by Joe Millard
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.
“You did a good job for me, Half-soldier, Adios, amigo.”
Sentenza leaned back against the wall, his sand-coloured eyes rolled and remote. He had most of the answers now. Both Baker and Mondrega had recalled fleeting glimpses of innumerable graves—and what better hiding place fora chest of stolen gold than a grave? The only cemetery of any size in the region of Glorietta Pass, where the ambush occurred, was the military burying ground at Sad Hill.
Two big problems still remained to be solved. One was to discover in which of the thousands of graves an Sad Hill the treasure lay hidden. Only Jackson, alias Bill Carson, could tell him that.
The second problem was to get there. The whole mountain area east of Santa Fe was now batdegroand as Colonel Canby’s Union forces flung themselves desperately at General Sibley’s invading Texans. The liars shifted daily and a civilian caught wandering there could be that by either side as a spy.
That fact would explain why Carson had rejoined the army. As a soldier he stood a far better chance of getting to Sad Hill and making off with his loot, under cover of the fighting.
All he, Sentenza, had to do was find Carson first and make him identify the particular grave before he died. He straightened, his eyes clearing, his course charted as far ahead as possible. He became aware that across the street the condemned man now sat beneath the gallows farm, the noose tight around his neck. The sheriff stood by, his whip poised to send the horse stampeding from under its rider.
Sentenaa glanced away and froze, his eyes flaring. A flicker of shadowy movement had drawn his attention to the open door of the hayloft above the livery stable. The blond bounty-hunter stood just inside the doorway, a cocked rifle across his left arm as he took careful aim towards the gallows below. A light of comprehension and reluctant admiration came into Sentenza’s eyes.
“I’ll be damned,” he murmured softly.
Across the street the judge intoned, “And may the Lord have mercy on his soul. Proceed with your duty, Sheriff.”
On the walk beside Sentenea a woman who had stopped to watch whimpered, “Poor wretch. What a terrible, terrible thing it must be for him.”
Sentenza’s lips moved without humour. “I wouldn’t fret, ma’am. Not all hangings end in tragedy. Some lucky devils—even that miserable beggar over there—have a guardian angel, perhaps an armed angel, watching over their fate.”
The whip whistled down, the rifle slammed and all hell broke loose. The horse went pounding off, riderless, leaving Tuco’s figure twisting and kicking from the uncut rope. The shot had missed.
The hunter levered a fresh shell into the chamber and shot again. This time the rope parted and Tuw
sprawled in the dust below.
He scrambled up, howling, “Whitey—for the love of God, Whitey—”
He started to run.
The crowd was pushing and yelling. The sheriff tugged at his pistol. The rifle slammed again and the pistol whipped out of his hand, spun away down the street. Two men ran to intercept the stumbling Tuco. Two shots sent their hats flying and they abruptly lost the urge to be heroes.
The crowd yelled and scattered as the bounty-hunter dropped to his waiting horse and came pounding toward them. He thundered past, bending low to catch Tucos collar and hoist him up behind the saddle. By the time the crowd had recovered its wits the fugitives were a dwindling dust cloud in the desert.
Senteeza turned away, smiling.
“A man dead by rights—so now there are two of us. A most interesting diversion,” he murmured to that part of himself to which he often spoke. “But now it is time to visit a lady of professional love—but not for the usual reason.”
Tuco, hands still bound behind him, maintained a precarious balance on the rump of the running horse. The length of frayed rope streamed behind but he had managed to loosen the noose with his shoulder until he could breathe more freely.
“Whitey,” he bleated. “What are you doing to me? You missed that shot on purpose. You deliberately did it to scare me, to show what could happen if I insist on the bigger cut I deserve.”
“Anybody can miss a shot now and then,” the hunter said over his shoulder.
“What do you mean, anybody can miss a shot?” Tuco yelled. “You don’t miss a shot when I’m hanging from the end of a rope with my lungs bursting and my eyes popping out. Do you know what it feels like to have a rope jerked tight around your neck? Do you know how it feels to be hanged? No? Well, one day you will find out how it feels, Whitey. I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, make that solemn promise. And while you are choking you will learn what it is like to have someone you depend on miss a shot. That, too, I promise you on my honour as a bandit and a thief.”
They were far out in the bleak and burning desert by then. The hunter twisted around to look back. No clouds of dust marked pursuit. He noted with satisfaction that a hotwind, like the breath of a furnace, was erasing their tracks almost as soon as they were made.
He reined to a halt and waited for Tuco to slide awkwardly to the ground. Leaning an elbow on the saddle horn, he gazed thoughtfully down at the sweaty, bedraggled figure.
“You know, Tuco, I’ve been thinking things over and you’re right. This game is too dangerous for you. If anything happened and I had to leave you hanging there—I’d feel all-over responsible. I’d probably spoil my sleep, worrying.”
“What are you saying, Whitey?” Tuco whined nervously. “Stop talking foolishness and get down here and untie me. The cord has cut clear through my wrists.”
“Another thing I’ve been thinking,” the other said, “is that a small-time chicken thief like you will never he worth more than three thousand dollars. You’ve reached your top now.”
“What do you mean?”
“That there’s simply no future with a partner of your calibre. So I’m dissolving the partnership as of here and now, my friend. I’ll go my way and you may go yours. Adios, amigo.”
“Whitey!” Tuco screeched. “You pile of toad-droppings! You worm in the guts of a rat! Untie me and give me my share of the three thousand dollars. Just give me my half. I won’t insist on a bigger cut. Get down, Whitey, Come on, now, and stop your jokes.”
“I’m dead serious—not joking at all Tuco. As for your cut—since you’re no longer my partner you’re no longer entitled to a share. That’s plain common sense, isn’t it?”
“Of all the filthy, stinking, dirty tricks—” Tuco stared wildly around at the vastness and bleakness of the desert, at the tortured rock formations writhing and dancing is the heat waves. His eyes were crazed with fear. “I’ll die if you leave me out here, Whitey. Especially with my hands tied. Untie me—”
“You might not survive, it’s true. But again, you might, Tuco. For days on end I’ve heard nothing but endless tales of your daring exploits, your cleverness and smartness. A fellow as sharp and resourceful as you will have that cord off in no time. Then it’s only a few miles back to the town we just left where, of course, they’ll hang you again, mare permanently. But it’s only seventy miles across the desert to a town where no one knows you. Consider it a challenge, my friend. A man needs a challenge to bring out the best in him. Good luck.”
“Judas!” Tuco howled. “Traitor! Coward! Vulture! Stinking bastard son of a bastard! Come back, Whitey, Get off that horse—if you’re a man. Get off and face me if you’ve got the guts.” He strained at his bonds, then launched a raging kick toward the departing figure. “ER get free, Whitey. I’ll get free to hunt you down. I’ll tear your black heart out and eat it. I’ll skin you alive with a dull knife. I’ll hang you up by your bowels for vulture bait—”
He tried to run after the vanishing figure. His toe hit an outcropping of rocks and he pitched on his face. He lay fora time, sobbing, kicking the hot sand.
When he sat up the bounty-hunter was out of sight.
CHAPTER 6
THE girl, Maria, stumbled up the creaking stairs to her room, whimpering and spitting curses. She was a bedraggled mess, her face smeared with mud, her hair in strings, her gown torn,
“Cabrones,” she sobbed. “Thieves. Vermin. Filthy pigs of troopers—”
Because of Bill Carson she had thought all Confederate cavalrymen were gentlemen. But that had been before she had got into the buggy with the drunken bunch from the Second Cavalry. When she had refused to accept their worthless Confederate shinplasters they had used her by force, taking turns pinning her on the muddy ground. Then they had left her there without a penny.
She closed the door of her room and groped in the darkness for the oil lamp and matches she always kept on a little table just inside. The table was in its accustomed place but its top was bare. Both lamp and matches were gone.
From somewhere close by came the faintest whisper of movement. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Bill? Bill, is that you? Are you back so soon? Bill, don’t give me such a fright. Say something to me.”
A match flame sprang up, lighting a sinister wedge of face that was like the personification of evil. Maria choked back a scream of terror.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Sentenza lit the wick of her oil lamp, turning it low. His shadow, thrown on the wall by the flickering lamp-light, was monstrous and terrifying.
“Who I am is unimportant. What I’m doing here is something we can talk about I want to know about your friend, Bill Carson.”
“I don’t know any Bill Carson,” Maria whimpered. “I never heard of him. Go away.”
“So you call out in the dark for someone you have never heard of. Where is he, Maria?”
“What do you want with him?”
“I’m asking the questions Where is he? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know a thing, I tell you. Get out of here and leave me alone.”
“Maria,” he softly, almost sadly, “I haven’t either the time or the patience for your stupid games. You’re going to tell me everything you know about Bill Carson—sooner or later. The choice of how soon will be entirely up to you.”
His hand caught her wrist and twisted cruelly. His free palm closed over her mouth, muffling her shriek of anquish. His strong fingers vised her jaw. “Where is he, Maria? Where—is—he?”
She shook her head.
She had been beaten up many times before—but never so savagely, so thoroughly, or with such fiendishly dispassionate skill in the art of inflicting pain. With every blow came the relentless question.
“Where is he, Maria? Where—is—he?”
Even the strongest spirit has its threshold of endurance.
“Stop ! I cant stand any more.” She clung to his knees, w
himpering, turning up a puffed and bloody face. “I don’t know where he is now. He left ten days ago with his unit and I have heard nothing from him since. I swear that’s all I know.”
“What unit?”
“The Third Confederate Cavalry, General Sibley. They went to reinforce the garrison holding Sante Fe.”
He stared down at her for a long moment, then nodded.
“All right, Maria. Now, that wasn’t so hard to get out, was it?”
The curious little way-station stood between the edge of the desert and the main settlement. One side of its main room sported a sparsely-stocked bar. The remainder was filled with a hodge-podge collection of canned goods, saddlery, hardware. The main feature, however, was a large display of pistols, rifles, shotguns and ammunition.
The owner, a plump little widower known only as Milton, was accustomed to days when not a soul appeared from dawn to dusk. He was content with his isolation, never bored and never lonely. His passion for guns—although he never shot one himself—let him fill the empty hours with endless oiling and wiping and polishing of his stock.
The afternoon was waning when he laid the last pistol tenderly on its display pad and closed the case. He glanced through the window towards the courtyard and stiffened. His mouth fell open.
A strange man was coming on foot from the desert. He was obviously in the last stages of exhaustion. He stumbled toward Milton’s well. He fell against the well kerb, scooped handfuls of tepid water front the bucket, splashing them over his blistered face, sucking up cautious sips.
Through the closed door Milton could hear a steady, hoarse animal whimpering between the sucking noises.
His first impulse had been to run out and give succour, but something held him back. He had been visited before by fugitive outlaws fleeing to or from the desert. None of the encounters had ended pleasantly for him. This newcomer had the look of danger.
Milton matched up a small board sign inscribed: CLOSED. He inched the front door open far enough to hang the sign outside, eased the door shut again. He ran to the corner for the stout oak timber with which he barred himself in at night.
