The Good the Bad and the Ugly

Tuco, still on his knees, goggled at the rope, his mouth sagging open.

“Whitey, you are fooling, eh? You are just making a big joke with your friend, Tuco, elr? I know. You are trying to frighten me, to give me the big scare.”

“By the expression on your face,” the other said dryly, “I’m not only trying but succeeding. And this isn’t a joke—it’s a rope. Take it and put it on. Snug it up around your neck where it belongs and then you can rest and relax. I’ll take care of the rest myself.”

“Whitey—” Tuco took the rope into shaking hands and managed to get the loop over his head. “You can’t, Whitey. You wouldn’t do this to Tuco—who loves you like a brother and saved your life.”

“Turn around and put your hands together behind you.”

He slapped the butt of his pistol. Sobbing, the outlaw got to his feet and put his wrists together. The hunter used the buckskin thong from the money sack to lash them together.

He gave the shaking figure a nudge.

“Walk over to that rail fence.”

The fence divided the cemetery from the woods. One tree put out a stout limb that hung low above the rail. The bounty-hunter tossed the end of the rope over the limb and caught it. He drew the rope snug.

“Now climb up and stand on the top rail. You can make it if you’re careful. I’ll hold the rope good and snug to help you keep your balance.”

“Whitey, Whitey—” Tears streamed down Tuco’s swarthy cheeks. He managed to scramble on to the top rail where he teetered precariously. “Do you know what you always were, Whitey? A big bastard. A stinking bastard and the son of bastards.”

The bounty-hunter tied the end of the rope to a fence post and went back to the pile of exhumed money sacks. He knelt and began to separate them into two piles.

“One for you and one for me. Another for you and another for me. Just like old time, isn’t it, Tuco, old faithful partner?”

“Whitey,” Tueo screamed. “I am losing my balance. I caret stand up on this rail any longer.”

“Oh, I think you can manage, Tuco—for a little while. Just stay real still and don’t breathe hard.”

Tuco’s foot slipped on the narrow rail. He screeched and managed to regain his balance by main effort.

The bounty-hunter stood up, hugging his share of the money sacks to his chest. “I’m leaving your share here on the ground for you. It will give you something to look at and dream about when you get bored.”

The bandit howled obscenities. Midway to his horse the hunter stopped and looked back.

“If I were you, I don’t think I’d try dancing any jigs, Tuco. Adios, friend.”

The hunter stowed the money into his saddlebags, mounted and rode across the vast field of the dead. At the edge of the cemetery he reined in to look back.

Tuco was teetering wildly on the rail fence, about to lose his balance completely. The bounty-hunter reached down and drew out the army rifle that had come with the stolen horse. He levered a shell into the chamber, took careful aim and fired.

Tuco was falling off the rail. The rope was tightening around his neck when it parted a scant foot above his head. He landed on the ground on his side with an impact that jarred the breath from his lungs.

The hunter slid the gun back into its scabbard and sat watching until he saw Tuco sit up and struggle to his knees, tugg1ng frantically at the thong binding his wrists behind him.

The hunter’s lips moved in a faint smile. He touched the brim of his hat in avague salute.

“The partnership is hereby dissolved,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t too unsuccessful while it lasted. Adios, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez.”

He turned the horse’s head and rode south without another backward glance.