“An old friend.” Tuco nodded, strapping on his gun. “Now the best kind of friend to have—a dead one. Let’s go.”
He started toward the door, stopped short. “Wait a minute, Whitey. Sentenza is after the gold—our gold. Right? And you’re the only man alive who knows the name on the grave where it is buried. Right? So Sentenza will never find the gold if you die. Right? So you come to your old friend, Tuco, with a crazy story that Sentenza’s men are trying to kill you. You think Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez is so stupid he will swallow that story and walk into your trap, eh, Judas?”
“I don’t think Sentenza has any say in the matter now. He had six gunmen until a few minutes ago. I just killed one of them down on the street. The others will be as hungry to get me that he won’t be able to stop them—short of killing them all himself. And I don’t think even Sentenza’s gun is quite fast enough for that.”
“Ah,” Tuco said, nodding. “A double double-cross, eh? That I can understand, Whitey. So let’s hurry and kill them all and go get our gold.”
They peered cautiously through a downstairs window of the hotel. The body of the dead Hank still lay on the walk by the corner. His five companions, guns in their hands, were spaced out along the street, two on each side and the fifth, Andy, who was rated the fastest, covering the middle. There was no sign of Sentenza.
“Come on,” the hunter whispered. “There’s got to be a back door out of this botch We can follow an alley and come out on them down the street”
“One thing, Whitey,” Tuco said as they darted out into the narrow alley. “Sentenza is all mine, eh? That pig. That raper of babies and grandmothers—I still hurt all over when I hear his name after what he had that animal, Wallace, do to me.”
“He’s yours if you think you can take him. I don’t care if a horsefly kicks him to death—as long as I can see his body and make sure he isn’t faking.”
Their sudden appearance down the street was greeted by yells of rage. The five gunmen moved toward them, maintaining a wide-spaced formation. Tuco and the bounty-hunter moved apart and advanced to meet them. The only sounds in the eerie stillness of the street were the measured shuffle of boots on sand.
The gunman called Andy stepped up his pace. He moved out in front of the others
“Hank was my partner,” he called out. “I claim first chance at the man who gunned him down without a chance.” He dropped his gun back into its holster and raised his voice. “How about it, you yellow-topped buzzard? Have you got the guts to make it a match?”
“Don’t get yourself killed, Whitey,” Tuco pleaded. “Let me take him, eh? What would my life be without you?”
“Fry your own fish,” the hunter said.
He dropped his gun into its holster, Slowly and deliberately he fished out one of his stubby cigarros. By the time it was lighted to his satisfaction he and Andy were no more than a dozen paces apart. He held up the flaming match.
“When I drop this—”
His fingers opened. The match was still falling when the shots came almost together.
The two men stood, feet wide apart, each staring into the other’s face for a long moment. Then Andy’s knees buckled and he pitched forward on to his face. A cloud of grey dust pulled up from the street. The hunter threw a quick glance at a fresh bullet hole through a fold of his poncho. An inch to the right and he, too, would be lying in the dust
Then the others were yelling and shooting as they came forward. Slugs whistled around him and kicked up dust at his feet. He heard Tuco’s gun bang and the scar’faced killer known as Emil spun around and fell. The hunter’s left hand slapped his gun hammer in a blur of motion.
It was over in seconds. Tuco’s voice rose in a bellow as he pushed out the empty shells and reloaded.
“Eh, there, Sentenza, you miserable coward! Come out from wherever you are hiding and trembling as I can kill you, too.”
“He’s probably miles away by now,” the hunter said, “but come on.”
With Tuco at his heels he sprinted to the store with the shattered front that was to have been their night’s shelter. It was empty now but a message had been printed boldly on the one undamaged wall. It was signed with the initial S. Tuco scowled at it, laboriously picking out the words.
“We’ll—meet—again—id— What is that last word, Whitey?”
“Idiot,” the hunter said dryly. “He probably meant the message for you.”
CHAPTER 17
THEY lay belly down on the crest of a high, grassy ridge. Below them a broad river flowed sluggishly southward. Tuco’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He moaned softly and pounded his head with the heel of his hand.
“Those thieving brothers of vultures at Battleville Prison Camp. May the coyotes fight over their guts and the worms feast on their eyeballs. If they had not robbed me of my map, along with everything else, I would not have to give myself a headache trying to remember our route.”
“Maybe I could help you,” the hunter said, “if you’d tell me where we’re headed. I know most of this country pretty well.”
“We’re headed toward a grave, Whitey. That’s enough.” Tuco’s eyes flew open and he sat up, beaming. “Eh, now I have it. I can see the river as clearly as if it were right in front of me.”
“It is,” the hunter said.
Tuco ignored the jibe. “Below this point the river makes a bend and beyond the bend is a bridge. We cross it and turn north—and almost before we know it we will be at the cemetery. Come on, Whitey.”
He scrambled to his feet
“Hold on a minute, Tuco,” the hunter said dubiously. “Don’t you think we’d be smarter to wait until night fall and cross the bridge in the dark? After all, a bridge is a pretty exposed spot. Anyone on the ridge could see us and pick us off with a rifle if he had a mind to. And what about our horses?”
“Ah, Whitey, you worry too much all the time.” Tuco flung out his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Who is there to see us, eh? Look at all this great big empty country. Leave everything to me. Tuco knows what he is doing. He is getting us to that two hundred thousand gold dollars before that pig of a Sentenza can get there. Don’t forget, Whitey, he knows where the cemetery is and he has not given up hope by any means.”
“Maybe you’re right,” the hunter said.
He rose reluctantly and followed the bandit down the ridge slope to the riverbank. Tuco’s memory proved accurate—the river almost immediately began a aweeping curve eastward. Here its banks were higher, covered with lush grass and dotted with stands of timber.
“Eh, Whitey, how calm it is here. How peaceful. Maybe with my share of the two hundred thousand dollars I will settle down here where no one will ever bother me. Just Tuco and a few choice women, eh?”
Behind them a harsh voice said, “All right, you two. Turn around. Slow. Then stand where you are.”
The hunter and Tuco turned. A squad of Union cavalry troopers sat their mounts at the edge of a small woods, covering them with carbines. A sergeant gestured with his pistol.
“Drop your gunbelts and step away from them. Then keep going as you were. We’ll ride along. You can explain to the captain why you were prowling around here on foot. We’ve got your horses.”
The hunter gave his companion a look of sour disgust.
“Look at all this great big empty country,” he mimicked. “Then look at this great big empty head that’s dumb enough to go along with your stupid ideas.”
He started to walk. Tuco ambled silently beside him. The mounted troopers followed.
They emerged from a stretch of open woods and stopped short. The bridge Tuco had remembered was there—just beyond the bend—but nothing on his map had indicated that now it was guarded by Union pickets.