“Eh? You worry too much, Whitey. Why should friends hide from friends? Giddup, you knotheads. God is with us because he too, hates Yankees.”
The ambulance lurched out of the glade into the open. The officer leading the oncoming troop lifted his hand and the double line of cavalry swerved to intercept their pads.
Tuco waved his hat and yelled, “Long live General Lee—”
The officer stared at him in silence. Then he stripped off a gauntlet and used it to slag vigorously at his jacket sleeve. A cloud of grey dust smoked up with each slap. After a moment a dark patch began to appear on the sleeve. Beneath the mantle of dust the jacket was unmistakably Yankee blue.
“God,” said the hunter bitterly, “couldn’t hate Yankees half as much as he must hate idiots.”
CHAPTER 11
BATTLEVILLE Prison Camp was big, rambling and enclosed by a stockade fence. High watch-towers rose at intervals above the stockade. From these the guards could see and shoot into every part of the camp. More than a thousand Confederate prisoners were already jammed into the place and more were arriving daily.
Tuco and his tall companion were shoved into a small receiving compound with some fifty other captives. These were being processed, one at a time, at a guarded inner gate, then passed through into the main prison yard. The processing seemed to consist mainly of stripping each man of whatever money and other possessions were on his person.
Tuco’s eyes glittered as he studied the growing pile of watches, jewellery and money on the table.
“What a haul, Whitey. Maybe we can figure a way to start our own prison camp and rob everybody all legal like that. Only I wouldn’t bother with privates. I’d have my camp just for officers—rich officers, eh?”
“You’d better use whatever wits you have to figure a way to get us out of this camp.”
A gate guard threw his rifle to his shoulder.
“You, over there. Shut up. Open your mouths once more and you’ll be tasting lead.”
The number of waiting prisoners dwindled rapidly until only the hunter and Tuco remained. The guard jerked his thumb at Tuco.
“You’re next, Reb. Get up here—on the double.”
A corporal snatched his enlistment paper and added “Bill Carson” to his list. Meanwhile one of the guards went through Tuco’s pockets methodically and thoroughly. Tuco glowered as the watch, jewellery and cash he had taken from the dead soldiers was tossed on the table. Last of all was the gold cigar case with Bill Carson’s name engraved in the lid.
The corporal glanced at the case and stiffened. He snatched it up and went to whisper urgently to one of the guards at the gate. The guard nodded, took the case and trotted briskly toward a row of flat-roofed wooden buildings. The corporal turned and gestured to Tuco.
“All right, you. Move along. Get inside.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Tuco said indignantly. “Where’s my receipt?”
“Receipt?” The corporal came toward him, his eyes narrow, his mouth a thin, cold line. “What receipt?”
“You’re supposed to give me a receipt for everything you take away as when the war’s over or we’re exchanged I show it and get my stuff back again.”
“Oh, that receipt,” the corporal said. “Here—”
He slugged from the hip, pivoting on his toes and putting the full weight of his body behind the blow. His fist sank deep into Tuco’s unguarded belly. Tuco fell, retching and sobbing for breath.
The corporal jerked his head at the grinning guards.
“Throw him in the pen with the rest.”
The newly arrived prisoners were herded into a line. A hulking bruiser in a corporal’s uniform walked along the line. His thick lips curled in an expression of exaggerated disgust. He turned back and planted himself before the prisoners
“All right, you Rebs. Straighten up and listen to me. I’m Corporal Wallace and there’s nothin’ in this stinkin’ world I hate worse than stinkin’ Johnny Rebs. I’ll give you orders and I expect you to squeal like pigs when I say squeal. Understand? Whatever I tell you to do, you do—and do it damn fast. Otherwise, you and we’ll take a little walk to the guard-room and have as a little, quiet heart-to-heart talk about discipline.” He glared ominously at the sullen faces. “All right, we’ll call the roll. When you hear your name answer, ‘Present’. I’m a mite hard of hearing sometimes—so make damn sure you call out loud and clear, John Cooper.”
“Present.”
“Charles Louis.”
“Present.”
Tuco suddenly nudged his tall companion and whispered excitedly, “Do you see that big fellow over there, wearing a sergeant’s stripes? The one with eyes like a cougar’s? That’s Sentenza, the hired gun. You know him, Whitey?”
The bounty-hunter studied the distant figure.
“I know about him and his fast gun but we’ve never met. Are you sure, Tuco?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’ve worked with him on a couple of deals and against him on some. The son of a bitch beat me out every time. I don’t know what he’s doing in a Yankee uniform but one thing’s for certain. He sure as hell didn’t join up for honest soldiering any more than we did.”
Corporal Wallace had bellowed the same name three times without a response. His voice was growing thick with rage.
“Bill Carson!” he roared. “I hope Bill Carson’s enjoying himself, because when he finally wakes up, he’ll wish he hadn’t. Bill Carson—”
“In case you’ve forgotten, you muttonhead,” the hunter said from the corner of his mouth, “you’re supposed to be Bill Carson.”
“Oh, oh,” Tuco bleated. He waved his arm. “That’s me, General. Right over here!”
The corporal strode toward him, eyes glittering.
“So you’re Bill Carson, are you? I trust you had a nice, sound nap, Bill Carson. You must’ve been already asleep when I told everybody to answer ‘Present’ when his name was called.”
He was quick as a cat for so big a man. He caught Tuco by the wrist, spun him around and twisted the arm up between the bandit’s shoulder blades so savagely that the creak of tortured joints was clearly audible.
“Present, Bill Carson?”
A moan of agony was the only sound that forced itself past Tuco’s clenched teeth. Wallace grunted and shoved the arm still higher. Tuco’s eyes closed to slits and great drops of sweat crawled down his forehead.
“Big men like you,” Tuco ground out. “I like them because when they fall they make such a big noise—”
Wallace howled in wordless fury and brought up a fist like ham.
A cold voice barked, “Corporal, that’s enough. Let go of that prisoner.”
Sentenza stood a dozen feet away.
He repeated, “Let go of that prisoner, Corporal. That’s an order.”
Panting with fury, the big man slowly and reluctantly released his grip and stepped away. Tuco’s arm dangled limply. He hugged it, moaning softly.
A soldier trotted up.
“Sergeant, the captain wants to see you immediately.”
Sentenza’s pale cold eyes moved from the whimpering Tuco to the tall hunter.
He snapped, “Corporal, you are to see that these two are treated well. And that also is an order.”
He turned and strode toward the row of buildings across the compound.
Wallace glared at the two, breathing in heavy gasps. Slowly his big fists unclenched.
“Prisoners—dismissed.”
“Did you hear that, Whitey?” Tuco panted. “Sentenza told that big bastard to treat us well. He recognized me and he knows how to treat old friends. Our worries are over from here on, Whitey.”
Captain Harper, Commandant of Battleville, was a dying man. He lay in his quarters, grossing steadily weaker day by day, his eyes bright with fever in a bloodless, emaciated face. Thin, bony hands plucked aimlessly at the bedclothing. One leg was swathed to the hip in a great mass of stained bandages that gave off a foul odour.