The Good the Bad and the Ugly

The wagon had halted in a little glade where they were hidden from casual view by bushes. Tuco stood on the seat, shading his eyes as he peered over the bushes. He jumped down, beaming.

“Grey, like us—Confederates. We’re in luck, Whitey. We don’t have to hide here. We’ll just give them a salute and keep right on going. Long live the Confederacy—hooray for the South and damnation to all Yankees. Long live General—eh, what’s that General’s name, Whitey?”

“Lee—Robert E. Lee. But d think we’d be smart just to stay right here, out of sight, until they’ve gone on.”

“Eh? You worry too much, Whitey. Why should friends hide from friends? Giddup, you knotheads. God is with us because he too, hates Yankees.”

The ambulance lurched out of the glade into the open. The officer leading the oncoming troop lifted his hand and the double line of cavalry swerved to intercept their pads.

Tuco waved his hat and yelled, “Long live General Lee—”

The officer stared at him in silence. Then he stripped off a gauntlet and used it to slag vigorously at his jacket sleeve. A cloud of grey dust smoked up with each slap. After a moment a dark patch began to appear on the sleeve. Beneath the mantle of dust the jacket was unmistakably Yankee blue.

“God,” said the hunter bitterly, “couldn’t hate Yankees half as much as he must hate idiots.”

CHAPTER 11

BATTLEVILLE Prison Camp was big, rambling and enclosed by a stockade fence. High watch-towers rose at intervals above the stockade. From these the guards could see and shoot into every part of the camp. More than a thousand Confederate prisoners were already jammed into the place and more were arriving daily.

Tuco and his tall companion were shoved into a small receiving compound with some fifty other captives. These were being processed, one at a time, at a guarded inner gate, then passed through into the main prison yard. The processing seemed to consist mainly of stripping each man of whatever money and other possessions were on his person.

Tuco’s eyes glittered as he studied the growing pile of watches, jewellery and money on the table.

“What a haul, Whitey. Maybe we can figure a way to start our own prison camp and rob everybody all legal like that. Only I wouldn’t bother with privates. I’d have my camp just for officers—rich officers, eh?”

“You’d better use whatever wits you have to figure a way to get us out of this camp.”

A gate guard threw his rifle to his shoulder.

“You, over there. Shut up. Open your mouths once more and you’ll be tasting lead.”

The number of waiting prisoners dwindled rapidly until only the hunter and Tuco remained. The guard jerked his thumb at Tuco.

“You’re next, Reb. Get up here—on the double.”

A corporal snatched his enlistment paper and added “Bill Carson” to his list. Meanwhile one of the guards went through Tuco’s pockets methodically and thoroughly. Tuco glowered as the watch, jewellery and cash he had taken from the dead soldiers was tossed on the table. Last of all was the gold cigar case with Bill Carson’s name engraved in the lid.

The corporal glanced at the case and stiffened. He snatched it up and went to whisper urgently to one of the guards at the gate. The guard nodded, took the case and trotted briskly toward a row of flat-roofed wooden buildings. The corporal turned and gestured to Tuco.

“All right, you. Move along. Get inside.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Tuco said indignantly. “Where’s my receipt?”

“Receipt?” The corporal came toward him, his eyes narrow, his mouth a thin, cold line. “What receipt?”

“You’re supposed to give me a receipt for everything you take away as when the war’s over or we’re exchanged I show it and get my stuff back again.”

“Oh, that receipt,” the corporal said. “Here—”

He slugged from the hip, pivoting on his toes and putting the full weight of his body behind the blow. His fist sank deep into Tuco’s unguarded belly. Tuco fell, retching and sobbing for breath.

The corporal jerked his head at the grinning guards.

“Throw him in the pen with the rest.”

The newly arrived prisoners were herded into a line. A hulking bruiser in a corporal’s uniform walked along the line. His thick lips curled in an expression of exaggerated disgust. He turned back and planted himself before the prisoners

“All right, you Rebs. Straighten up and listen to me. I’m Corporal Wallace and there’s nothin’ in this stinkin’ world I hate worse than stinkin’ Johnny Rebs. I’ll give you orders and I expect you to squeal like pigs when I say squeal. Understand? Whatever I tell you to do, you do—and do it damn fast. Otherwise, you and we’ll take a little walk to the guard-room and have as a little, quiet heart-to-heart talk about discipline.” He glared ominously at the sullen faces. “All right, we’ll call the roll. When you hear your name answer, ‘Present’. I’m a mite hard of hearing sometimes—so make damn sure you call out loud and clear, John Cooper.”

“Present.”

“Charles Louis.”

“Present.”