for it, sooner or later.”

Tuco, still on his knees, goggled at the rope, his mouth sagging open.

“Whitey, you are fooling, eh? You are just making a big joke with your friend, Tuco, elr? I know. You are trying to frighten me, to give me the big scare.”

“By the expression on your face,” the other said dryly, “I’m not only trying but succeeding. And this isn’t a joke—it’s a rope. Take it and put it on. Snug it up around your neck where it belongs and then you can rest and relax. I’ll take care of the rest myself.”

“Whitey—” Tuco took the rope into shaking hands and managed to get the loop over his head. “You can’t, Whitey. You wouldn’t do this to Tuco—who loves you like a brother and saved your life.”

“Turn around and put your hands together behind you.”

He slapped the butt of his pistol. Sobbing, the outlaw got to his feet and put his wrists together. The hunter used the buckskin thong from the money sack to lash them together.

He gave the shaking figure a nudge.

“Walk over to that rail fence.”

The fence divided the cemetery from the woods. One tree put out a stout limb that hung low above the rail. The bounty-hunter tossed the end of the rope over the limb and caught it. He drew the rope snug.

“Now climb up and stand on the top rail. You can make it if you’re careful. I’ll hold the rope good and snug to help you keep your balance.”

“Whitey, Whitey—” Tears streamed down Tuco’s swarthy cheeks. He managed to scramble on to the top rail where he teetered precariously. “Do you know what you always were, Whitey? A big bastard. A stinking bastard and the son of bastards.”

The bounty-hunter tied the end of the rope to a fence post and went back to the pile of exhumed money sacks. He knelt and began to separate them into two piles.

“One for you and one for me. Another for you and another for me. Just like old time, isn’t it, Tuco, old faithful partner?”

“Whitey,” Tueo screamed. “I am losing my balance. I caret stand up on this rail any longer.”

“Oh, I think you can manage, Tuco—for a little while. Just stay real still and don’t breathe hard.”

Tuco’s foot slipped on the narrow rail. He screeched and managed to regain his balance by main effort.

The bounty-hunter stood up, hugging his share of the money sacks to his chest. “I’m leaving your share here on the ground for you. It will give you something to look at and dream about when you get bored.”

The bandit howled obscenities. Midway to his horse the hunter stopped and looked back.

“If I were you, I don’t think I’d try dancing any jigs, Tuco. Adios , friend.”

The hunter stowed the money into his saddlebags, mounted and rode across the vast field of the dead. At the edge of the cemetery he reined in to look back.

Tuco was teetering wildly on the rail fence, about to lose his balance completely. The bounty-hunter reached down and drew out the army rifle that had come with the stolen horse. He levered a shell into the chamber, took careful aim and fired.

Tuco was falling off the rail. The rope was tightening around his neck when it parted a scant foot above his head. He landed on the ground on his side with an impact that jarred the breath from his lungs.

The hunter slid the gun back into its scabbard and sat watching until he saw Tuco sit up and struggle to his knees, tugg1ng frantically at the thong binding his wrists behind him.

The hunter’s lips moved in a faint smile. He touched the brim of his hat in avague salute.

“The partnership is hereby dissolved,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t too unsuccessful while it lasted. Adios , Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez.”