He sipped whisky appreciatively, his mocking gaze fixed on the bandit’s nervous, shifting eyes. Tuco slid into the mat, snatched up a spoon, then froze. Fear and suspicion came into his eyes. He looked longingly at the stew while an inner battle raged between doubt and hunger. Doubt won and he laid the spoon back on the table.
Sentenza reached over and dipped a heaping spoonful of the stew. He chewed appreciatively and swallowed.
“You see, Tuco—no poison. You always were a suspicious character. Now dive in and fill yourself.”
Tuco’s face cleared. He snatched the bread with one hand and the spoon with the other and wolfed down the food, making little animal squeals of delight. Sentenza watched him, sipping his whisky. Wallace stood just inside the closed door, a look of anticipation on his brute face.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Tuco mumbled between bites, “I knew it. The moment I saw you I said to myself, ‘Look at that pig of a Sentenza. He’s got himself set up real good here. And Sentenza is not the kind who forgets his friends. Especially not an old friend like Tuco.’”
“That’s right, Tuco. Particularly an old friend like you.”
“Good.”
Tuco beamed, swallowing a huge chunk of meat.
“And I do enjoy seeing friends once in a while. That way I know I’m not forgotten.”
“Right,” Tuco mumbled, nodding vigorously.
“Especially,” Sentenza went on smoothly, “when friends have travelled a long distance and have many interesting and exciting things to tell me.”
Tuco’s eyes were suddenly wary and hooded.
“Sure.”
“What do you have to tell me, Tuco?”
“Uh—you mean, like about the war and the fighting? And about getting captured?”
“Tuco,” Sentenza said softly. “Let’s see, you were captured at Fort Craig, or somewhere in that general area, I believe.”
Tuco’s reply was a cautious grunt that could have been either affirmative or negative.
Sentenza put his fingertips together and studied the outlaw thoughtfully.
“So, you were with Sibley’s Texans—which means you must have come from Santa Fe.”
“Uh,” Tuco grunted. He wiped sudden moisture from his forehead with a ragged sleeve.
“The desert has killed a lot of men. It must have been pretty terrible to cross.”
“Very bad,” Tuco agreed. He stared wistfully at the whisky bottle. “It is especially bad when you have nothing to drink.”
Sentenza pushed the bottle toward the bandit’s out-stretched hand.
“Help yourself, Tuco, and don’t feel obliged to stint. Good whisky is sometimes a help in loosening the tongue and yours needs it.”
Tuco tilted the bottle and his throat worked convulsively. He lowered it at last with an explosive breath. He wiped his mouth and belched.
“You are a fine fellow, Sentenza. Like I have always said, ‘That Sentenza—he is one of the best.’”
“And also—” Sentenza still spoke softly—“one of the most curious. For instance, how did you happen to start calling yourself Bill Carson?”
Tuco’s eyes shifted
“It’s as good a name hs any, isn’t it? You know using my own name too much might not be so healthy, eh? It could give me a very sore throat” He guffawed at his own joke but the sound was strained. “Besides, I don’t see you using your name so much, either, Sentenza. Sergeant Sentenza? That might not sound so nice in some places, eh?”
“I see. Then you mean Bill Carson is just a name that popped into your head for no reason at all. Is that the way it was, Tuco? It wasn’t one you might have—ah—borrowed from a real Bill Carson?”
“Is there a real Bill Carson?” Tuco asked. “The name just came into my mind.”
“I see,” Sentenza purred. “And the eyepatch. That just came into your mind, too?” He watched big drops of sweat form and crawl down the swarthy cheeks. “Tell me, Tuco, do you like music? Band music?”
The bandit looked puzzled, then shrugged.
“Well, sure, I guess so.” He patted his bulging belly. “Anyhow, they say it is good for the digestion.”
Wallace said eagerly from his post beside the door, “Now, sergeant?”
“I think very shortly now,” Sentenza replied quietly. “Just be patient a little longer, Wallace.”
Tuco’s gaze shuttled nervously from one man to the other. The meaning of the cryptic exchange eluded him but it had had an ominous sound. He swallowed noisily and wet his lips.
“So the whole Bill Carson identity is just a fake? Is that your story, Tuco?”
“That’s right.”
Sentenza drew the gold cigar case from his pocket, opened the lid and set it on the table where Tuco could stare at the engraved name.
“Then this cigar case is part of the fake, too. It seems to me you went to a great deal of trouble and expense to build up the identity of a man who never existed.” His hands slapped down on the table and be bent forward, the pale eyes cold and deadly. “Carson was alive when you found him, wasn’t he? Alive and able to talk. What did he say? What did he tell you about two hundred thousand gold dollars? Where did he tell you he hid it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sentenza leaned back again, his pent breath hissing out through clenched teeth.
“Now, Wallace.”
The big corporal whirled, snatched open the door and poked his head out. “All right, you Rebs. Start the music—and make damn sure it’s good and loud.”
The band began to play raggedly and off-key but with tremendous volume.
CHAPTER 13
TUCO was no weakling. He made a valiant, if hopeless, effort to defend himself. He struck first, driving a left and a right with all his force into Wallace’s heavy middle. Tuco’s fists rebounded from a mass of iron-hard muscle.
The big man bellowed and sledged with a fist that almost tore Tuco’s head off. He flew backward, skidded across the table on his shoulders, taking the stew bowl with him. He crashed to the floor. Wallace was on him like a tiger, hitting, mauling, picking him up and slamming him to the floor. Blood began to pour from the bandit’s nostrils and a crimson trail ran down from one corner of his mouth.
Sentenza blew a cloud of smoke from the yellow meerschaum.
“Easy, Wallace. Take a breather.” He knocked the dottle from the pipe and stowed it away. “How’s the digestion now, Tuco? Does that music get on your nerves? We can stop it, you know, if you’d prefer to have it quiet while you tell me what I’m waiting to hear.”
Tuco stirred feebly and mumbled, “Nothing—to tell.”
Sentenra sighed.
“You’re a stubborn man, Tuco. But then, so is Wallace.”
The corporal opened the door, put out his head, yelled, “Play louder, you Reb bastards.”
He came back across the room, grinned and bent over the limp and battered figure. His huge hands reached for the bandit’s throat.
Suddenly the bundle of bloody rags on the floor exploded into life. Tuco’s bent legs straightened, lashing out and up to drive both heels full into Wallace’s meaty face. Wallace rocked back, blood spurting from his smashed nose and a long cut over one eye.
Tuco tried to roll over and scramble to his feet. He made it as far as his hands and knees before the agony of injured nbs arrested him. Wallace heaved to his knees and flung himself forward. His massive body hit Tuco, rolled him over and slammed down on him, driving the breath from Tuco’s lungs in a bubbling scream of pain.
Wallace straddled the squirming figure, trapping Tuco’s arms with his knees. His huge hand cupped the battered face, holding it in a vice while his thumbs clamped down on Tuco’s eyes.
“You’ll need two eye-patches when I’m through with you—”
Wallace pushed down with both thumbs.
Tuco screamed again.