The Good the Bad and the Ugly

by Joe Millard

  “I don’t think Sentenza has any say in the matter now. He had six gunmen until a few minutes ago. I just killed one of them down on the street. The others will be as hungry to get me that he won’t be able to stop them—short of killing them all himself. And I don’t think even Sentenza’s gun is quite fast enough for that.”

  “Ah,” Tuco said, nodding. “A double double-cross, eh? That I can understand, Whitey. So let’s hurry and kill them all and go get our gold.”

  They peered cautiously through a downstairs window of the hotel. The body of the dead Hank still lay on the walk by the corner. His five companions, guns in their hands, were spaced out along the street, two on each side and the fifth, Andy, who was rated the fastest, covering the middle. There was no sign of Sentenza.

  “Come on,” the hunter whispered. “There’s got to be a back door out of this botch We can follow an alley and come out on them down the street”

  “One thing, Whitey,” Tuco said as they darted out into the narrow alley. “Sentenza is all mine, eh? That pig. That raper of babies and grandmothers—I still hurt all over when I hear his name after what he had that animal, Wallace, do to me.”

  “He’s yours if you think you can take him. I don’t care if a horsefly kicks him to death—as long as I can see his body and make sure he isn’t faking.”

  Their sudden appearance down the street was greeted by yells of rage. The five gunmen moved toward them, maintaining a wide-spaced formation. Tuco and the bounty-hunter moved apart and advanced to meet them. The only sounds in the eerie stillness of the street were the measured shuffle of boots on sand.

  The gunman called Andy stepped up his pace. He moved out in front of the others

  “Hank was my partner,” he called out. “I claim first chance at the man who gunned him down without a chance.” He dropped his gun back into its holster and raised his voice. “How about it, you yellow-topped buzzard? Have you got the guts to make it a match?”

  “Don’t get yourself killed, Whitey,” Tuco pleaded. “Let me take him, eh? What would my life be without you?”

  “Fry your own fish,” the hunter said.

  He dropped his gun into its holster, Slowly and deliberately he fished out one of his stubby cigarros. By the time it was lighted to his satisfaction he and Andy were no more than a dozen paces apart. He held up the flaming match.

  “When I drop this—”

  His fingers opened. The match was still falling when the shots came almost together.

  The two men stood, feet wide apart, each staring into the other’s face for a long moment. Then Andy’s knees buckled and he pitched forward on to his face. A cloud of grey dust pulled up from the street. The hunter threw a quick glance at a fresh bullet hole through a fold of his poncho. An inch to the right and he, too, would be lying in the dust

  Then the others were yelling and shooting as they came forward. Slugs whistled around him and kicked up dust at his feet. He heard Tuco’s gun bang and the scar’faced killer known as Emil spun around and fell. The hunter’s left hand slapped his gun hammer in a blur of motion.

  It was over in seconds. Tuco’s voice rose in a bellow as he pushed out the empty shells and reloaded.

  “Eh, there, Sentenza, you miserable coward! Come out from wherever you are hiding and trembling as I can kill you, too.”

  “He’s probably miles away by now,” the hunter said, “but come on.”

  With Tuco at his heels he sprinted to the store with the shattered front that was to have been their night’s shelter. It was empty now but a message had been printed boldly on the one undamaged wall. It was signed with the initial S. Tuco scowled at it, laboriously picking out the words.

  “We’ll—meet—again—id— What is that last word, Whitey?”

  “Idiot,” the hunter said dryly. “He probably meant the message for you.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THEY lay belly down on the crest of a high, grassy ridge. Below them a broad river flowed sluggishly southward. Tuco’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He moaned softly and pounded his head with the heel of his hand.

  “Those thieving brothers of vultures at Battleville Prison Camp. May the coyotes fight over their guts and the worms feast on their eyeballs. If they had not robbed me of my map, along with everything else, I would not have to give myself a headache trying to remember our route.”

  “Maybe I could help you,” the hunter said, “if you’d tell me where we’re headed. I know most of this country pretty well.”

  “We’re headed toward a grave, Whitey. That’s enough.” Tuco’s eyes flew open and he sat up, beaming. “Eh, now I have it. I can see the river as clearly as if it were right in front of me.”

  “It is,” the hunter said.

  Tuco ignored the jibe. “Below this point the river makes a bend and beyond the bend is a bridge. We cross it and turn north—and almost before we know it we will be at the cemetery. Come on, Whitey.”

  He scrambled to his feet

  “Hold on a minute, Tuco,” the hunter said dubiously. “Don’t you think we’d be smarter to wait until night fall and cross the bridge in the dark? After all, a bridge is a pretty exposed spot. Anyone on the ridge could see us and pick us off with a rifle if he had a mind to. And what about our horses?”

  “Ah, Whitey, you worry too much all the time.” Tuco flung out his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Who is there to see us, eh? Look at all this great big empty country. Leave everything to me. Tuco knows what he is doing. He is getting us to that two hundred thousand gold dollars before that pig of a Sentenza can get there. Don’t forget, Whitey, he knows where the cemetery is and he has not given up hope by any means.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” the hunter said.

  He rose reluctantly and followed the bandit down the ridge slope to the riverbank. Tuco’s memory proved accurate—the river almost immediately began a aweeping curve eastward. Here its banks were higher, covered with lush grass and dotted with stands of timber.

  “Eh, Whitey, how calm it is here. How peaceful. Maybe with my share of the two hundred thousand dollars I will settle down here where no one will ever bother me. Just Tuco and a few choice women, eh?”

  Behind them a harsh voice said, “All right, you two. Turn around. Slow. Then stand where you are.”

  The hunter and Tuco turned. A squad of Union cavalry troopers sat their mounts at the edge of a small woods, covering them with carbines. A sergeant gestured with his pistol.

  “Drop your gunbelts and step away from them. Then keep going as you were. We’ll ride along. You can explain to the captain why you were prowling around here on foot. We’ve got your horses.”

  The hunter gave his companion a look of sour disgust.

  “Look at all this great big empty country,” he mimicked. “Then look at this great big empty head that’s dumb enough to go along with your stupid ideas.”

  He started to walk. Tuco ambled silently beside him. The mounted troopers followed.

  They emerged from a stretch of open woods and stopped short. The bridge Tuco had remembered was there—just beyond the bend—but nothing on his map had indicated that now it was guarded by Union pickets.

  Above the bridge the whole slope of the ridge was criss-crossed with a network of entrenchments, fortifications and artillery emplacements. The muzzles of giant mortars loomed like tree stumps along the crest of the ridge. Troops in Union blue were everywhere.

  Directly across the river an almost identical strong-hold was occupied by an army of grey-clad soldiers. From a tall flagpole floated the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy above the Lone Star flag of Texas.

  “Ah,” the hunter said softly. “How calm it is here. How peaceful. I’m almost tempted to settle down here with you, Tuco, where no one will ever bother us.”

  The sergeant and two of his men dismounted The hunter and Tuco were herded along a narrow stretch and to a closed shelter, its timbered roof shielded and fireproofed with earth and sod. A guard with a rifle jumped up from
a bench near the door.

  The sergeant holstered his pistol.

  “Tell the commanding officer we found these two wandering around on foot just upriver. Their mounts were concealed nearby.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guard vanished inside. He returned in a moment, a dubious expression on his face.

  “Captain’s drunk again—but I guess it’s all right to go on in.”

  He and the sergeant exchanged veiled glances. Tuco and the hunter were prodded into the shelter. An officer sat at a table littered with maps and official forms. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned and his dark hair was mussed. He peered drunkenly, then jerked his head.

  “Clear out, sergeant. I’ll take over.” When the sergeant had gone he squinted at his visitors. “Where are you from?”

  The bounty-hunter gestured.

  “That would take a long time to tell.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?” Tuco said, “I travel with him.”

  “What were you doing wondering on foot near a military installation? Spying for the R bs?”

  “Oh, no, General,” Tuco said hastily. “We came to sign up as soldiers.”

  He ignored his companion’s withering glare.

  “So you want to be soldiers. Well, your first duty can be to learn the differences in rank. I’m a captain, not a general—Captain Clinton, in command of this oversized burial detail.” The captain pronounced each word with exaggerated care and his voice was faintly slurred. “Sit down, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable. The only ceremonies we stand on here are funeral ceremonies. You’d better start perhaps, by making out your wills—today could be your turn.” He blinked at them owlishly. “You should go far in this man’s tinny, spies or not. You ought to make colonel at the very least.”

  Tuco beamed. “You think so, Captain?”

  “Definitely. Anybody who wants to join either side in this our has to be an imbecile—and every army loves imbeciles. They make the best cannon fodder and the best commanding offishers. You two might even become generals. Here—” He pawed into an open box and brought up a lone necked wine bottle wrapped in straw. He stripped off the straw, knocked out the cork and solemnly handed over the bottle. He brought another bottle, half-empty, from beside his chair. “Drink to the future—may it be short.”

  The hunter drank, then passed the bottle to Tuco who tilted it, lowered it, smacked his lips and cocked bis head critically.

  “Not bad, Captain. It doesn’t grab the gut like whisky, but it’s not bad at all.”

  The captain drained his bottle and leaned toward them.

  “Do you know which side will win this war? I’ll tell you. The side with the most bottles to keep their soldiers drunk enough to go out and get slaughtered. That’s who wins a war. We and those Johnny Rebs over on the other side of the river—we have one thing in common. The stink of alcohol.” He paused to open another bottle for himself. “What did you say your names are? Ah, never mind. What does it matter? Soon you’ll be just two more brave, honoured heroes who fell at Langston Bridge. For one side or the other. And you’ll fall—make no mistake about that. We make two attacks on the bridge every day to give every man a chance to be a dead hero. The army believes in equal opportunity for all. Even captured spies.”

  “Two attacks a day?” Tuco blurted.

  “Every day—and you’re just in time to lead today’s second round of slaughter. There’ll be guns behind you and guns ahead.” He drank again and belched. “A short while ago the Confederates were peacefully running away on their side of the river and here we were on our side, peacefully seeing to it that they did. Nobody that at anybody and everything was fine.”

  He drank again, the wine dribbling down on to his shirt front. His head wagged loosely and he had difficulty keeping his red-veined eyes in focus. Tuco finished his own wine and rubbed a sleeve across his mouth.

  “Then,” the captain continued, “some genius at headquarter looked at the map, saw a flyspeck marked Langston Bridge and decided it was the key to this whole area. We have to take it and hold it, no matter how many lives it costs. The Rebs stumbled over the same idea—so here we’ll stay and fight until every man on both sides is dead. I don’t really give a damn whether you’re spies or not—you’ll drop, boys. You’ll rot under the earth or in that damn river. But that worthless bridge will still be standing.”

  “Why don’t you just blow the damn thing up?” the hunter demanded.

  “You think I haven’t blown it up, eh? I’ve blown it up a thousand times. Up here.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “In my mind. In my dreams. But to do so in fact would be the most serious of crimes. I could be court-martialled for even thinking of blowing up Langston Bridge. Here, let me show you.”

  He lurched to his feet and led the way to another room. This one had an observation slit between the wall and the roof, running around two sides of the room. Through the slit they could look down across the Union lines and into the Confederate fortifications on the opposite shore.

  All around the walls of the room stood cases of dynamite, blasting caps and coils of fuse. The captain teetered and gestured at the store of explosives.

  “You see? I have everything to de it with. I even have my plan all worked out. The best time to mine the bridge would be right after an attack, when there’s a truce for both sides to collect their dead and wounded. El carried my plan through, I would save the lives of hundreds of men. And my sanity—what’s left of it.”

  “Then why don’t you?” the hunter asked.

  “Because I haven’t got the guts to face the court-martial and the loss of such and command.”

  “If you want your stinkin’ bridge blown up,” Tuco said, “we’ll blow it up for you. Eh, Whitey? We’ll give the captain his big boom. We haven’t any rank or command to lose.”

  Before Clinton could reply a mortar across the river let go a thunderous bellow. Moments later a blossom of scarlet flame erupted on the slope below the command post

  “The afternoon massacre begins—this time they seem to have started it. You two might as well stay here and enjoy the show today. It’ll be a preview of what you’ll experience more directly tomorrow.”

  Both hillsides gushed a solid sheet of smoke and flume. An almost tangible wall of incredible sound hammered them and the earth rocked to the fearful concussion. Shells burst among the crowded trenches. A severed leg sailed through the air and bounded off the edge of the observation slit. A mortar below was blown off its base. It fell backward on to its own gun crew, crushing its screaming men.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fierce bornbardment tapered off. In the silence that followed could be heard the groans and screams of the wounded on both hillsides. An aide appeared in the door and saluted.

  “Captain, the men are waiting for you to give the order to attack.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He turned a haggard face toward the hunter and Tuco. “Stay right here and watch. Don’t try to escape—there are guards outside. You mustn’t miss the exciting second act in our daily drama.”

  He staggered out and in a moment they heard his slurred voice acknowledging the roster of companies. When the last officer had reported ready Clinton’s voice rose to a bellowing order to attack.

  Blue-clad, troops surged from the trenches and streamed down the hillside toward the bridge, yelling fiercely. Across the river lines of grey were racing towards their end of the disputed crossing.

  Each side opened a withering fire as the first columns of soldiers advanced on to the heavy planking. The front ranks literally melted away and the men behind leaped over bodies to rush into the same deadly hail of lead.

  Tuco suddenly grabbed the hunter’s arm.

  “Whitey, that captain, he looks to me like a man who is begging for a bullet in his guts, eh?”

  Captain Clinton was staggering down the slope toward the bridge, a wine bottle tucked under his arm. He seemed blind or indifferent to the hail of bullets
from the fighting on the bridge that hissed around him and kicked up spurts of dirt at his feet

  “I think he probably is,” the bounty-hunter said grimly. He shook his head in wonder. “I never saw so many men die, and die so uselessly. This war looks like a long and nasty business.”

  “Ah—Whitey.”

  “What?”

  “Our money—it’s over on the other side of that river.”

  “Yes? Whereabouts on the other side?”

  Tuco grimaced. “On the other side is enough. But I will tell you one thing, Whitey. No one will get to it where it is as long as the Confederate army is there.”

  “And if both sides get reinforcements—they could stay right where they are now for months or years, killing each other over the bridge.”

  “But if someone should blow it up—”

  “Then they just might go away and kill one another somewhere else. You know, Tuco, for once in your life you actually sound smart.”

  The firing outside was dying down. Both sides were falling back, leaving the middle of the bridge a tangle of twisted bodies and writhing wounded.

  “This must be about time for the truce the captain spoke of,” the hunter said, “when everybody’ll be too busy collecting his dead and wounded to pay any attention to the bridge.”

  From somewhere close by a man’s voice bawled, ’Doctor! Doctor—on the double’ The captain’s been hit and hit bad.”

  Two soldiers entered the adjoining room, carrying a stretcher. They lowered it to the floor. Captain Clinton’s face was deathly white but his eyes were open. His hands were clasped to his middle. Blood oozed steadily out between his fingers.

  The bounty-hunter snatched out a bottle of wine, opened it and put the neck to the bloodless lips. “Drink a little of this for strength, Captain. And keep your ears open. We’re going to make a little noise for you down on the river.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tuco agreed, nodding vigorously, “We are going to give you one hell of a grand bang.”

  A doctor ran in and knelt by the stretcher. The captain’s pallid lips moved in a ghost of a smile.

  “Maybe you two can beat this game. I’ll chance it,” He reached up and tugged weakly at the surgeon’s sleeve. “Doctor, help me to hang on just a little while longer—just long enough to hear some good news I’m expecting shortly.”