The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“Not at all,” the other said amiably. “I’ll write the location of the real hiding place on a piece of paper. If you want it enough—take it off my dead body. Fair enough?”

For a Long moment Sentenza stared at the bounty-hunter, his dark wedge of face without a hint of expression. Then, slowly, he slid the long gun back into its holster.

“Go ahead. Write.”

The hunter fished out an old reward poster from his pocket and dug out a stub of pencil. He scrawled a few words, folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. He grinned at Sentenza.

“That clear space should give us plenty of elbow room.”

“Lead the way,” Sentenza said.

“You go first. I don’t want a bullet in my back. Whoever gets the gold will have to earn it the hard way, my friend.”

Sentenza’s lips stirred fn the ghost of a smile. He strode on into the amphitheatre. The bounty-hunter followed. Tuco stumbled after them, wringing his hands and whimpering.

“Whitey, Whitey you won’t forget that it was Tuco who saved your life in the desert? It was Tuco who took you to his brother’s monastery and watched over you like a father until you were strong and well. Without Tuco you wouldn’t be here today.” He whirled and held out pleading hands. “Sentenza, I forgive you for what you had that pig Wallace do to me. I am not a vengeful man or one to hold a grudge. It was simply a matter of business, what happened there in Battleville. I understand, Sentenza. I would have done the same thing myself.”

Neither man paid the slightest attention to his mnuthings. They faced one another, a dozen paces apart. The bounty-hunter took a long drag on his cigarro and flipped it away. His right hand hung just below and behind the butt of his gun.

Sentenza used his left hand to pull the long frock coat away front the holster on his left hip. His right hovered close to his belt.

“The count of five suit you?”

The hunter nodded.

“Tuco, stop that damn babbling and give us the count.”

Tuco moistened his lips and began to count in a high, quavering voice.

At the count of five the poised hands moved in a blurt of fantastic speed. The slap of palms against walnut butts sounded almost as one.

Only a single gunshot thundered.

Sentenza stood very still, the long-barrelled pistol only half drawn. He stared at the bounty-]hunter, his forehead creased in a frown of perplexity. He gave his head a little shake, as if some thought troubled him.

Then, very slowly, one knee began to buckle. He turned half around in a grotesque, dipping pirouette, then fell heavily on his side. His hand made one feeble effort to finishing drawing the pistol, then went limp.

The hunter strode to Ids fallen adversary, stirring the body with the toe of his boot. He holstered his gun and turned away.

Tuco found his voice. “Whitey, you did it. I knew you could. I told you you could take Sentenza and you did. The pig is dead and good riddance, eh?” He stumbled backward on rubbery legs and collapsed on the nearest grave. “Now there is only you and me, Whitey. Tell me where the gold is buried, eh? Which is the grave, eh?”

“You’re sitting on it,” the hunter said.

CHAPTER 21

TUCO gaped at the headboard with bulging eyes. “But—but, Whitey, there is no name on this grave. All the marker says is unknown.”

“That’s right.” The bounty-hunter nodded. “Carson said—the unknown grave nearest to Arch Stanton’s. So grab that head board and start digging.”

“But, Whitey,” Tuco wailed, “you will have to help me. I can’t dig it all by myself. Already I have dug up one grave. My muscles are like water.”

“Tuco,” the hunter said grimly, “as you’re so fond of repeating, there are two kinds of people in this world—those who have bullets in their guns and those who dig. You dig.”

He stood watching until the excavation was knee-deep to the sweating bandit, then turned and went down the slope to where his horse was tethered. He took something out of a saddlebag and came back, holding the object behind him.

Tuco loosed a wild shout.

“Aieee, it is here, Whitey! I can see the top and this one is not a coffin. It’s a money chest, all right.”

The lid came up protestingly. The cavity beneath it was packed full of bulging leather sacks. Their contents made a dull chinking sound as Tuco hoisted one after another out of the grave. The hunter knelt and pulled the drawstring on one sack. A stream of gold dollars cascaded out to the ground. Tuco scrambled out on his knees and ploughed shaking hands through the pile.

“Eh, Whitey, Whitey, what a lovely sight. And it’s all ours to divide. We’re partners, you and me, Whitey, to share and share alike, eh?”

“Oh, you’ll get your half,” the bounty-hunter said, “and here’s something else that belongs to you.” He held out a coil of rope with a hangman’s noose at one end. “Remember this, Tuco? Recognise your handiwork? I went back and got it that day—after the Yankee shell had conviniently interrupted your merry little game of shoot-the-stool-legs. I figured I might find a use for it, sooner or later.”