“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.”