The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“I don’t think Sentenza has any say in the matter now. He had six gunmen until a few minutes ago. I just killed one of them down on the street. The others will be as hungry to get me that he won’t be able to stop them—short of killing them all himself. And I don’t think even Sentenza’s gun is quite fast enough for that.”

“Ah,” Tuco said, nodding. “A double double-cross, eh? That I can understand, Whitey. So let’s hurry and kill them all and go get our gold.”

They peered cautiously through a downstairs window of the hotel. The body of the dead Hank still lay on the walk by the corner. His five companions, guns in their hands, were spaced out along the street, two on each side and the fifth, Andy, who was rated the fastest, covering the middle. There was no sign of Sentenza.

“Come on,” the hunter whispered. “There’s got to be a back door out of this botch We can follow an alley and come out on them down the street”

“One thing, Whitey,” Tuco said as they darted out into the narrow alley. “Sentenza is all mine, eh? That pig. That raper of babies and grandmothers—I still hurt all over when I hear his name after what he had that animal, Wallace, do to me.”

“He’s yours if you think you can take him. I don’t care if a horsefly kicks him to death—as long as I can see his body and make sure he isn’t faking.”

Their sudden appearance down the street was greeted by yells of rage. The five gunmen moved toward them, maintaining a wide-spaced formation. Tuco and the bounty-hunter moved apart and advanced to meet them. The only sounds in the eerie stillness of the street were the measured shuffle of boots on sand.

The gunman called Andy stepped up his pace. He moved out in front of the others

“Hank was my partner,” he called out. “I claim first chance at the man who gunned him down without a chance.” He dropped his gun back into its holster and raised his voice. “How about it, you yellow-topped buzzard? Have you got the guts to make it a match?”

“Don’t get yourself killed, Whitey,” Tuco pleaded. “Let me take him, eh? What would my life be without you?”

“Fry your own fish,” the hunter said.

He dropped his gun into its holster, Slowly and deliberately he fished out one of his stubby cigarros. By the time it was lighted to his satisfaction he and Andy were no more than a dozen paces apart. He held up the flaming match.

“When I drop this—”

His fingers opened. The match was still falling when the shots came almost together.

The two men stood, feet wide apart, each staring into the other’s face for a long moment. Then Andy’s knees buckled and he pitched forward on to his face. A cloud of grey dust pulled up from the street. The hunter threw a quick glance at a fresh bullet hole through a fold of his poncho. An inch to the right and he, too, would be lying in the dust

Then the others were yelling and shooting as they came forward. Slugs whistled around him and kicked up dust at his feet. He heard Tuco’s gun bang and the scar’faced killer known as Emil spun around and fell. The hunter’s left hand slapped his gun hammer in a blur of motion.

It was over in seconds. Tuco’s voice rose in a bellow as he pushed out the empty shells and reloaded.

“Eh, there, Sentenza, you miserable coward! Come out from wherever you are hiding and trembling as I can kill you, too.”

“He’s probably miles away by now,” the hunter said, “but come on.”

With Tuco at his heels he sprinted to the store with the shattered front that was to have been their night’s shelter. It was empty now but a message had been printed boldly on the one undamaged wall. It was signed with the initial S. Tuco scowled at it, laboriously picking out the words.

“We’ll—meet—again—id— What is that last word, Whitey?”

“Idiot,” the hunter said dryly. “He probably meant the message for you.”

CHAPTER 17

THEY lay belly down on the crest of a high, grassy ridge. Below them a broad river flowed sluggishly southward. Tuco’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He moaned softly and pounded his head with the heel of his hand.

“Those thieving brothers of vultures at Battleville Prison Camp. May the coyotes fight over their guts and the worms feast on their eyeballs. If they had not robbed me of my map, along with everything else, I would not have to give myself a headache trying to remember our route.”

“Maybe I could help you,” the hunter said, “if you’d tell me where we’re headed. I know most of this country pretty well.”

“We’re headed toward a grave, Whitey. That’s enough.” Tuco’s eyes flew open and he sat up, beaming. “Eh, now I have it. I can see the river as clearly as if it were right in front of me.”

“It is,” the hunter said.

Tuco ignored the jibe. “Below this point the river makes a bend and beyond the bend is a bridge. We cross it and turn north—and almost before we know it we will be at the cemetery. Come on, Whitey.”

He scrambled to his feet