“...previously wanted in fourteen counties of this Territory... the accused here present, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez...”
Sentenza had been lounging in the same place some two hours earlier when the outlaw was brought into town, kicking and cursing, flung across his saddle like a sack of grain. His captor, a tall, pale-haired bounty-hunter, had collected a three-thousand-dollar reward and departed without a word or a nod to anyone.
As he had ridden away he had glanced towards Sentenza. The hunter had carefully taken in the frock coat, looked up and for a moment the two men’s glances had met and locked. To Sentenza the hunter’s eyes had carried the impact of a physical blow.
Watching the tall, lean figure ride on he had thought, There goes probably the most dangerous man I have ever encountered...
The observation left him without emotion. Dead men knew no challenges. Still without emotion, Sentenza smiled.
He stiffened suddenly at the rhythmic clatter of wood on wood and a voice calling his name. A grotesque travesty of a man was hurrying toward him along the board walk.
Both of the newcomer’s legs had been amputated at the hips so that he was all torso and head and long arms He gripped two blocks of wood which he used as crutches, slapping them on to the plank walk and swinging his abbreviated body between them. Awkward as his means of locomotion seemed, he dexterously threaded his way through the crowd of onlookers,and approached Sentenza with remarkable speed.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Half-soldier,” Sentenza said. “Did you get a line on Carson?”
“Enough,” the cripple said, “to know why you’re looking for him and to be glad I’m not in his boots.” He shook his head. “It’s like something out of one of those dime novels, Sentenza.” He peered around and lowered his voice. “A Confederate escort unit was caught in an ambush by Yankees and practically wiped out. Only three men got through alive—Mondrega, Baker and Jackson. What didn’t get through was a chest full of gold dollars they were taking to Santa Fe. There was a hearing and Jackson claimed the Yankees got the gold. With nobody to contradict him, Jackson was acquitted of stealing it. But get this—Jackson disappeared right after the hearing and turned up around here, calling himself Bill Carson.”
“Yes,” Sentenza said with a touch of impatience. “I know that much. What else did you find out? Where is Carson now? That’s what I want to know, man.”
“I can tell you that. He re-enlisted in another outfit and lost one eye in a skirmish with Colonel Canby’s Colorado Volunteers. You’ll know him when you see him by the black eyepatch he wears now. I couldn’t find out where he is right at the moment but I located someone who can. She’s a prostitute by the name of Maria. This Jackson-Carson lives with her when he’s not out in the field with his outfit”
“Where do I find her?”
“Now, what in hell’s the name of that town? It’s an easy name, too.” He scratched his head, frowning then brightened. “Sant’ Ana—that’s it, Sentenza, Sant’ Ana.” The gunman stooped and slipped a handful of coins into the cripple’s shirt-pocket.
“You did a good job for me, Half-soldier, Adios, amigo.”
Sentenza leaned back against the wall, his sand-coloured eyes rolled and remote. He had most of the answers now. Both Baker and Mondrega had recalled fleeting glimpses of innumerable graves—and what better hiding place fora chest of stolen gold than a grave? The only cemetery of any size in the region of Glorietta Pass, where the ambush occurred, was the military burying ground at Sad Hill.
Two big problems still remained to be solved. One was to discover in which of the thousands of graves an Sad Hill the treasure lay hidden. Only Jackson, alias Bill Carson, could tell him that.
The second problem was to get there. The whole mountain area east of Santa Fe was now batdegroand as Colonel Canby’s Union forces flung themselves desperately at General Sibley’s invading Texans. The liars shifted daily and a civilian caught wandering there could be that by either side as a spy.
That fact would explain why Carson had rejoined the army. As a soldier he stood a far better chance of getting to Sad Hill and making off with his loot, under cover of the fighting.
All he, Sentenza, had to do was find Carson first and make him identify the particular grave before he died. He straightened, his eyes clearing, his course charted as far ahead as possible. He became aware that across the street the condemned man now sat beneath the gallows farm, the noose tight around his neck. The sheriff stood by, his whip poised to send the horse stampeding from under its rider.
Sentenaa glanced away and froze, his eyes flaring. A flicker of shadowy movement had drawn his attention to the open door of the hayloft above the livery stable. The blond bounty-hunter stood just inside the doorway, a cocked rifle across his left arm as he took careful aim towards the gallows below. A light of comprehension and reluctant admiration came into Sentenza’s eyes.
“I’ll be damned,” he murmured softly.
Across the street the judge intoned, “And may the Lord have mercy on his soul. Proceed with your duty, Sheriff.”
On the walk beside Sentenea a woman who had stopped to watch whimpered, “Poor wretch. What a terrible, terrible thing it must be for him.”
Sentenza’s lips moved without humour. “I wouldn’t fret, ma’am. Not all hangings end in tragedy. Some lucky devils—even that miserable beggar over there—have a guardian angel, perhaps an armed angel, watching over their fate.”
The whip whistled down, the rifle slammed and all hell broke loose. The horse went pounding off, riderless, leaving Tuco’s figure twisting and kicking from the uncut rope. The shot had missed.
The hunter levered a fresh shell into the chamber and shot again. This time the rope parted and Tuw sprawled in the dust below.
He scrambled up, howling, “Whitey—for the love of God, Whitey—”
He started to run.
The crowd was pushing and yelling. The sheriff tugged at his pistol. The rifle slammed again and the pistol whipped out of his hand, spun away down the street. Two men ran to intercept the stumbling Tuco. Two shots sent their hats flying and they abruptly lost the urge to be heroes.
The crowd yelled and scattered as the bounty-hunter dropped to his waiting horse and came pounding toward them. He thundered past, bending low to catch Tucos collar and hoist him up behind the saddle. By the time the crowd had recovered its wits the fugitives were a dwindling dust cloud in the desert.
Senteeza turned away, smiling.
“A man dead by rights—so now there are two of us. A most interesting diversion,” he murmured to that part of himself to which he often spoke. “But now it is time to visit a lady of professional love—but not for the usual reason.”
Tuco, hands still bound behind him, maintained a precarious balance on the rump of the running horse. The length of frayed rope streamed behind but he had managed to loosen the noose with his shoulder until he could breathe more freely.
“Whitey,” he bleated. “What are you doing to me? You missed that shot on purpose. You deliberately did it to scare me, to show what could happen if I insist on the bigger cut I deserve.”
“Anybody can miss a shot now and then,” the hunter said over his shoulder.
“What do you mean, anybody can miss a shot?” Tuco yelled. “You don’t miss a shot when I’m hanging from the end of a rope with my lungs bursting and my eyes popping out. Do you know what it feels like to have a rope jerked tight around your neck? Do you know how it feels to be hanged? No? Well, one day you will find out how it feels, Whitey. I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, make that solemn promise. And while you are choking you will learn what it is like to have someone you depend on miss a shot. That, too, I promise you on my honour as a bandit and a thief.”