Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“Carson. He calls himself Bill Carson now.” Mondrega rose, holding out his palms. “But wait, señor .”

He went to a carved chest opened a drawer and brought out a heavy drawstring purse. It clinked dully as he thmw it on the table in front of Sentenza.

“Here is a thousand dollars—all the money I have. It is for you, señor . Take it.”

The gunman opened the purse and spilled a pile of coins.

“Half in gold, too,” he murmured. “Not bad at all. But this is double my fee, Mondrega.”

“For two jobs, señor . I know now that I will never live in peace while Baker is alive. That is your second job.”

“Fair enough,” Sentenza said briskly. He scooped the coins back into the purse and stowed it under the frock coat. Under cover of the table the long-barrelled pistol slid into his hand, tilting slightly upward. “Since you’re hiring me, Mondrega, there is something you should know about me. I have one rule I will never break. When anyone pays me to do a job—I always do that job.”

The gun slammed twice. Mondrega was hurled backward and down by the heavy slugs. Sentenza rose to his feet without haste and holstered his gun. He broke off a piece of bread and put it into his mouth, chewing with relish.

The young boy, Mondrega’s son, ran down a stairway, carrying a rifle taller than himself. He was trying to level and cock it when Sentenza shot him in the head.

The killer blew smoke from the long barrel, holstered the pistol and strolled out. The woman’s keening screams followed him out. He shook his head.

“Women,” he murmured aloud to some part of him that was not quite dead, although it felt nothing, “get too emotional over small change. She is still young. There must be hundreds of lusty men in the Territory who would be overjoyed to father more sons for her.”

The man, Baker, awoke sharply in the inky blackness of his room. His hand slid under the pillow to close on the butt of his pistol.

“Who is it? Who is in my room?”

The effort brought on a paroxysm of coughing, a legacy of his wound. A harsh, scraping sound came dose by. A marsh flared to light, glinting on high cheekbones and pale sorrel eyes.

“It’s you,” Baker struggled to lift himself upright. “Did you find him? Did he talk?”

Sentenza finished lighting an oil lamp. He replaced the chimney and stood looking down at Baker.

“Yes to both questions. He told me something that will interest you—and something else that interests me.”

“Get on with it,” Baker wheezed impatiently.

“The name Jackson is hiding under now is Carson—Bill Carson.”

“Ah. Go on. What else did you learn ?”

“Something you forgot to mention. About a chest full of gold army dollars that somehow disappeared. That’s the part of his talk that interests me.”

“All right, all right. What more did he say?”

“Isn’t that enough? But you can stop worrying about his tongue. He will never wag it to anyone on this earth again.”

“Good, good—” Baker gasped. He fumbled under the pillow and tossed a heavy purse to the gunman. “Here is your five hundred dollars, Sentenza. You earned it.”

The killer tucked the purse away, turned as if to leave and then stopped.

“Oh, one thing you didn’t ask about. I’ll tell you anyway, so you’ll understand what happens next. Mondrega gave me a thousand dollars—to get you off his back.”

“What? Oh, that’s a good one, eh? A thousand to kill me. Ho-ho, that’s a real good joke.”

“A rich one,” Sentenza agreed. He stood over the bed, looking dawn. “But the funniest part of all is that when I accept a man’s money, I always go through with my job. I took Mondrega’s money, Baker.”

Baker had only time to scream, “No, Sentenza—” before the soft pillow closed down on his face, cutting off his breath and voice.

His body threshed feebly. His hands found a wrist like iron and clawed at it futilely.

Muffled by the pillow, the sound of the shot was little more than a dull thud. The figure on the bed threshed for a moment, then went limp, stilled. Sentenza straightened and holstered the long-barrelled pistol

“A really funny joke,” he murmured softly.

CHAPTER 3

TUCO, the bandido , who yearned to become notorious as Tuco the Terrible, was in an ebullient mood. He had spent a most lively, though tiring, night with a lady of infinitely varied talents and insatiable ardour. Better still, her husband had not interrupted the fun by returning home early and getting himself killed. Such lighter moments were all too rare in the life of a hard-working bandit.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by the sudden violent shying of his horse. A man had stepped from behind a high rock and stoat blocking the narrow part of the trail. He was a stranger to Tuco, a thick-bodied, brutish figure with small, nervous eyes and a knife-scarred cheek. He wore his gun low, the holster tied down for a fast draw. His clawed hand hovered close to its worn butt.

Tuco’s hand started towards his own gun and from as the stranger growled, “Uh-uh. I wouldn’t try it if I was you, friend. It just so happens there’s three of us.”

Two more men stepped into view. One was young and lath-thin, the other an older man with an unkempt tangle of whiskers. The scarred man jerked his head.

“Light down and step up a little. I want a closer look at that ugly face.”

“You are no raving beauty yourself,” Tuco snarled. But he swung down and reluctantly stepped a few paces loser to the trio. “If it’s money you want, my saddlebags are empty.”

“It figures. I’ve seen your face before—on a sheriff’s poster. In fact, friend, it looks like the face of a man worth two thousand dollars in bounty.”

“You could be right, friend,” a new voice said from somewhere off to the side. “But yours doesn’t look like the face of a man who’s going to collect it.”

Tuco and his visitors whirled. A stranger to Tuco was framed in a narrow gap between rocks. He stood tall—inches above six feet—lean and hungry. A line of pale blond hair showed above the weathered bronze of his face. A stubby Mexican cigarro jutted from a corner of his wide, unsmiling mouth. His face was without expression. Except for narrowed, glittering eyes, there was nothing sinister in his appearance but Tuco felt a sudden coldness brush his spine.

The tall man jerked his head at Tuco.

“Step back a little, ugly one, out of line of fire.”

Tuco gulped and scrambled back to stand beside his horse. The scar-faced gunman cleared his throat noisily.

“I don’t know who you are, mister, but it’s plain you ain’t too bright in the head. Nobody in his right mind would butt into our private business the way you just done.”

“If I bother you,” the tall man said pleasantly, “butt me out.”

Everything happened so fast that Tuco was never afterward certain of the sequence. The three gunmen were no amateurs at their trade. Their hands slapped down in practised unison. The tall stranger’s gun simply appeared in his hand, pressed tight against his hip and spewing sound, smoke and bullets. After the first shot the heel of his left hand fanned the hammer, getting off two more shots so close together that the sound was continuous and single.

Only one of the trio managed to get his own iron clear of its leather before he died.

Tuco gaped at the sprawled figures and suddenly thrust his hands behind him to hide their trembling. He turned dazed eyes to his rescuer.

“Thanks, amigo . You saved me from a most unpleasant dance at the end of a rough rope.”

The thin stranger finished reloading without answering. He reached back among the rocks and led a saddled horse out to the trail. He swung into the saddle and sat looking down, studying Tuco without a trace of expression on his dark face.