The Good the Bad and the Ugly

TUCO, the bandido, who yearned to become notorious as Tuco the Terrible, was in an ebullient mood. He had spent a most lively, though tiring, night with a lady of infinitely varied talents and insatiable ardour. Better still, her husband had not interrupted the fun by returning home early and getting himself killed. Such lighter moments were all too rare in the life of a hard-working bandit.

His pleasant musings were interrupted by the sudden violent shying of his horse. A man had stepped from behind a high rock and stoat blocking the narrow part of the trail. He was a stranger to Tuco, a thick-bodied, brutish figure with small, nervous eyes and a knife-scarred cheek. He wore his gun low, the holster tied down for a fast draw. His clawed hand hovered close to its worn butt.

Tuco’s hand started towards his own gun and from as the stranger growled, “Uh-uh. I wouldn’t try it if I was you, friend. It just so happens there’s three of us.”

Two more men stepped into view. One was young and lath-thin, the other an older man with an unkempt tangle of whiskers. The scarred man jerked his head.

“Light down and step up a little. I want a closer look at that ugly face.”

“You are no raving beauty yourself,” Tuco snarled. But he swung down and reluctantly stepped a few paces loser to the trio. “If it’s money you want, my saddlebags are empty.”

“It figures. I’ve seen your face before—on a sheriff’s poster. In fact, friend, it looks like the face of a man worth two thousand dollars in bounty.”

“You could be right, friend,” a new voice said from somewhere off to the side. “But yours doesn’t look like the face of a man who’s going to collect it.”

Tuco and his visitors whirled. A stranger to Tuco was framed in a narrow gap between rocks. He stood tall—inches above six feet—lean and hungry. A line of pale blond hair showed above the weathered bronze of his face. A stubby Mexican cigarro jutted from a corner of his wide, unsmiling mouth. His face was without expression. Except for narrowed, glittering eyes, there was nothing sinister in his appearance but Tuco felt a sudden coldness brush his spine.

The tall man jerked his head at Tuco.

“Step back a little, ugly one, out of line of fire.”

Tuco gulped and scrambled back to stand beside his horse. The scar-faced gunman cleared his throat noisily.

“I don’t know who you are, mister, but it’s plain you ain’t too bright in the head. Nobody in his right mind would butt into our private business the way you just done.”

“If I bother you,” the tall man said pleasantly, “butt me out.”

Everything happened so fast that Tuco was never afterward certain of the sequence. The three gunmen were no amateurs at their trade. Their hands slapped down in practised unison. The tall stranger’s gun simply appeared in his hand, pressed tight against his hip and spewing sound, smoke and bullets. After the first shot the heel of his left hand fanned the hammer, getting off two more shots so close together that the sound was continuous and single.

Only one of the trio managed to get his own iron clear of its leather before he died.

Tuco gaped at the sprawled figures and suddenly thrust his hands behind him to hide their trembling. He turned dazed eyes to his rescuer.

“Thanks, amigo. You saved me from a most unpleasant dance at the end of a rough rope.”

The thin stranger finished reloading without answering. He reached back among the rocks and led a saddled horse out to the trail. He swung into the saddle and sat looking down, studying Tuco without a trace of expression on his dark face.

“So you’re worth two thousand dollars,” he said thoughtfully. “Dead or alive.”

“True,” Tuco said sadly. “It is a disgrace—only two thousand for a man of my reputation. But out here the law is very tight-fisted with its bounties.” A look of sudden alarm came over his face. “Señor—you wouldn’t be thinking of turning me in yourself for such a miserable, stinking Judas price?”

“I haven’t decided,” the other said coldly. “We’ll ride on together while I make up my mind.”

Tuco shivered and swung into his saddle. He was tempted to dig in his spurs and try flight but from what he had witnessed he knew how hopeless his chances were.

He reined in beside the stranger. They jogged along side by side, while the miles crept by. At last the lengthening silence began to get on the bandit’s nerves.

He said, “Amigo, if you have faults, running off at the mouth is not one of them. Conversation makes a long trail seem shorter.”

The other glanced at him, looked away without replying. Tuco moistened dry lips and tried again.

“At least, señor, since we ride together we can at least introduce one another. I am Tuco, the Bandit. You have surely heard of me. Everybody has heard of Tuco the Terrible. Eh?”

The expressionless face turned toward him again.

“No.”

“No? Then one thing is sure. You are not from these parts if you have never heard of Tuco. From where do you hail, amigo?”

“Nowhere,” the stranger said.