The Good the Bad and the Ugly

Wallace cursed and gave the handcuff a savage twist that sent Tuco to his knees, stilling a groan of pain. He struggled back to his feet, nursing a bleeding wrist. He glared at his tormentor.

“Don’t forget what I told you before, Corporal. When I knock you down you will make one big crash. It will make louder and sweeter music than your Battleville band ever played.”

A long freight train stood puffing at the prison station. Flatcars loaded with cannon and cases of ammunition were interspersed with boxcars full of Union soldiers. A single coach on the end of the train was obviously reserved for officers.

Wallace clambered into one of the open boxcars and hauled Tuco up after him. A dozen soldiers sat around the walls, staring with open curiosity. The car stank of sheep and manure and the mildewed hay that covered the floor. They found a space and sat down with their backs against the wall. A whistle tooted and the train lurched into motion with a crash of couplings and a squealing of flanges.

Tuco leaned his head back against the wall and fell into a fitful doze. From far off he could faintly hear the voice of Wallace answering the questions of the soldiers.

“I’m staying around for the hanging,” he heard the big corporal saying. “It’ll be a sight to remember—this bastard doing a rope dance in the air and no partner around to shoot him down like he always had before.”

Hours later Tuco awoke and peered around. Everyone else in the car was sound asleep. Wallace breathed in rasping mores beside him, his head tipped back and blubbery mouth sagging open.

Tuco sat up cautiously. Beyond the inert mountain of beef and muscle he could see the butt of the corporal’s pistol peeping enticingly from it’s holster. Tuco’s eyes glittered behind dark puffs of battered flesh. Holding his breath and moving with infinite caution he reached his free hand towards the gun.

He was barely inches from his goal when the rasping snore ended in a choked gurgle. He snatched his hand back an instant before Wallace’s pig eyes flew open.

“What the hell are you—what do you want?”

“What do you think I want?” Tuco whined. “A place to go. How many hours you think a man can bounce around in this damn car before his bladder bursts, eh? How would I look, hanging from the gallows with my pants soaking wet?”

“Not in here,” Wallace yelped, scrambling up. “Out the door. This car stinks bad enough as it is.”

He jerked Tuco to the open door of the boxcar. They stood side by side facing out from the opening, Wallace bracing his free hand against the side. Tuco reached to his trousers, then stopped, glaring at the other.

“Well, can’t a man even take care of his private business without you watching? You think I’m a little baby, eh? I got to have papa hold me on the potty and see that I do it right?”

Wallace cursed him but he turned so that his back was partially to Tuco. Tuco took a step backward, braced himself and sprang. His shoulder slammed into Wallace’s back. The big man yelled wildly and flew through the open door, dragging Tuco with him.

They struck the embankment with Wallace underneath, cushioning Tuco’s fall and taking the full impact of his weight. Then they were rolling helplessly, gouged and clawed by the sharp gravel of the ballast.

The train was vanishing around a distant curve when they stopped at last.

Tuco sat up. He was covered with scratches and bruises and his ribs were a mass of agony but necessity gave him strength. Wallace was unconscious, a darkening lump rising from the side of his head. He looked to be out for some time but Tuco was taking no chances, He found a big chunk of jagged rock and brought it down hard on the corporal’s skull. Then he rose to his knees and began ransacking the big man’s pockets.

He had gone through every imaginable hiding place three times before he could make himself accept the terrible truth. He rocked back on his heels, sobbing with mingled rage and frustration.

“Oh, that bastard!” he sobbed. “That miserable, black-hearted bastard. He wouldn’t even trust Wallace to carry the handcuff key. He most have sent it on ahead to the sheriff—along with the word that I was being brought „

He stared around wildly and his gaze fell on a sharp outcropping of granite some yards away. He scrambled up, hooked both hands into Walace’s belt and dragged the heavy figure to the rock. He found a chunk of rock, stretched the handcuff chain over the sharp ridge of granite and hammered with all his strength. The rock shattered after a few blows without leaving a visible mark or dent on the tough steel links.

He found another rock and renewed his efforts, panting.

“So you don’t want to leave me, eh? You are beginning to like me a little, eh, and you want me with you everywhere you go? Well, I don’t like you and I’m not going to stay. You hear me, you big piece of bull-blossom, you?”