The Good the Bad and the Ugly

by Joe Millard

  “You’ll get the water,” Tuco rasped, “as soon as you tell me where the money’s hidden. I remember the story now. There was a court-martial. You went free. Out with it. Where is the money?”

  “In—cemetery—grave.”

  “What cemetery? Where? Talk, you filthy vermin.”

  “Sad—Hill. In the—grave.”

  “What grave? There are thousands there. What’s the name? What’s the number on it? Come on—talk, talk, you dirty louse. The name or the number. Quick. Spit it out”

  “Name—on head—board. Name—wa—”

  Tuco yelled, shookthe dying man savagely.

  “What, you stinking rat? Get it out and I’ll give you water! What’s the name on that headboard, damn you?”

  The dying man strained but only a wordless croak came from his lips. The one eye closed and his head fell back.

  Tuco scrambled up, his eyes wild. “Don’t die—don’t pull a dirty, stinking trick like that on me. Don’t move. I’m going for the water. Don’t you dare die before I come back, you dirty scum.”

  He whirled and ran madly towards his horse, which had wandered several hundred yards from the ambulance in search of grass. In his panic he failed to see the figure of the bounty-hunter crawling slowly towards the ambulance.

  Tuco snatched the canteen from the saddle and raced back. He had almost reached the ambulance when he saw his hated enemy huddled in the tiny patch of shade beside the figure of Carson-Jackson.

  “Get away from there,” Tuco screamed. “Get away, damn your black soul. Get away from him—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the hunter croaked. “He’s dead,”

  Tuco threw himself down, shaking the lifeless body,. beating it in a fury of frustration.

  “Damn you, damn you, damn you—” He reared back, his face working crazily. He jerked out his gun. “I’ll kill you.”

  “I wouldn’t—if I were—you,” the hunter croaked “Kill me—now—and you’ll—stay the beggar—you are for the—rest of—your life.”

  “He talked?” Tuco screamed. “He told you something? But, no. He was too far gone to talk. You’re lying to make me spare your stinking hide. He couldn’t talk.”

  “He told name—grave—full of gold—somewhere—”

  Tuco flung himself on the limp figure, shaking it furiously.

  “The name, Whitey. Tell me whose grave.” The only response was a feeble moan.

  “Whitey, you aren’t dying, too, like that pig? You can’t die—I won’t let you die. I’m your friend, Whitey. Wait, here is water. Suck a little but don’t swallow just yet. It will make you sick. Don’t die, Whitey—at least not for a while.”

  The water brought some strength back to the hunter but now he was delirious. His eyes rolled wildly while wordless sounds came from the swollen lips. Tuco turned his eyes heavenward.

  “Mother of God, don’t let him die. He is dearer than a brother to me.”

  He scrambled up and dragged the remaining bodies out of the ambulance. One had been a very tall man, over six feet. Alternately praying and cursing, Tuco stripped the Confederate uniform from the corpse and somehow got it on to the inert figure of the bounty-hunter.

  Another change transformed Tuco into the late Corporal Bill Carson, complete with eyepatch. He gathered up the limp figure of the hunter and deposited it tenderly on the ambulance floor.

  “Don’t die, Whitey. Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die—.” He scrambled to the driver’s seat and slapped the reins. “Giddyup, you vulture’s bait. Move. If he dies—a part of me will die, too.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE Rebel sentry lifted his gun and peered nervously into the darkness.

  “Halt. Who’s there? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot.”

  “What do you mean, who’s there?” Tuco bawled back. “Who were you expecting—Colonel Canby with the Yankee army at his heels, idiot? If I were the enemy you wouldn’t be alive to ask stupid questions. I’ve got a man here who’s in a terrible condition—maybe dying or already dead.”

  The sentry lit a hooded lantern and cautiously approached the ambulance. He studied Tuco, then leaned into examine the figure of the hunter.

  “He’s still alive, isn’t he?” Tuco called anxiously. “He’s breathing but that’s about all. What happened?”

  “Our troop was ambushed. Only the two of us got away.”

  “Your name, rank and unit—and show me your travel orders.”

  “Travel orders?” Tuco choked. “The only travel orders we got came spitting out of Yankee gun muzzles, you jughead. I’m Corporal Bill Carson, Third Cavalry Regiment, Second Squadron, You got more damfool questions to ask while a man is dying? Or do you show as to the infirmary?”

  “Infirmary?” the sentry hooted. “We’re on the edge of the desert, separated from our regiment and fleeing for our lives and you ask where’s our infirmary. I’ll tell you where the nearest infirmary is, Corporal. It’s in the Yankee camp.” He sobered. “Look, Corporal, we don’t even have a doctor here. Your best hope is to get him to the Mission of San Antonio.”

  Turn started violently. “Did you say San Antonio?”

  “Yep. It’s about eighteen miles in that direction. The friars there will take in any wounded man, never mind the colour of his uniform. Get along, but watch out for Federal troops. They’re all over the area.”

  It was mid-morning when Turn drove up to the mission door. A gaunt, ascetic monk with a white beard came out as Tuco sprang down from the ambulance seat.

  “Hello, Padre. I have a man here who is in bad condition. You must get to work on him at once.”

  “But we are already overcrowded. There is no more room.”

  “Then give him yours,” Tuco barked. “Where is Pablo Ramirez?”

  “Father Ramirez is away from the mission now but we expect him to return any day.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is to make my hurt friend well. See if he is still breathing, Padre.” The monk leaned into the ambulance.

  “Yes, he still breathes.”

  “God be praised. If you don’t know, Padre, God is with us because He, too, hates the Yankees. Give me a hand here and we’ll get this poor fellow inside. Easy, Whitey. Easy now, boy. They’ll have you as good as new in no time.”

  The unconscious figure was deposited on the bed in a small cell. The white-bearded monk turned on Tuco and flapped his hands.

  “Get out, now. Outside,”

  “Padre, this man is like a brother tome.”

  “But right now he needs nursing and I can’t take care of him if I’m falling over you constantly. So out with you. Wait outside and I’ll let you know his condition.”

  For what seemed hours Tuco paced outside the cell, gnawing his knuckles and muttering prayers. Monks rushed past him, carrying towels and instruments and basins of hot water.

  At last the cell door opened and the friar emerged. Tuco rushed to him.

  “Padre, how is he? Has he spoken? Did he ask for me or perhaps speak a name? Even if he is out of his head, Padre, you must tell me at once if he speaks a name.”

  “He can’t speak—and won’t be able to for some time But do not worry about him. He is a strong man or he would not be alive now. I would say that unless there are complications he should be fully recovered in a couple of weeks. In the meantime we’ll find some way to put you up so you can be close to him.”

  “Thank you, Padre. And thanks to God and Saint Francis, too. You don’t know what this means to me.”

  “You most be a very good friend.”

  “Padre, I would follow him anywhere—to the ends of the earth if I had to.”

  Two days later the sick man was judged strong enough for a brief visit. Tuco approached the bed nervously.

  Then his fate lit.

  “Whitey, you look good. The good padre tells me that in a couple of weeks you should be almost as good as new. At least strong enough to travel. Just think how lucky it was that I was there with you
when—when it happened. Just think if you had been alone out there. When a man is sick he needs someone dear to him by his side—a friend, a relative. Do you have relatives, Whitey? A mother? No? You are alone like me. But now I have you and you have me.”

  The hunter rolled his head and a throaty, barking sound came from his lips. Tuco bent over lean anxiously, then realised that what he was hearing was weak laughter. He sprang back, his face dark with rage.

  “Pig—hastard. What is so funny, eh? Let me in on your grand joke, scum, so I can laugh, too.”

  “You and me,” the other gasped weakly. “We hate each other’s guts—but we have to keep one another alive at all costs. Even in hell they must be laughing at as funny a joke, Tuco.”

  “I’ll tell you another joke to laugh at, Whitey,” Tuco raged. “I lied to you a minute ago. You aren’t going to be well in two weeks—or ever. The padre says it’s all over for you. Whitey. Not even a miracle can pull you through. You’re going to die and it’s my fault. Mine, all mine—”

  “Tuco.” The rasping whisper drew the bandit’s ear to the hunter. “Don’t grieve too much. I will die happy, knowing I leave such a good friend to cherish my memory.”

  “Son of a pimp.” Tuco dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Listen, Whitey. If I knew my hour had come—I swear I would not carry a useless secret with me to the grave. I would not have such a thing on my conscience in Purgatory. I would tell you with my dying breath the location of the cemetery where the money is hidden.” He scrambled to his feet, “Here, Whitey, have a sip of this coffee. It will give you strength to speak clearly, to mention the name on the headboard of that grave. After all, what will you need the money for when you’re dead? Just speak the name, Whitey, and I swear to you when I lay my hands on the two hundred thousand dollars I will honour your memory. I will have a mass said for you every day. Better yet I’ll have the mass sung, even if it does cost a little more. Nothing will be too good for my dear friend.”

  “Tuco,” the other said in an almost normal voice. “If you don’t stop you’ll have are laughing myself to death and then you’ll never find out the name on that grave.”

  “Stinking black-hearted bastard,” Tuco growled.

  The friar put his head in the door.

  “Shame on you, using such language in a house of God. Clear out now. Go away and let this man rest.”

  The following day Tuco encountered the friar hurrying with a glass of water.

  “That is for my friend, Padre? Let me take it to him. I want to apologise for my outburst yesterday. I have been so worried over him that my nerves are on edge. I have burned candles and apologised to God for my wickedness, Padre. Now let me apologise to him.”

  The bounty-hunter held out his hand for the glass as Tuco approached the bed. Tuco leered at him, keeping the glass just out of reach.

  “You want water, eh? You are dying for water, your poor throat on fire? I’ll give you water, all you can swallow—as soon as you have told me the name, Whitey. The name. The name, you scum, you vermin from the dungheap—”

  The hunter made a sudden lunge. He struck the bottom of the glass, throwing the water into Tuco’s face. The outlaw jumped back, sputtering and cursing.

  “So you’re strong enough for tricks, eh? Then, damn your soul, you’re strong enough to travel. Your easy time is over. Get your butt out of that bed and get your clothes on, damn you. More wounded soldiers are pouring in by the cartload. The fighting is getting closer and if we don’t clear out fast we’re liable to wind up right in the middle of it.”

  The friar put his head in the door.

  “Father Ramirez has returned and will see you at once. Come with me.”

  Tuco swung around in the doorway. “This is private business that will not take long. When I come back—see that you are up and ready to go.”

  The tall monk rose from a writing table, his dark face devoid of expression as his visitor was ushered in.

  When the door closed Tuco ran to him, clutching the robe.

  “Pablo, Pablo—don’t you recognise me? It is your brother, Tuco. Let me embrace you.” He gave the other an awkward hug, then stepped back, looking embawassed. He laughed nervously. “It is only that—well—I don’t know how one is supposed to act with monks. I was passing near here so I said to myself, ‘Who knows if my brother still remembers me?’ Did I do wrong to come here? All the same—it is good to see you.”

  “So now you have seen me,” the monk said coldly.

  “And I am glad, brother—or Father. Ah, you are eyeing my uniform. It is a long story, too long to tell now. But let’s talk about you, not about me. You’re more important. You look very well. A little thin, perhaps, but—ch—still in good form, Pablito? And how are the old ones?”

  “Only now you remember them, Tuco? After nine years?”

  “Nine years? Is it that long? Well, well. Nine years” Tuco laughed nervously and mopped a glistening forehead.

  “Our father has been gone for a long time. Our mother died only a few days ago. That was what took me away from the monastery. She looked and hoped for you until the very last. But only I was there.”

  Tuco muffled noisily and rubbed a sleeve across his eyes.

  “And besides doing evil, what else have you accomplished, Tuco? Did I not hear that you had a wife somewhere?”

  “A wife, brother? I have had lots of wives. One here, one there—all over the place. And plenty of mistresses, too. Now go ahead, brother. Preach me that sermon you’ve been saving up for me for all these years.”

  The monk spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “What good would it do? Go on your way, Tuco, now that you have seen me. Go—and God have mercy on you.”

  “Sure, I’ll go,” Tuco cut in harshly. “But while I’m waiting for that heavenly mercy I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, will tell you something, brother of mine. You think you are so much better than me because of that robe, eh? Where we came from—a man who didn’t want to starve had only two choices. He became a priest or a bandit. You chose your road and I chose mine.”

  Father Ramirez had turned his back. Tuco tramped around until they were again face to face.

  “The hard road is mine. You talk of our mother and father, eh? But when you left to take your vows—who was it who stayed behind to help them? I was ten or twelve years old then, brother, and I had to sweat and sweat plenty even when I knew all I could do was useless.”

  He wagged an angry finger in his brother’s face.

  “Do you know what I have to say to you now, brother? You became a monk only because you were a coward—without the guts to become a bandit.”

  The monk’s hand whipped out and cracked against Tuco’s face. Tuco fell back. His eyes widened in shock that turned to rage.

  “Tuco—forgive me, brother. I didn’t mean—”

  Tuco cursed, whirled and ran out of the room

  An hour later, on the seat of the ambulance, he sucked his teeth and watched enviously as the hunter lit one of his cigarros.

  “Ah, yes, Whitey. After a fine meal like the ones the monks gave no back there, nothing is as fine as a cigar to top it off, eh?”

  The bounty-hunter fished out another stubby cigar and silently banded it over. Tuco fired it and sucked in the fragrant smoke.

  “Now it is perfect, Whitey. What a meal they gave as for a send-off, eh? Those monks eat well and feed well. My brother saw to it that we had the best You didn’t know, did you Whitey, that the head of the monastery is my brother? Pablito—little Pablo. What a fine man my brother is. He told me whenever I was near to stop in again. He said there would always be food and shelter for me. And he told me to bring my friend with me. That is you, Whitey. How my brother hates to see me leave. Even for a sinner like me there is always a welcome—no matter what I have done or what has happened.” He fished a worn map out of a pocket and studied it, frowning. “Let’s see. We cross the Rio Grande here and follow the trail this way.”

  “To where
?” the hunter asked innocently.

  “Uh-uh. When we arrive where we are going I will tell you where we are, Whitey. That way you don’t have to worry, with our destination on your mind all the tine.”

  “Thanks,” the other said dryly. “But as long as I’m still alive and we’ll undoubtedly be passing through both Union and Confederate lines several times—wouldn’t it be just plain common sense to give me some idea of where we’re going?”

  “Toward two hundred thousand gold dollars, Whitey. Isn’t that enough for any man to know?”

  The hunter shrugged, handed over the reins to Tuco and settled himself for a nap.

  Some time later he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder and Tuco’s urgent voice in his ear. “Whitey—Whitey, wake up. Soldiers are coming—a troop of cavalry.”

  The hunter opened his eyes. “Blue or grey?”

  The wagon had halted in a little glade where they were hidden from casual view by bushes. Tuco stood on the seat, shading his eyes as he peered over the bushes. He jumped down, beaming.

  “Grey, like us—Confederates. We’re in luck, Whitey. We don’t have to hide here. We’ll just give them a salute and keep right on going. Long live the Confederacy—hooray for the South and damnation to all Yankees. Long live General—eh, what’s that General’s name, Whitey?”

  “Lee—Robert E. Lee. But d think we’d be smart just to stay right here, out of sight, until they’ve gone on.”

  “Eh? You worry too much, Whitey. Why should friends hide from friends? Giddup, you knotheads. God is with us because he too, hates Yankees.”

  The ambulance lurched out of the glade into the open. The officer leading the oncoming troop lifted his hand and the double line of cavalry swerved to intercept their pads.

  Tuco waved his hat and yelled, “Long live General Lee—”

  The officer stared at him in silence. Then he stripped off a gauntlet and used it to slag vigorously at his jacket sleeve. A cloud of grey dust smoked up with each slap. After a moment a dark patch began to appear on the sleeve. Beneath the mantle of dust the jacket was unmistakably Yankee blue.