Joe Millard - The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“So be it,” the judge shouted above the uproar. “Let justice be done.”

Tuco slumped in his saddle, dazed and silent as the sheriff led the horse to an ancient cottonwood. A noose dangled from a lower limb. A gaunt man wearing a deputy’s badge rolled up another barrel and climbed on it to fit the noose over Tuco’s head. The bandit began to whimper wordlessly while tears rolled down his swarthy cheeks. The watching hunter chuckled softly and cocked his rifle.

The judge unfolded a long sheet of paper and perched steel-rimmed spectacles on his nose. “This here dee-fendant, previously wanted in fourteen counties of this Territory, has been found guilty of the crimes of murder, armed robbery of individuals, banks and post offices, the theft of sacred objects, arson of a Territorial prison, perjury, bigamy, desertion of family, incitement to prostitution, kidnapping, extortion, receiving stolen goods, passing counterfeit money, using marked cards and loaded dice, assault and battery against individuals, justices of the peat county, district and Territorial officials. Have you any last word, you skunk?”

Tuco turned his head as far as the taut rope would permit.

“You left out rustling cattle.”

The judge reddened. He waved his arms violently for silence.

“Uphold the dignity of this here court, dammit.” He peered at his paper. “Therefore, accordin’ to the powers vested in us, we sentence the accused here before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, to hang by the neck until dead, and may God have mercy on his soul—if any. Sheriff, proceed with your duty.”

The sheriff raised his whip. At its stinging lash the horse would lunge from under Tuco, leaving him to dance at the end of the rope.

The hunter in the alley settled his left hand on the wall and rested the rifle across his ann. He sighted carefully.

The crack of the sheriff’s whip was lost in the thunder of the shot. The rope parted with a twang a foot above Tuco’s head as the horse lunged forward, scattering the yelling crowd. The animal pounded down the street and out of town at a dead run before anyone could recover his wits and open fire on the bandit crouched over its neck.

The hunter ran to his own mount and set off, following the dwindling dust cloud of the bandit’s horse. He rode at a leisurely gallop, unworried at the possibility of pursuit. It would take the sheriff and his pow at least the rest of the day to find and round up their own horses on foot.

At sundown they sat in a rendezvous, high in the mountains, dividing the stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s five for you and one, two, three, four, five for me. Another five for you and the rest for me makes it even shares.”

Tuco pressed the banknotes to his cheek.

“You know, friend, for the first time in my life I could get to like a bounty-hunter.”

“Your price should go up to at least three thousand after this stunt. We’d better skip a couple of counties and hit a sheriff who hasn’t had time to hear about it yet. Our game’ll get too risky when the news gets around.”

“The world—” Tuco chuckled—is divided in two. Some wear ropes around their necks and others cut them down.” He rubbed his throat gingerly. “But do not forget, señor , that the neck inside the rope is mine. You speak of risk—but it is I who take that risk. You do nothing but shoot and ride away. That is why the next time I want a bigger share.”

The hunter fixed Tuco with a cold, unwinking stare while he took out a stubby cigarro and struck a match. He took a long time about firing his smoke.

At last he said softly, “Raising your share means lowering mine, friend, and that could have unpleasant results. It could make me nervous and spoil my alto. I’m sure you would find that most uncomfortable, friend.”

Tuco’s eyes narrowed.

“Let me give you one warning. If you were to miss the rope you’d better be sure not to miss my head. I might still beat the noose. And any man who thinks to double-cross Tuco Ramirez and leave him alive understands nothing about Tuco—nothing at all.”

CHAPTER 5

SENTENZA leaned against the corner of a harness shop and boredly watched the preparations for the hanging. He had seen—and meted out—violent death in too many forms to be thrilled by the sight of some poor devil kicking away his life at the end of a rope. He took out a yellow meerschaum pipe and packed it with exaggerated care.

Across the street a crowd of townspeople milled excitedly around the makeshift gallows hastily erected in front of the sheriff’s office that morning. The condemned man, his hands tied behind him, had been hoisted on to his horse. He slumped dejectedly in the saddle while a sour-faced judge droned through an endless list of charges.

“...previously wanted in fourteen counties of this Territory... the accused here present, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez...”

Sentenza had been lounging in the same place some two hours earlier when the outlaw was brought into town, kicking and cursing, flung across his saddle like a sack of grain. His captor, a tall, pale-haired bounty-hunter, had collected a three-thousand-dollar reward and departed without a word or a nod to anyone.

As he had ridden away he had glanced towards Sentenza. The hunter had carefully taken in the frock coat, looked up and for a moment the two men’s glances had met and locked. To Sentenza the hunter’s eyes had carried the impact of a physical blow.

Watching the tall, lean figure ride on he had thought, There goes probably the most dangerous man I have ever encountered...

The observation left him without emotion. Dead men knew no challenges. Still without emotion, Sentenza smiled.

He stiffened suddenly at the rhythmic clatter of wood on wood and a voice calling his name. A grotesque travesty of a man was hurrying toward him along the board walk.

Both of the newcomer’s legs had been amputated at the hips so that he was all torso and head and long arms He gripped two blocks of wood which he used as crutches, slapping them on to the plank walk and swinging his abbreviated body between them. Awkward as his means of locomotion seemed, he dexterously threaded his way through the crowd of onlookers,and approached Sentenza with remarkable speed.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Half-soldier,” Sentenza said. “Did you get a line on Carson?”

“Enough,” the cripple said, “to know why you’re looking for him and to be glad I’m not in his boots.” He shook his head. “It’s like something out of one of those dime novels, Sentenza.” He peered around and lowered his voice. “A Confederate escort unit was caught in an ambush by Yankees and practically wiped out. Only three men got through alive—Mondrega, Baker and Jackson. What didn’t get through was a chest full of gold dollars they were taking to Santa Fe. There was a hearing and Jackson claimed the Yankees got the gold. With nobody to contradict him, Jackson was acquitted of stealing it. But get this—Jackson disappeared right after the hearing and turned up around here, calling himself Bill Carson.”

“Yes,” Sentenza said with a touch of impatience. “I know that much. What else did you find out? Where is Carson now? That’s what I want to know, man.”

“I can tell you that. He re-enlisted in another outfit and lost one eye in a skirmish with Colonel Canby’s Colorado Volunteers. You’ll know him when you see him by the black eyepatch he wears now. I couldn’t find out where he is right at the moment but I located someone who can. She’s a prostitute by the name of Maria. This Jackson-Carson lives with her when he’s not out in the field with his outfit”

“Where do I find her?”

“Now, what in hell’s the name of that town? It’s an easy name, too.” He scratched his head, frowning then brightened. “Sant’ Ana—that’s it, Sentenza, Sant’ Ana.” The gunman stooped and slipped a handful of coins into the cripple’s shirt-pocket.