by Joe Millard
“God,” said the hunter bitterly, “couldn’t hate Yankees half as much as he must hate idiots.”
CHAPTER 11
BATTLEVILLE Prison Camp was big, rambling and enclosed by a stockade fence. High watch-towers rose at intervals above the stockade. From these the guards could see and shoot into every part of the camp. More than a thousand Confederate prisoners were already jammed into the place and more were arriving daily.
Tuco and his tall companion were shoved into a small receiving compound with some fifty other captives. These were being processed, one at a time, at a guarded inner gate, then passed through into the main prison yard. The processing seemed to consist mainly of stripping each man of whatever money and other possessions were on his person.
Tuco’s eyes glittered as he studied the growing pile of watches, jewellery and money on the table.
“What a haul, Whitey. Maybe we can figure a way to start our own prison camp and rob everybody all legal like that. Only I wouldn’t bother with privates. I’d have my camp just for officers—rich officers, eh?”
“You’d better use whatever wits you have to figure a way to get us out of this camp.”
A gate guard threw his rifle to his shoulder.
“You, over there. Shut up. Open your mouths once more and you’ll be tasting lead.”
The number of waiting prisoners dwindled rapidly until only the hunter and Tuco remained. The guard jerked his thumb at Tuco.
“You’re next, Reb. Get up here—on the double.”
A corporal snatched his enlistment paper and added “Bill Carson” to his list. Meanwhile one of the guards went through Tuco’s pockets methodically and thoroughly. Tuco glowered as the watch, jewellery and cash he had taken from the dead soldiers was tossed on the table. Last of all was the gold cigar case with Bill Carson’s name engraved in the lid.
The corporal glanced at the case and stiffened. He snatched it up and went to whisper urgently to one of the guards at the gate. The guard nodded, took the case and trotted briskly toward a row of flat-roofed wooden buildings. The corporal turned and gestured to Tuco.
“All right, you. Move along. Get inside.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Tuco said indignantly. “Where’s my receipt?”
“Receipt?” The corporal came toward him, his eyes narrow, his mouth a thin, cold line. “What receipt?”
“You’re supposed to give me a receipt for everything you take away as when the war’s over or we’re exchanged I show it and get my stuff back again.”
“Oh, that receipt,” the corporal said. “Here—”
He slugged from the hip, pivoting on his toes and putting the full weight of his body behind the blow. His fist sank deep into Tuco’s unguarded belly. Tuco fell, retching and sobbing for breath.
The corporal jerked his head at the grinning guards.
“Throw him in the pen with the rest.”
The newly arrived prisoners were herded into a line. A hulking bruiser in a corporal’s uniform walked along the line. His thick lips curled in an expression of exaggerated disgust. He turned back and planted himself before the prisoners
“All right, you Rebs. Straighten up and listen to me. I’m Corporal Wallace and there’s nothin’ in this stinkin’ world I hate worse than stinkin’ Johnny Rebs. I’ll give you orders and I expect you to squeal like pigs when I say squeal. Understand? Whatever I tell you to do, you do—and do it damn fast. Otherwise, you and we’ll take a little walk to the guard-room and have as a little, quiet heart-to-heart talk about discipline.” He glared ominously at the sullen faces. “All right, we’ll call the roll. When you hear your name answer, ‘Present’. I’m a mite hard of hearing sometimes—so make damn sure you call out loud and clear, John Cooper.”
“Present.”
“Charles Louis.”
“Present.”
Tuco suddenly nudged his tall companion and whispered excitedly, “Do you see that big fellow over there, wearing a sergeant’s stripes? The one with eyes like a cougar’s? That’s Sentenza, the hired gun. You know him, Whitey?”
The bounty-hunter studied the distant figure.
“I know about him and his fast gun but we’ve never met. Are you sure, Tuco?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’ve worked with him on a couple of deals and against him on some. The son of a bitch beat me out every time. I don’t know what he’s doing in a Yankee uniform but one thing’s for certain. He sure as hell didn’t join up for honest soldiering any more than we did.”
Corporal Wallace had bellowed the same name three times without a response. His voice was growing thick with rage.
“Bill Carson!” he roared. “I hope Bill Carson’s enjoying himself, because when he finally wakes up, he’ll wish he hadn’t. Bill Carson—”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you muttonhead,” the hunter said from the corner of his mouth, “you’re supposed to be Bill Carson.”
“Oh, oh,” Tuco bleated. He waved his arm. “That’s me, General. Right over here!”
The corporal strode toward him, eyes glittering.
“So you’re Bill Carson, are you? I trust you had a nice, sound nap, Bill Carson. You must’ve been already asleep when I told everybody to answer ‘Present’ when his name was called.”
He was quick as a cat for so big a man. He caught Tuco by the wrist, spun him around and twisted the arm up between the bandit’s shoulder blades so savagely that the creak of tortured joints was clearly audible.
“Present, Bill Carson?”
A moan of agony was the only sound that forced itself past Tuco’s clenched teeth. Wallace grunted and shoved the arm still higher. Tuco’s eyes closed to slits and great drops of sweat crawled down his forehead.
“Big men like you,” Tuco ground out. “I like them because when they fall they make such a big noise—”
Wallace howled in wordless fury and brought up a fist like ham.
A cold voice barked, “Corporal, that’s enough. Let go of that prisoner.”
Sentenza stood a dozen feet away.
He repeated, “Let go of that prisoner, Corporal. That’s an order.”
Panting with fury, the big man slowly and reluctantly released his grip and stepped away. Tuco’s arm dangled limply. He hugged it, moaning softly.
A soldier trotted up.
“Sergeant, the captain wants to see you immediately.”
Sentenza’s pale cold eyes moved from the whimpering Tuco to the tall hunter.
He snapped, “Corporal, you are to see that these two are treated well. And that also is an order.”
He turned and strode toward the row of buildings across the compound.
Wallace glared at the two, breathing in heavy gasps. Slowly his big fists unclenched.
“Prisoners—dismissed.”
“Did you hear that, Whitey?” Tuco panted. “Sentenza told that big bastard to treat us well. He recognized me and he knows how to treat old friends. Our worries are over from here on, Whitey.”
Captain Harper, Commandant of Battleville, was a dying man. He lay in his quarters, grossing steadily weaker day by day, his eyes bright with fever in a bloodless, emaciated face. Thin, bony hands plucked aimlessly at the bedclothing. One leg was swathed to the hip in a great mass of stained bandages that gave off a foul odour.
He aroused himself with an effort as Sentenza gave a perfunctory rap and strode in, flicking a careless salute.
“I hope you’re feeling better today, sir.”
The captain ignored the amenities.
“Sergeant. I’m telling you for the last time—I want the prisoners in this camp treated as honourable prisoners of war. I will not stand for any more of the kind of man-handling I just witnessed through the window.”
Sentenza said harshly, “There are hundreds of those bastards out there just itching to jump us the moment our backs are turned. I’ve got a handful of guards to maintain order. How are we supposed to make them respect our authority if we let them get away with openly defying
it?”
“You’d have better success treating them as human beings.”
“Do you think our men are getting better treatment at Andersonville? Breakfast in bed, maybe, with a rose-bud on every tray?”
“How our men are treated as prisoners in Confederate camps is not my responsibility. I’m responsible for the treatment prisoners receive here. I will not stand for having the prisoners in my camp regularly robbed, tortured, even murdered.”
Sentenza’s eyes glittered.
“Is that an accusation—sir?”
“Sergeant, gangrene is eating my leg away but not my eyes. I am well aware that incoming prisoners are systematicallp robbed of all their possessions, which are then peddled to a pack of filthy jackals who are staked out around the camp. My mistake was in giving you almost unlimited authority to take over until my replacement arrives—if he arrives. I’m not even certain that my dispatches to headquarters ever leave this camp.”
“If you’re dissatisfied, sir,” Sentenza said, “I would be happy to step down and let you resume personal command.”
“Damn your arrogance,” Captain Harper gasped. Each rasping breath was taking its toll of his fading strength. “As long as I’m in charge here I will not permit those vicious practices to continue. Have I made myself clear?”
“Oh, sure,” Sentenza said. He grinned, “As long as you’re in charge.”
“I know—I’m dying, Sergeant, but I’m not yet dead. I intend to hang on long enough to gather proof of the charges I’ve made. Then a court-martial can deal with those who dishonour the uniform of the Union,”
“A worthy ambition, Captain,” Sentenza said. “I hope it meets with success.”
He turned and went out without bothering to request permission or to salute.
Outside, Wallace was deep in conversation with a thin-lipped, sharp-featured man in the uniform of a camp guard. Sentenza strode past them with a barely perceptible jerk of his head. In a few minutes they joined hint in his private quarters.
Wallace growled the moment the door closed, “Why didn’t you let me finish the job on that smart monkey out there?”
“Because,” Sentenza said grimly, “that smart monkey out there happens to be the most important man in the world to me right now. But only if he stays alive and able to talk. You’ll get your chance at him in good time.” He turned to the sharp-faced guard. “Sambrell, the time has come for a change in scenery. The game here is played out. Any day now Harper’s replacement will arrive—then all hell will break loose.”
Sambrell patted the gun at his side.
“I can take care of Harper—and his replacement”
“And the rest of the U.S. Army, no doubt,” Sentenza said dryly. “But I’ll have a more important job for you. Round up the rest of the boys right away. Saddle up and go for a nice long ride—only don’t come back. Wait at the old camp spot until you get word from Wallace or me.”
When Sambrell had gone Sentenza tilted back his chair and put his feet on the table. He locked his hands behind his head and smiled at the brutish corporal.
“Wallace, Captain Harper wants the prisoners given more humane treatment. It might be a good idea to treat them to another one of those music concerts you arrange no admirably.”
“Yes, sir,” Wallace said. He grinned and licked his lips.
“Get every prisoner with a musical instrument into your band. It doesn’t matter whether or not they play well—as long as they play good and loud.”
“You bet.”
Wallace caressed scarred knuckles and his small piggish eyes glittered with anticipation.
“Then,” Sentenza said, “bring your friend, Bill Carson, in for a little visit with as. And Wallace—no rough stuff—yet.”
Tuco and the Man With No Name were lounging in the shade of a barracks with several other prisoners when Wallace came around the corner. Tuco winced and shrank back but the big corporal strode on past to where a bearded old man slept with his back against the wall.
Wallace drew back his boot and drove a vicious kick into the sleeper’s ribs. The impact sent the old man rolling. He peered up dazedly, then scrambled to his feet, holding his side and muffling a groan.
“We’re having another band concert for the boys, Simmons,” the corporal said, grinning. “Get your horn and get over there on the double.”
The old man muttered, “Yes, sir.”
He stumbled into the barracks, bent over and holding his side. He emerged lugging a battered tuba. He limped off across the compound to where other prisoners were converging, carrying a variety of instruments.
Still grinning, Wallace turned and crooked a finger at Tuco.
“You—Carson, Come along. The sergeant wants a word with you.”
Tuco wet his lips and his eyes shuttled wildly, searching in vain for help.
“On your feet,” Wallace snarled. “I’ve got strict orders not to lay a hand on you but don’t tempt me too far.”
Tuco dragged himself erect and tottered after the burly figure like a condemned man marching to the gallows. A prisoner named Angus looked pityingly at the bounty-hunter and wagged his head.
“I don’t know what your friend’s done—but God help him. I never seen a band concert set up so close to the sergeant’s quarters before.”
The hunter scowled.
“I don’t get it, friend. What’s the connection between the sergeant’s sending for Tuco and the band concert?”
“Don’t you know about the Battleville band, mister? They only give a concert when some poor bastard is due to get beaten within an inch of his life or maybe strung up by the thumbs. It’s supposed to play so loud Cap’n Harper can’t hear his screams.”
The hunter’s face went tight and icily blank. His fists clenched until the knuckles turned frosty white. Until that moment he had taken it for granted that only he and Tuco shared the dead Carson’s secret of the buried gold.
CHAPTER 12
“COME in, Tuco,” Sentenza said genially. “Don’t stand on ceremony. How long has it been?”
He was seated at a big table, ladling a rich-looking stew from a large bowl into a smaller one at his place. A chunk of crusty bread lay beside the stew. An open whisky bottle and a hall-filled tumbler of amber liquid stood close to his hand.
Tuco wet his lips and moved a few reluctant steps toward the table.
“A long time, Sentenza.”
“You can take off that silly eyepatch, too. I recognised you immediately out there in line.”
Tuco stripped off the patch with unsteady hands. The vapours from the succulent stew assailed his nostrils. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled with longing. Sentenza heard the sound and laughed. He gestured toward a chair at the end of the table.
“Hungry? I guess the standard prison fare does leave a little something to be desired. Sit down and eat, Tuco.” He pushed the large bowl of stew and the bread over. “Take it all. I’ve finished my dinner, except for the—ah—dessert.”
He sipped whisky appreciatively, his mocking gaze fixed on the bandit’s nervous, shifting eyes. Tuco slid into the mat, snatched up a spoon, then froze. Fear and suspicion came into his eyes. He looked longingly at the stew while an inner battle raged between doubt and hunger. Doubt won and he laid the spoon back on the table.
Sentenza reached over and dipped a heaping spoonful of the stew. He chewed appreciatively and swallowed.
“You see, Tuco—no poison. You always were a suspicious character. Now dive in and fill yourself.”
Tuco’s face cleared. He snatched the bread with one hand and the spoon with the other and wolfed down the food, making little animal squeals of delight. Sentenza watched him, sipping his whisky. Wallace stood just inside the closed door, a look of anticipation on his brute face.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Tuco mumbled between bites, “I knew it. The moment I saw you I said to myself, ‘Look at that pig of a Sentenza. He’s got himself set up real good here. And Sentenza is not the kind who forgets h
is friends. Especially not an old friend like Tuco.’”
“That’s right, Tuco. Particularly an old friend like you.”
“Good.”
Tuco beamed, swallowing a huge chunk of meat.
“And I do enjoy seeing friends once in a while. That way I know I’m not forgotten.”
“Right,” Tuco mumbled, nodding vigorously.
“Especially,” Sentenza went on smoothly, “when friends have travelled a long distance and have many interesting and exciting things to tell me.”
Tuco’s eyes were suddenly wary and hooded.
“Sure.”
“What do you have to tell me, Tuco?”
“Uh—you mean, like about the war and the fighting? And about getting captured?”
“Tuco,” Sentenza said softly. “Let’s see, you were captured at Fort Craig, or somewhere in that general area, I believe.”
Tuco’s reply was a cautious grunt that could have been either affirmative or negative.
Sentenza put his fingertips together and studied the outlaw thoughtfully.
“So, you were with Sibley’s Texans—which means you must have come from Santa Fe.”
“Uh,” Tuco grunted. He wiped sudden moisture from his forehead with a ragged sleeve.
“The desert has killed a lot of men. It must have been pretty terrible to cross.”
“Very bad,” Tuco agreed. He stared wistfully at the whisky bottle. “It is especially bad when you have nothing to drink.”
Sentenza pushed the bottle toward the bandit’s out-stretched hand.
“Help yourself, Tuco, and don’t feel obliged to stint. Good whisky is sometimes a help in loosening the tongue and yours needs it.”
Tuco tilted the bottle and his throat worked convulsively. He lowered it at last with an explosive breath. He wiped his mouth and belched.
“You are a fine fellow, Sentenza. Like I have always said, ‘That Sentenza—he is one of the best.’”
“And also—” Sentenza still spoke softly—“one of the most curious. For instance, how did you happen to start calling yourself Bill Carson?”
Tuco’s eyes shifted
“It’s as good a name hs any, isn’t it? You know using my own name too much might not be so healthy, eh? It could give me a very sore throat” He guffawed at his own joke but the sound was strained. “Besides, I don’t see you using your name so much, either, Sentenza. Sergeant Sentenza? That might not sound so nice in some places, eh?”
