Then he moaned, “I’ll talk—I’ll talk—”
“That’s enough, Wallace,” Sentenza said sharply. Slowly and reluctantly the big man took his thumbs from Tuco’s eyes and rose to his feet. He mopped his bloody face on his sleeve, swearing thickly under his breath.
Sentenza moved his chair around to face the figure on the floor, bending forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Now let’s hear everything Bill Carson told you about that money.”
“It’s—hidden—in a—grave.”
“Where?”
“Sad Hill—the Sad Hill—cemetery.”
“In which grave? What’s the name or number on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wallace,” Sentenza said.
The big man started forward, Tuco screamed again wordlessly.
Then: “No more.” Fear gave him the strength to sit up. He flung out a pleading hand. “Listen to me. I swear to heaven that I don’t know which grave. Whitey—Whitey knows the—the name on it. Whitey—the big white-haired man who was captured with me.”
Sentenza’s sharp gesture stopped Wallace in his tracks.
“You’d better explain that, Tuco, and tell it so it makes good sense. I don’t buy fairy tales.”
“Yes. Carson was dying. He told about the money and the cemetery but when he tried to name the grave he couldn’t get the words out. All he could do was croak for water. I ran to get the canteen from my saddle. When I got back Whitey was hanging over him and he was dead. But with his last breath he got out the name on the grave. That’s why we had to—stick together. Whitey knew the grave but not which cemetery. I knew the cemetery—but not the grave.”
Sentenza straightend, the sorrel eyes glittering. “I’ll be everlastingly damned.”
A guard found the bounty-hunter sitting by the barracks. He jerked a thumb by way of command. “The sergeant wants to see you right away. Come along.”
Sentenza was perched on the edge of the table swinging one leg when the hunter was brought to him. He had exchanged his sergeant’s uniform for his regular clothing. The butt of the long-barrelled pistol showed under the frock coat. More civilian clothing was piled on the end of the table. He nodded toward it.
“Get out of the Reb uniform and into these clothes. As far as you and I are concerned, my friend, the war is over.”
The hunter remained where he had stopped, just inside the door.
“Why?”
“Because we’re leaving here right away.”
“Leaving for where?”
“For the spot where two hundred thousand gold dollars lie waiting to be found. I know the name and location of a certain cemetery and you know the name on a certain grave. That makes us what you might call travelling companions, doesn’t it?”
“So Tuco talked,” the bounty-hunter said.
“He really didn’t have a great deal of choice,” Sentenza said dryly.
“I can see that,” the hunter said.
He used the toe of his boot to smear a small puddle of fresh blood on the floor.
Sentenza nearly smiled.
“Wallace is proficient in many ways. Housekeeping isn’t one of them.”
“Aren’t you going to honour me with a band concert, too?” the blond hunter asked.
“Would it encourage you to talk?”
“I don’t think it would.”
“I didn’t think so, either. Not because you’re tougher than Tuco, necessarily, but because I think you’re smarter. You would realise that while talking might save you a beating—it wouldn’t save your neck.”
“Is that what happened to Tuco? You had him killed?”
“Oh, no. As a matter of fact, he and Wallace are getting ready to leave on a little errand for me. They’re going to the bank to get some money for me.”
The hunter’s eyebrows lifted.
“Like about three thousand dollars, maybe?”
“Exactly,” Sentenza said. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? After all, why should I let the U.S. Army hang him free when a sheriff will pay me three thousand dollars bounty for the some privilege?” He got to his feet “You’re changing partners—but you’re not making a bad deal. I’m not a greedy man. When I make a bargain I stick to it and I’m easily satisfied. All I want is half that gold. The other half is yours. Is it a deal?”
The hunter’s lips twitched in a trace of a smile. “You don’t leave me a great deal of choice, either.”
He began to unbutton his uniform jacket.
The last item of clothing in the pile was a Mexican poncho, slit in the centre to drop over the wearer’s head and cover him to the knees, both front and back. The bounty-hunter stared at it, then at Sentenza.
Sentenza nodded.
“Although we never met—I’ve heard a great deal about you in my travels. You, your Mexican cigarros and your poncho are becoming a legend. The Man From Nowhere. The Man With No Name, no nerves—and no scruples. You’ll find a supply of your cigarros in that box. And the gun hanging on the chair there is for you.”
The hunter spun the cylinder and saw that the pistol was fully loaded. The belt was filled with spare cartridges. He strapped it on.
“Aren’t you taking a chance?”
“Not,” Sentenza said, “as long as each of us keeps his own little secret to himself. What better life insurance Could either of us have?”
It was late in the afternoon when Sentenza led the way into a small clearing shielded by a circle of dense underbrush and well away from the prison camp.
“This is a good, safe camping spot I’ve used before. We’ll unsaddle and let the horse browse while we build a small fire.”
As they finished unsaddling the bounty-hunter said casually, “If your men stay out in that damp brush much longer, they’re likely to catch either a cold or a bullet.”
Sentenza grinned faintly and raised his voice: “Did you hear that, boys? Come on out.”
They filed into the glade, looking slightly sheepish. They had abandoned their guards’ uniforms and were now dressed as the gunslingers they dearly were, holsters tied down for a fast draw, gunbutt worn slick with use.
“As long as we’re all going the same way,” the hunter said, “we might just as well keep each other company. Let’s see—” He counted as they stepped into sight. “One, two, three four, five six. A perfect number.”
Sentenza’s eyebrows lifted. “What makes six perfect?”
“Why,” the hunter said pleasantly, “that’s how many bullets I have in my gun.”
Sentenza eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment.
“I see your point,” he said finally.
CHAPTER 14
CORPORAL Wallace snapped one end of the handcuff to Tuco’s right wrist, the other to his own left wrist. He gave the short chain a vicious jerk.
“Get moving. That’s our train coming in now.”
As they emerged from the guardhouse there was a stir among a group of lounging prisoners.
An old man with one arm cackled, “Be ye afeared of losin’ him, Corporal? Where ye takin’ him?”
“To the gallows,” Wallace growled. “This man has a fat price on his head.”
“Three thousand dollars, amigo,” Tuco added. “That’s a lot of money for one head, eh? And how much did they give you for that arm?”
Wallace cursed and gave the handcuff a savage twist that sent Tuco to his knees, stilling a groan of pain. He struggled back to his feet, nursing a bleeding wrist. He glared at his tormentor.
“Don’t forget what I told you before, Corporal. When I knock you down you will make one big crash. It will make louder and sweeter music than your Battleville band ever played.”
A long freight train stood puffing at the prison station. Flatcars loaded with cannon and cases of ammunition were interspersed with boxcars full of Union soldiers. A single coach on the end of the train was obviously reserved for officers.