They were far out in the bleak and burning desert by then. The hunter twisted around to look back. No clouds of dust marked pursuit. He noted with satisfaction that a hotwind, like the breath of a furnace, was erasing their tracks almost as soon as they were made.
He reined to a halt and waited for Tuco to slide awkwardly to the ground. Leaning an elbow on the saddle horn, he gazed thoughtfully down at the sweaty, bedraggled figure.
“You know, Tuco, I’ve been thinking things over and you’re right. This game is too dangerous for you. If anything happened and I had to leave you hanging there—I’d feel all-over responsible. I’d probably spoil my sleep, worrying.”
“What are you saying, Whitey?” Tuco whined nervously. “Stop talking foolishness and get down here and untie me. The cord has cut clear through my wrists.”
“Another thing I’ve been thinking,” the other said, “is that a small-time chicken thief like you will never he worth more than three thousand dollars. You’ve reached your top now.”
“What do you mean?”
“That there’s simply no future with a partner of your calibre. So I’m dissolving the partnership as of here and now, my friend. I’ll go my way and you may go yours. Adios, amigo.”
“Whitey!” Tuco screeched. “You pile of toad-droppings! You worm in the guts of a rat! Untie me and give me my share of the three thousand dollars. Just give me my half. I won’t insist on a bigger cut. Get down, Whitey, Come on, now, and stop your jokes.”
“I’m dead serious—not joking at all Tuco. As for your cut—since you’re no longer my partner you’re no longer entitled to a share. That’s plain common sense, isn’t it?”
“Of all the filthy, stinking, dirty tricks—” Tuco stared wildly around at the vastness and bleakness of the desert, at the tortured rock formations writhing and dancing is the heat waves. His eyes were crazed with fear. “I’ll die if you leave me out here, Whitey. Especially with my hands tied. Untie me—”
“You might not survive, it’s true. But again, you might, Tuco. For days on end I’ve heard nothing but endless tales of your daring exploits, your cleverness and smartness. A fellow as sharp and resourceful as you will have that cord off in no time. Then it’s only a few miles back to the town we just left where, of course, they’ll hang you again, mare permanently. But it’s only seventy miles across the desert to a town where no one knows you. Consider it a challenge, my friend. A man needs a challenge to bring out the best in him. Good luck.”
“Judas!” Tuco howled. “Traitor! Coward! Vulture! Stinking bastard son of a bastard! Come back, Whitey, Get off that horse—if you’re a man. Get off and face me if you’ve got the guts.” He strained at his bonds, then launched a raging kick toward the departing figure. “ER get free, Whitey. I’ll get free to hunt you down. I’ll tear your black heart out and eat it. I’ll skin you alive with a dull knife. I’ll hang you up by your bowels for vulture bait—”
He tried to run after the vanishing figure. His toe hit an outcropping of rocks and he pitched on his face. He lay fora time, sobbing, kicking the hot sand.
When he sat up the bounty-hunter was out of sight.
CHAPTER 6
THE girl, Maria, stumbled up the creaking stairs to her room, whimpering and spitting curses. She was a bedraggled mess, her face smeared with mud, her hair in strings, her gown torn,
“Cabrones,” she sobbed. “Thieves. Vermin. Filthy pigs of troopers—”
Because of Bill Carson she had thought all Confederate cavalrymen were gentlemen. But that had been before she had got into the buggy with the drunken bunch from the Second Cavalry. When she had refused to accept their worthless Confederate shinplasters they had used her by force, taking turns pinning her on the muddy ground. Then they had left her there without a penny.
She closed the door of her room and groped in the darkness for the oil lamp and matches she always kept on a little table just inside. The table was in its accustomed place but its top was bare. Both lamp and matches were gone.
From somewhere close by came the faintest whisper of movement. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Bill? Bill, is that you? Are you back so soon? Bill, don’t give me such a fright. Say something to me.”
A match flame sprang up, lighting a sinister wedge of face that was like the personification of evil. Maria choked back a scream of terror.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Sentenza lit the wick of her oil lamp, turning it low. His shadow, thrown on the wall by the flickering lamp-light, was monstrous and terrifying.
“Who I am is unimportant. What I’m doing here is something we can talk about I want to know about your friend, Bill Carson.”
“I don’t know any Bill Carson,” Maria whimpered. “I never heard of him. Go away.”
“So you call out in the dark for someone you have never heard of. Where is he, Maria?”
“What do you want with him?”
“I’m asking the questions Where is he? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know a thing, I tell you. Get out of here and leave me alone.”
“Maria,” he softly, almost sadly, “I haven’t either the time or the patience for your stupid games. You’re going to tell me everything you know about Bill Carson—sooner or later. The choice of how soon will be entirely up to you.”
His hand caught her wrist and twisted cruelly. His free palm closed over her mouth, muffling her shriek of anquish. His strong fingers vised her jaw. “Where is he, Maria? Where—is—he?”
She shook her head.
She had been beaten up many times before—but never so savagely, so thoroughly, or with such fiendishly dispassionate skill in the art of inflicting pain. With every blow came the relentless question.
“Where is he, Maria? Where—is—he?”
Even the strongest spirit has its threshold of endurance.
“Stop ! I cant stand any more.” She clung to his knees, whimpering, turning up a puffed and bloody face. “I don’t know where he is now. He left ten days ago with his unit and I have heard nothing from him since. I swear that’s all I know.”
“What unit?”
“The Third Confederate Cavalry, General Sibley. They went to reinforce the garrison holding Sante Fe.”
He stared down at her for a long moment, then nodded.
“All right, Maria. Now, that wasn’t so hard to get out, was it?”
The curious little way-station stood between the edge of the desert and the main settlement. One side of its main room sported a sparsely-stocked bar. The remainder was filled with a hodge-podge collection of canned goods, saddlery, hardware. The main feature, however, was a large display of pistols, rifles, shotguns and ammunition.
The owner, a plump little widower known only as Milton, was accustomed to days when not a soul appeared from dawn to dusk. He was content with his isolation, never bored and never lonely. His passion for guns—although he never shot one himself—let him fill the empty hours with endless oiling and wiping and polishing of his stock.
The afternoon was waning when he laid the last pistol tenderly on its display pad and closed the case. He glanced through the window towards the courtyard and stiffened. His mouth fell open.
A strange man was coming on foot from the desert. He was obviously in the last stages of exhaustion. He stumbled toward Milton’s well. He fell against the well kerb, scooped handfuls of tepid water front the bucket, splashing them over his blistered face, sucking up cautious sips.