THE MAN WITH NO NAME
THE GOOD THE BAD
AND THE UGLY
Joe Millard
A UNIVERSAL BOOK
published by
the Paperback Division of
W. H. ALLEN & Co. Ltd
A Universal Book
First published N Great Britain by
Universal-Tandem Publishing Co. Ltd, 1968
Reprinted twice in 1977 by Tandem Publishing Ltd
This edition reprinted 1978
by the Paperback Division of
W. H. Allen & Co. Ltd
A Howard and Wyndham Company
44 Hill Sows London W1X 8LB
First published in the United States by
Universal Publishing and Distributing Corporation 1967
Copyright © Produzioni Europa Associate SAS 1967
Released by United Artsts
Cover photograph by permission of Baited Artists
Printed in Crest Britain by
Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd,
Aylesbury, Bucks
ISBN 0 426 13995 X
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without it similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER 1
THE soldier in the Union blue uniform closed his telescope with a snap. He bellied carefully back from his high rocky perch, slid and scrambled down the sheer rock wall of the pass. In the deep shadows at its base he broke into a circle of lounging Union troops.
A bearded lieutenant rose to his feet.
“Company coming?”
“A detail of Johnny Rebs is beading for the pass—a troop of cavalry escorting a single open army wagon.”
The lieutenant stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Sounds like a Confederate paywagon. Tomorrow being the fast of March and the Texans occupying Sante Fe—Fort Craig will be figuring on a payday.” He grinned. “They’ll be a lot of mighty disappointed cantiña girls in Santa Fe tomorrow night. Take your places, men, and keep low. Let them get well inside the pass, then hit ’em from both sides hard.”
The Confederate detail had inched north and west-ward across the savage land for endless days. The men had been hammered by the relentless sun and strangled by the clouds of fine adobe dust that smoked up from the wagon wheels and from the hoofs of the mules that drew it. The vultures had followed the detail, wheeling in tireless circles against the brassy sky. They seemed to know that soon their patience would be rewarded.
The wagon was an open army buckboard. Stencilled on its side was the legend: 4TH CAVALRY—C.S.A.—Confederate States of America. The wagon bed was nearly filled by a rough pine chest, about the size and proportions of a military coffin. An older man named Baker sat on the chest, facing backward, a long rifle cradled in his arms.
The driver was a swarthy Texican named Mondrega. On the seat beside him sat a guard named Jackson, his rifle across his lap. The men’s Confederate grey uniforms were thick with dust and blotched with dark patches of sweat. Their cavalry escort rode in a wide circle, completely surrounding the wagon. Two more troopers rode a mile or no ahead as scouts.
The guard, Jackson, tilted his canteen, choked and cursed wrathfully as the sun-heated water burned his blistered lips.
“Damn the goddam sun and the goddam dust and the goddam army. As a kid I used to wonder what hell was like. Now that I’ve seen New Mexico, my curiosity’s satisfied.”
Mondrega grinned.
“If you think this is hot in February, you should ride across it in July, señor.”
The old man, Baker, growled over his shoulder, “I’m damned if I’d ride through it again, even if I was froze in a cake of ice. Nobody but a knot-head general or a politician would be dumb enough to fight over a hunk of desert and mountains.”
“AM but our General Sibley is not dumb, señor,” Mondrega said. “He knows that under those mountains, and out west in California, lie the great fields of gold. The Yankees will have no more money to pay for the war if we can capture these.”
The cavalry escort had been closing in around the wagon, adding the dust from their mounts to the cloud that never lifted. Jackson was the fast to become aware of the tightening circle.
He coughed and raised his voice. “Hey, dammit, Sarge. Wasn’t we choking to death fast enough on our own dust to suit you? Get back a ways with yours.”
The leather-faced sergeant reined his horse closer to the wagon.
“Which would you rather have in your face, soldier—a cloud of dust or a cloud of Minie balls from Yankee rifles?” He pointed ahead, “Them’s the Sangre de Cristo mountains. On the other side of ’em is Sante Fe. To get through, we got to take Glorietta Pass and Apache Canyon, the best spots in the Territory for a Yankee ambush.”
“Aw, hell,” Baker growled. “Why would Yankees waste good lead on a flea-bitten handful like us?”
The sergeant’s jaw dropped. “Hell, man—don’t you know what’s inside that chest your backside is planted on, soldier?”
“They never told us,” Baker said. “They never tell a foot soldier nothing except to do what he’s ordered on the double.”
“Man, that chest is full of gold dollars—two hundred thousand of ’em. That’s the whole pay and forage funds of the Fourth Cavalry, plus a sight more they aim to spread around to buy us some important friends. So you guard that chest, soldier. You guard it real damn good.”
The abrupt transition from blazing sunlight to the deep gloom of the pass left the detail momentarily blinded. Jackson, who had been riding with his eyes squeezed to thin slits against the glare, was the first to recover his vision. His gaze roved across the forbidding rock walls and caught the barest flicker of movement. Brief as it was, he caught the unmistakable blue of a Yankee uniform sleeve.
He yelled in wordless alarm and flung himself back off the seat into the wagon bed. He was still falling when the walls erupted smoke and flame and the deafening thunder of gunfire. A searing pain streaked along his ribs. Above the racketing of guns rose wild yelling and the scream of a wounded horse.