He staggered out and in a moment they heard his slurred voice acknowledging the roster of companies. When the last officer had reported ready Clinton’s voice rose to a bellowing order to attack.
Blue-clad, troops surged from the trenches and streamed down the hillside toward the bridge, yelling fiercely. Across the river lines of grey were racing towards their end of the disputed crossing.
Each side opened a withering fire as the first columns of soldiers advanced on to the heavy planking. The front ranks literally melted away and the men behind leaped over bodies to rush into the same deadly hail of lead.
Tuco suddenly grabbed the hunter’s arm.
“Whitey, that captain, he looks to me like a man who is begging for a bullet in his guts, eh?”
Captain Clinton was staggering down the slope toward the bridge, a wine bottle tucked under his arm. He seemed blind or indifferent to the hail of bullets from the fighting on the bridge that hissed around him and kicked up spurts of dirt at his feet
“I think he probably is,” the bounty-hunter said grimly. He shook his head in wonder. “I never saw so many men die, and die so uselessly. This war looks like a long and nasty business.”
“Ah—Whitey.”
“What?”
“Our money—it’s over on the other side of that river.”
“Yes? Whereabouts on the other side?”
Tuco grimaced. “On the other side is enough. But I will tell you one thing, Whitey. No one will get to it where it is as long as the Confederate army is there.”
“And if both sides get reinforcements—they could stay right where they are now for months or years, killing each other over the bridge.”
“But if someone should blow it up—”
“Then they just might go away and kill one another somewhere else. You know, Tuco, for once in your life you actually sound smart.”
The firing outside was dying down. Both sides were falling back, leaving the middle of the bridge a tangle of twisted bodies and writhing wounded.
“This must be about time for the truce the captain spoke of,” the hunter said, “when everybody’ll be too busy collecting his dead and wounded to pay any attention to the bridge.”
From somewhere close by a man’s voice bawled, ’Doctor! Doctor—on the double’ The captain’s been hit and hit bad.”
Two soldiers entered the adjoining room, carrying a stretcher. They lowered it to the floor. Captain Clinton’s face was deathly white but his eyes were open. His hands were clasped to his middle. Blood oozed steadily out between his fingers.
The bounty-hunter snatched out a bottle of wine, opened it and put the neck to the bloodless lips. “Drink a little of this for strength, Captain. And keep your ears open. We’re going to make a little noise for you down on the river.”
“Yes, sir,” Tuco agreed, nodding vigorously, “We are going to give you one hell of a grand bang.”
A doctor ran in and knelt by the stretcher. The captain’s pallid lips moved in a ghost of a smile.
“Maybe you two can beat this game. I’ll chance it,” He reached up and tugged weakly at the surgeon’s sleeve. “Doctor, help me to hang on just a little while longer—just long enough to hear some good news I’m expecting shortly.”
CHAPTER 18
TUCO scowled at the stacked cases of explosives. He lifted a box of dynamite a few inches, grunted and set it down hastily.
“Ah, Whitey, these are heavier than they look. Why didn’t my fine idea include an easy way to move all this down to the bridge, eh? If I had enjoyed hard work I would never have taken the trouble to become a bandit.”
“The weight of this stuff is only half the problem,” the hunter said. “If we try lugging these cases down openly we’re likely to run into some junior officer with a military-regulations mind who wouldn’t go along with the idea of having his pretty little death-trap bridge blown to hell and gone.” He glanced out through the observation slit and stiffened. “Hold on, Tuco. I think the solution to our problems is coming now.”
Two soldiers, members of the burial detail, were toiling up the slope with another body. They were carrying it between them on a makeshift stretcher fashioned of rough planks nailed together. They set their burden down on the parapet outside, squatted beside it and rummaged through the dead soldier’s pockets for identification papers and personal trinkets.
They stood up, carrying their pitifully small findings, and trotted off to make the fatal entry of another hero of the Langston Bridge in the military record. As they disappeared the bounty-hunter darted out, rolled the corpse on to the parapet and came back, dragging the plank stretcher.
He and Tuco piled cases of explosive on the planks. The hunter found an army blanket in an adjoining storeroom and spread it over the low pile. At a casual glance their burden coulbe readily mistaken for another victim of the daily slaughter.
No one paid any attention as the hunter and Tuco worked their way down the slope of the ridge to the river. In the deep shadows under the bridge they cautiously set the plank stretcher in’the water and found that it floated with sufficient buoyancy to serve as a raft. From the bridge planking above their heath came the steady tramp-tramp of boots as men carried their dead and wounded off the blood-drenched span.
“You know something, Whitey?” Tuco said. “It has just struck me that doing what we are doing could get us both killed.”
“That it could,” the other agreed, “but it could also lead to something a whole lot worse.”
“Worse, Whitey? What could be worse, eh?”
“Only one of an getting killed. Then the other could spend the rest of his life going crazy—thinking about all that money he might have had mouldering away to dust in a grave somewhere.”
Turn’s eyes grew round as the full realisation struck him. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
“Whitey, I have a great idea. We are close to where we are going, now. Very close. Why don’t we trust each other now and share our secrets? I will tell you the name of the cemetery and you tell me the name on the grave. Then if, say, you should be killed, I would be able to find the two hundred thousand dollars and use your share to honour your memory.”
The hunter said hastily, “Let’s not go through that whole mass-and-candles business again. Let’s just say I think your idea has merit and I’m game for it if you are.”
“Whitey, you are a true friend and partner, as I have always said. See, I will hold up my right hand—so—and give you my word of honour. Tell me the name an that grave. Quickly.”
“Uh-uh. The idea was yours, Tuco. You deserve the honour of revealing your secret first, I’d never think of depriving a good friend of such a privilege.”
Tuco struggled briefly with the impasse, then surrendered.
“All right, Whitey. The place to which we are going is Sad Hill, the military graveyard. Now—quickly—tell me the name on the grave. And no tricks, Whitey.”
“No tricks, Tuco, on my word of honour. The name Carson, or Jackson, muttered to me just before he died was Stanton—Arch Stanton. He said it was painted on the headboard over the grave.”
A low, gurgling moan came from somewhere nearby. The two men whirled in unison, hands streaking to their guns. In the deep shadow where the bridge met the bank of the river lay a wounded Union soldier, his uniform sodden with blood. His eyes were closed and he breathed in liquid, rasping gasps.
Tuco’s eyes were wild. He snatched out his pistol.
“He could have heard what we said. We spoke of the sum of money and said exactly where it is buried. We can’t take any chances. Step aside, Whitey, and let me finish him off.”