“Tuco,” the other said in an almost normal voice. “If you don’t stop you’ll have are laughing myself to death and then you’ll never find out the name on that grave.”
“Stinking black-hearted bastard,” Tuco growled.
The friar put his head in the door.
“Shame on you, using such language in a house of God. Clear out now. Go away and let this man rest.”
The following day Tuco encountered the friar hurrying with a glass of water.
“That is for my friend, Padre? Let me take it to him. I want to apologise for my outburst yesterday. I have been so worried over him that my nerves are on edge. I have burned candles and apologised to God for my wickedness, Padre. Now let me apologise to him.”
The bounty-hunter held out his hand for the glass as Tuco approached the bed. Tuco leered at him, keeping the glass just out of reach.
“You want water, eh? You are dying for water, your poor throat on fire? I’ll give you water, all you can swallow—as soon as you have told me the name, Whitey. The name. The name, you scum, you vermin from the dungheap—”
The hunter made a sudden lunge. He struck the bottom of the glass, throwing the water into Tuco’s face. The outlaw jumped back, sputtering and cursing.
“So you’re strong enough for tricks, eh? Then, damn your soul, you’re strong enough to travel. Your easy time is over. Get your butt out of that bed and get your clothes on, damn you. More wounded soldiers are pouring in by the cartload. The fighting is getting closer and if we don’t clear out fast we’re liable to wind up right in the middle of it.”
The friar put his head in the door.
“Father Ramirez has returned and will see you at once. Come with me.”
Tuco swung around in the doorway. “This is private business that will not take long. When I come back—see that you are up and ready to go.”
The tall monk rose from a writing table, his dark face devoid of expression as his visitor was ushered in.
When the door closed Tuco ran to him, clutching the robe.
“Pablo, Pablo—don’t you recognise me? It is your brother, Tuco. Let me embrace you.” He gave the other an awkward hug, then stepped back, looking embawassed. He laughed nervously. “It is only that—well—I don’t know how one is supposed to act with monks. I was passing near here so I said to myself, ‘Who knows if my brother still remembers me?’ Did I do wrong to come here? All the same—it is good to see you.”
“So now you have seen me,” the monk said coldly.
“And I am glad, brother—or Father. Ah, you are eyeing my uniform. It is a long story, too long to tell now. But let’s talk about you, not about me. You’re more important. You look very well. A little thin, perhaps, but—ch—still in good form, Pablito? And how are the old ones?”
“Only now you remember them, Tuco? After nine years?”
“Nine years? Is it that long? Well, well. Nine years” Tuco laughed nervously and mopped a glistening forehead.
“Our father has been gone for a long time. Our mother died only a few days ago. That was what took me away from the monastery. She looked and hoped for you until the very last. But only I was there.”
Tuco muffled noisily and rubbed a sleeve across his eyes.
“And besides doing evil, what else have you accomplished, Tuco? Did I not hear that you had a wife somewhere?”
“A wife, brother? I have had lots of wives. One here, one there—all over the place. And plenty of mistresses, too. Now go ahead, brother. Preach me that sermon you’ve been saving up for me for all these years.”
The monk spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “What good would it do? Go on your way, Tuco, now that you have seen me. Go—and God have mercy on you.”
“Sure, I’ll go,” Tuco cut in harshly. “But while I’m waiting for that heavenly mercy I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, will tell you something, brother of mine. You think you are so much better than me because of that robe, eh? Where we came from—a man who didn’t want to starve had only two choices. He became a priest or a bandit. You chose your road and I chose mine.”
Father Ramirez had turned his back. Tuco tramped around until they were again face to face.
“The hard road is mine. You talk of our mother and father, eh? But when you left to take your vows—who was it who stayed behind to help them? I was ten or twelve years old then, brother, and I had to sweat and sweat plenty even when I knew all I could do was useless.”
He wagged an angry finger in his brother’s face.
“Do you know what I have to say to you now, brother? You became a monk only because you were a coward—without the guts to become a bandit.”
The monk’s hand whipped out and cracked against Tuco’s face. Tuco fell back. His eyes widened in shock that turned to rage.
“Tuco—forgive me, brother. I didn’t mean—”
Tuco cursed, whirled and ran out of the room
An hour later, on the seat of the ambulance, he sucked his teeth and watched enviously as the hunter lit one of his cigarros.
“Ah, yes, Whitey. After a fine meal like the ones the monks gave no back there, nothing is as fine as a cigar to top it off, eh?”
The bounty-hunter fished out another stubby cigar and silently banded it over. Tuco fired it and sucked in the fragrant smoke.
“Now it is perfect, Whitey. What a meal they gave as for a send-off, eh? Those monks eat well and feed well. My brother saw to it that we had the best You didn’t know, did you Whitey, that the head of the monastery is my brother? Pablito—little Pablo. What a fine man my brother is. He told me whenever I was near to stop in again. He said there would always be food and shelter for me. And he told me to bring my friend with me. That is you, Whitey. How my brother hates to see me leave. Even for a sinner like me there is always a welcome—no matter what I have done or what has happened.” He fished a worn map out of a pocket and studied it, frowning. “Let’s see. We cross the Rio Grande here and follow the trail this way.”
“To where?” the hunter asked innocently.
“Uh-uh. When we arrive where we are going I will tell you where we are, Whitey. That way you don’t have to worry, with our destination on your mind all the tine.”
“Thanks,” the other said dryly. “But as long as I’m still alive and we’ll undoubtedly be passing through both Union and Confederate lines several times—wouldn’t it be just plain common sense to give me some idea of where we’re going?”
“Toward two hundred thousand gold dollars, Whitey. Isn’t that enough for any man to know?”
The hunter shrugged, handed over the reins to Tuco and settled himself for a nap.
Some time later he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder and Tuco’s urgent voice in his ear. “Whitey—Whitey, wake up. Soldiers are coming—a troop of cavalry.”
The hunter opened his eyes. “Blue or grey?”
The wagon had halted in a little glade where they were hidden from casual view by bushes. Tuco stood on the seat, shading his eyes as he peered over the bushes. He jumped down, beaming.
“Grey, like us—Confederates. We’re in luck, Whitey. We don’t have to hide here. We’ll just give them a salute and keep right on going. Long live the Confederacy—hooray for the South and damnation to all Yankees. Long live General—eh, what’s that General’s name, Whitey?”
“Lee—Robert E. Lee. But d think we’d be smart just to stay right here, out of sight, until they’ve gone on.”