The Good the Bad and the Ugly

He and Tuco piled cases of explosive on the planks. The hunter found an army blanket in an adjoining storeroom and spread it over the low pile. At a casual glance their burden coulbe readily mistaken for another victim of the daily slaughter.

No one paid any attention as the hunter and Tuco worked their way down the slope of the ridge to the river. In the deep shadows under the bridge they cautiously set the plank stretcher in’the water and found that it floated with sufficient buoyancy to serve as a raft. From the bridge planking above their heath came the steady tramp-tramp of boots as men carried their dead and wounded off the blood-drenched span.

“You know something, Whitey?” Tuco said. “It has just struck me that doing what we are doing could get us both killed.”

“That it could,” the other agreed, “but it could also lead to something a whole lot worse.”

“Worse, Whitey? What could be worse, eh?”

“Only one of an getting killed. Then the other could spend the rest of his life going crazy—thinking about all that money he might have had mouldering away to dust in a grave somewhere.”

Turn’s eyes grew round as the full realisation struck him. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

“Whitey, I have a great idea. We are close to where we are going, now. Very close. Why don’t we trust each other now and share our secrets? I will tell you the name of the cemetery and you tell me the name on the grave. Then if, say, you should be killed, I would be able to find the two hundred thousand dollars and use your share to honour your memory.”

The hunter said hastily, “Let’s not go through that whole mass-and-candles business again. Let’s just say I think your idea has merit and I’m game for it if you are.”

“Whitey, you are a true friend and partner, as I have always said. See, I will hold up my right hand—so—and give you my word of honour. Tell me the name an that grave. Quickly.”

“Uh-uh. The idea was yours, Tuco. You deserve the honour of revealing your secret first, I’d never think of depriving a good friend of such a privilege.”

Tuco struggled briefly with the impasse, then surrendered.

“All right, Whitey. The place to which we are going is Sad Hill, the military graveyard. Now—quickly—tell me the name on the grave. And no tricks, Whitey.”

“No tricks, Tuco, on my word of honour. The name Carson, or Jackson, muttered to me just before he died was Stanton—Arch Stanton. He said it was painted on the headboard over the grave.”

A low, gurgling moan came from somewhere nearby. The two men whirled in unison, hands streaking to their guns. In the deep shadow where the bridge met the bank of the river lay a wounded Union soldier, his uniform sodden with blood. His eyes were closed and he breathed in liquid, rasping gasps.

Tuco’s eyes were wild. He snatched out his pistol.

“He could have heard what we said. We spoke of the sum of money and said exactly where it is buried. We can’t take any chances. Step aside, Whitey, and let me finish him off.”

“Hold it,” the hunter said sharply. The ragged breathing sounds had ceased and the shattered chest no longer rose and fell. He squatted down to touch the figure. “Save your bullet, Tuco. He’s on his way to Sad Hill, all right, but not to dig up our money. But we’ll never make it there if we don’t get this damn bridge mined before the truce period is up.”

He led the way, wading out between the supporting timbers. The plank stretcher made a makeshift raft that helped to support its deadly burden. While Tuco lashed bundles of dynamite sticks to the bridge supports the hunter attached the fulminate caps and connected them to a single continuous fuse.

They were well past midstream and close to the Confederate-held bank when their supply of explosives was exhausted. The hunter crimped the last cap to the end of the fuse. The tramp of feet overhead had long since ceased. The burial details on both sides had fanned out along the ridge slopes, searching out the last victims of the savage bombardment, A squad of men on the Union side was rigging a scissors and tackle to hoist the dismounted mortar back on to its platform.

The bounty-hunter squatted under the Union end of the bridge. He struck a lucifer to flame on his thumbnail, held it close to the tip of the fuse and glanced up.

“Run like hell and dive under an overhang of the riverbank when this starts to sputter. There’ll be chunks of bridge timber flying all over New Mexico Territory.”

“I will fly ahead of the blast, amigo.”

The fuse sputtered to life, spitting crimson sparks. The two men ran. Some distance upstream, where the river straightened from its sharp bend, the current had deeply undercut the bank. They dived under the protecting overhang of earth and and an instant before all hell broke loose.