He made a pretence of peering down anxiously as the other caught up.
“How this sun beats down. They say the sun is very bad for people with pale skin like yours, Whitey. It burns and blisters until the skin peels off in strips. And worse, it burns through a man’s skull and cooks his brains until they are nothing but jelly. You must be careful not to get too much of the sun, Whitey.”
Tuco squirmed around to reach into the blanket roll tied behind his cantle. He brought out a ridiculously ruffled pink parasol. He opened it over his head and pretended to shiver.
“It is strange how this thin air cannot hold the sun’s heat. A little bit of shade like this and I feel actually cold. Brrr!”
“Where—are—we—going?” the hunter croaked.
“Where? Towards a place where only one of us will arrive, amigo. Do you see all that beautiful sand ahead of us? That is the Jornada del Muerte—an oven a hundred and fifty miles long. Even armies are afraid to go through here. On that side the Confederates are trying to escape. The bluecoats are arriving on the other side. But neither dares set foot in here. Only you and I, Whitey, have the courage to take this beautiful walk where we can be alone and undisturbed. Is that not a pleasant thought?”
The hunter stumbled again and made thick croaking noises.
“What was it you told me once?” Tuco asked. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. ‘You might not survive—but again, you might. Consider it a challenge, amigo. A man needs a challenge to bring out the best in him.’”
The hunter fell, made a feeble, aimless effort to getup again, then collapsed on the burning sand. Tuco shook his head sadly.
“What? You are not resting already? Up, man. On your feet. We are almost there. It can’t be more than a hundred and twenty miles more. And in eight hours it will be sundown, when it gets so cold your teeth chatter and the dew falls like rain until you are drenched to the skin. Do you think you will be around to feel it, Whitey?”
He roared with laughter, rocking in the saddle. The hunter made an herculean effort and made it to his feet He stumbled on. He endured an eternity of torment before Tuco squinted towards the sun and reined in.
“Time to eat so soon? Ah, but I am starved. How good the bread and the big slabs of meat will taste, washed down with plenty of cool water. What? You’re not hungry, Whitey? You would rather enjoy the sun while I eat? Oh, very well. But I insist that you have a good drink of water. Here.”
He unhooked a canteen, sloshed it invitingly and tossed it to the ground some yards beyond the hunter’s reach. The tall man pitched forward on to hands and knees and crawled towards it. He got the canteen and was struggling with the cap when Tuco drew his pistol and fired. The container flew out of the hunter’s hands, spurting water from both sides.
The hunter crawled towards it. His outstretched hand was almost on the canteen when Tuco shot again and again, riddling the canteen. The last drops of water gushed out and vanished in the parched air and the thirsty sand. The bounty-hunter collapsed and lay unmoving.
Tuco rode to the sparse shade of a sand dune some distance away and dismounted. Carrying the other canteen and a package of bread and meat from his saddlebags he sat down in the shade and finished a leisurely meal. He stood up and looked towards the sprawled figure.
“I’m afraid I have to leave you now, Whitey. Goodbye, amigo, and pleasant journeying. Remember me to the coyotes.”
He had his foot in the stirrup, ready to swing into the saddle, when the wagon rose into view, cresting a dune. The vehicle was a Confederate army ambulance drawn by two running horses. No driver was visible on the seat, no sign of life showed from behind its drawn curtains. The horses had obviously been running for a long time. Their flanks were white with dried lather and their running was little more than a wobble-legged trot.
Tuco snatched his foot down and ran to intercept the runaways. He had no difficulty grabbing the bridles and bringing the exhausted team to a halt. He ran around and snatched open the side door of the ambulance. The dead body of a Confederate major pitched halfway out. Beneath and beyond it were other bodies, thrown into a tangled heap by the jouncing of the wagon. Tuco dragged the corpse of the major to the ground and rifled the pockets. They yielded a gold watch, a few coins and a packet of Confederate banknotes. The last he contemptuously threw aside.
The next body wore the blood-stained uniform of a cavalryman. A black patch covered the empty socket of one eye. Tuco stripped off the patch and tried it on. It fitted well and he put it away in his pocket. It could serve him as a disguise on his next robbery.
He took hold of the body to drag it out and nearly leaped out of his boots when it stirred in his grasp and uttered a feeble moan. Swollen lips moved in a croaking whisper.
“Water, in the name of heaven. Water, water—”
“Aiee.” Tuco spat. “Water is too precious in this desert to be wasted on a man as good as dead. Be quiet while I see if you have anything worth stealing “
He found a handful of small coins, a cigar case engraved with the name Bill Carson. A folded paper proved to be the enlistment record of one Bill Carson in the Third Cavalry, C.S.A.
Tuco put this carefuly away. His eyes glittered as ha considered the infinite possibilties inherent in carrying the identy of a man already dead.
The figure stirred again and the one eye opened. “Water—I’ll pay—for it—in gold dollars. Two-hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” Tuco grabbed the dying man and shook him roughly. “What is this? What about two hundred thousand gold dollars, Carson? Where would you get that much money? If you’re lying—”
“No,” the feeble whisper came. “Not Carson. Real name—Jackson. I stole—Fourth Cavalry funds—hid them. Only I—know—where. Water—”
“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.”