He aroused himself with an effort as Sentenza gave a perfunctory rap and strode in, flicking a careless salute.
“I hope you’re feeling better today, sir.”
The captain ignored the amenities.
“Sergeant. I’m telling you for the last time—I want the prisoners in this camp treated as honourable prisoners of war. I will not stand for any more of the kind of man-handling I just witnessed through the window.”
Sentenza said harshly, “There are hundreds of those bastards out there just itching to jump us the moment our backs are turned. I’ve got a handful of guards to maintain order. How are we supposed to make them respect our authority if we let them get away with openly defying it?”
“You’d have better success treating them as human beings.”
“Do you think our men are getting better treatment at Andersonville? Breakfast in bed, maybe, with a rose-bud on every tray?”
“How our men are treated as prisoners in Confederate camps is not my responsibility. I’m responsible for the treatment prisoners receive here. I will not stand for having the prisoners in my camp regularly robbed, tortured, even murdered.”
Sentenza’s eyes glittered.
“Is that an accusation—sir?”
“Sergeant, gangrene is eating my leg away but not my eyes. I am well aware that incoming prisoners are systematicallp robbed of all their possessions, which are then peddled to a pack of filthy jackals who are staked out around the camp. My mistake was in giving you almost unlimited authority to take over until my replacement arrives—if he arrives. I’m not even certain that my dispatches to headquarters ever leave this camp.”
“If you’re dissatisfied, sir,” Sentenza said, “I would be happy to step down and let you resume personal command.”
“Damn your arrogance,” Captain Harper gasped. Each rasping breath was taking its toll of his fading strength. “As long as I’m in charge here I will not permit those vicious practices to continue. Have I made myself clear?”
“Oh, sure,” Sentenza said. He grinned, “As long as you’re in charge.”
“I know—I’m dying, Sergeant, but I’m not yet dead. I intend to hang on long enough to gather proof of the charges I’ve made. Then a court-martial can deal with those who dishonour the uniform of the Union,”
“A worthy ambition, Captain,” Sentenza said. “I hope it meets with success.”
He turned and went out without bothering to request permission or to salute.
Outside, Wallace was deep in conversation with a thin-lipped, sharp-featured man in the uniform of a camp guard. Sentenza strode past them with a barely perceptible jerk of his head. In a few minutes they joined hint in his private quarters.
Wallace growled the moment the door closed, “Why didn’t you let me finish the job on that smart monkey out there?”
“Because,” Sentenza said grimly, “that smart monkey out there happens to be the most important man in the world to me right now. But only if he stays alive and able to talk. You’ll get your chance at him in good time.” He turned to the sharp-faced guard. “Sambrell, the time has come for a change in scenery. The game here is played out. Any day now Harper’s replacement will arrive—then all hell will break loose.”
Sambrell patted the gun at his side.
“I can take care of Harper—and his replacement”
“And the rest of the U.S. Army, no doubt,” Sentenza said dryly. “But I’ll have a more important job for you. Round up the rest of the boys right away. Saddle up and go for a nice long ride—only don’t come back. Wait at the old camp spot until you get word from Wallace or me.”
When Sambrell had gone Sentenza tilted back his chair and put his feet on the table. He locked his hands behind his head and smiled at the brutish corporal.
“Wallace, Captain Harper wants the prisoners given more humane treatment. It might be a good idea to treat them to another one of those music concerts you arrange no admirably.”
“Yes, sir,” Wallace said. He grinned and licked his lips.
“Get every prisoner with a musical instrument into your band. It doesn’t matter whether or not they play well—as long as they play good and loud.”
“You bet.”
Wallace caressed scarred knuckles and his small piggish eyes glittered with anticipation.
“Then,” Sentenza said, “bring your friend, Bill Carson, in for a little visit with as. And Wallace—no rough stuff—yet.”
Tuco and the Man With No Name were lounging in the shade of a barracks with several other prisoners when Wallace came around the corner. Tuco winced and shrank back but the big corporal strode on past to where a bearded old man slept with his back against the wall.
Wallace drew back his boot and drove a vicious kick into the sleeper’s ribs. The impact sent the old man rolling. He peered up dazedly, then scrambled to his feet, holding his side and muffling a groan.
“We’re having another band concert for the boys, Simmons,” the corporal said, grinning. “Get your horn and get over there on the double.”
The old man muttered, “Yes, sir.”
He stumbled into the barracks, bent over and holding his side. He emerged lugging a battered tuba. He limped off across the compound to where other prisoners were converging, carrying a variety of instruments.
Still grinning, Wallace turned and crooked a finger at Tuco.
“You—Carson, Come along. The sergeant wants a word with you.”
Tuco wet his lips and his eyes shuttled wildly, searching in vain for help.
“On your feet,” Wallace snarled. “I’ve got strict orders not to lay a hand on you but don’t tempt me too far.”
Tuco dragged himself erect and tottered after the burly figure like a condemned man marching to the gallows. A prisoner named Angus looked pityingly at the bounty-hunter and wagged his head.
“I don’t know what your friend’s done—but God help him. I never seen a band concert set up so close to the sergeant’s quarters before.”
The hunter scowled.
“I don’t get it, friend. What’s the connection between the sergeant’s sending for Tuco and the band concert?”
“Don’t you know about the Battleville band, mister? They only give a concert when some poor bastard is due to get beaten within an inch of his life or maybe strung up by the thumbs. It’s supposed to play so loud Cap’n Harper can’t hear his screams.”
The hunter’s face went tight and icily blank. His fists clenched until the knuckles turned frosty white. Until that moment he had taken it for granted that only he and Tuco shared the dead Carson’s secret of the buried gold.
CHAPTER 12
“COME in, Tuco,” Sentenza said genially. “Don’t stand on ceremony. How long has it been?”
He was seated at a big table, ladling a rich-looking stew from a large bowl into a smaller one at his place. A chunk of crusty bread lay beside the stew. An open whisky bottle and a hall-filled tumbler of amber liquid stood close to his hand.
Tuco wet his lips and moved a few reluctant steps toward the table.
“A long time, Sentenza.”
“You can take off that silly eyepatch, too. I recognised you immediately out there in line.”
Tuco stripped off the patch with unsteady hands. The vapours from the succulent stew assailed his nostrils. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled with longing. Sentenza heard the sound and laughed. He gestured toward a chair at the end of the table.
“Hungry? I guess the standard prison fare does leave a little something to be desired. Sit down and eat, Tuco.” He pushed the large bowl of stew and the bread over. “Take it all. I’ve finished my dinner, except for the—ah—dessert.”