The Good the Bad and the Ugly

“A Man from Nowhere, eh? Very well. Your business is your business. I do not pry. But at least you have a name to call you. Whether it is yours or not is of no matter to me.”

“I have no name.”

“Look, Man from Nowhere With No Name,” Tuco burst out with a touch of irritation. “Suppose I saw a cocked gun aimed at your back and you didn’t know it was there. By the time I yelled, ‘Man From Nowhere With No Name, look behind you—’ you would be stone dead. So I will give you a name. Because of your hair, I will call you Whitey. So if you hear me yell, ‘Whitey, behind you—’ you will know I am not talking to my horse.”

The other shrugged indifferently. Some miles farther Tuco made one last attempt to open communications. “You do not have the look of a cowman, farmer or an outlaw. What is your trade, amigo?”

The blond man turned and looked full into Tuco’s eyes. The ghost of a smile twitched his lips.

“Why,” he said softly, “I’m a bounty-killer. Let’s you and me make a deaL”

The yelling and swearing brought out most of the town to witness their arrival. The Man From Nowhere rode in front, leading Tuco’s horse. The bandit, bound hand and foot, was ignominiously draped across his saddle like a trussed chicken, head hanging down on one side, legs on the other. His private opinion of such treatment was clearly audible to anyone within miles.

“I’ll get you for this,” he howled. “I’ll see you dead of cholera, of rabies, of the black pox! Untie me! Untie me, you mangy son of a dog! Put me down! Listen, there’s still time. If you let me go I’ll forgive you. If you don’t—I’ll see that the worms eat your eyes out, you whore’s by-blow!”

The lean stranger ignored both the gaping, grinning crowd on the board sidewalk and the uproar at his back. Tuco’s voice fell to a shrill whine.

“Damn it, Whitey, I feel sick. Take me down. I can’t stand it any longer. My head’s bursting with blood. Water, Whitey—water, in the name of—”

The parade—though not the tumult—came to a halt at the hitchrail in front of a building bearing the sign: SHERIFF’S OFFICE. The tall man swung down, hoisted Tuco off his horse by his belt and dumped him unceremoniously on the board walk.

“Dog!” the bandit screeched. “Son of a saloon tramp. You’re real tough with a man who’s tied hand and foot, aren’t you? Let’s see you untie me if you’ve got the guts, you miserable seller of souls—”

His captor eluded a vicious kick with the bound feet and strode into the sheriff’s ooicn

On the sidewalk, still bound, Tuco raged: “So you’re afraid. Come back here, you stinking vulture—I’ll kick your guts out—”

The lean man came out, followed by a grizzled sheriff carrying a reward poster. The sheriff squatted, caught the bandit by the hair and twisted his head around, comparing his face with the picture on the poster.

“So one louse becomes two,” Tuco yelled. “Take your dirty paws off me, you polecat’s brother. Roll that thing up and I’ll tell you where you can stick it. To hell with sheriffs and those who give birth to them—”

The lawman nodded and stood up.

“It’s him, all right. Come along, mister. I’ll get the bounty money out of my safe.”

“Judas,” Tuco yowled. “Bastard offspring of a thousand bastards! If there’s any justice in this world you’ll never get to enjoy your blood money. The undertaker’ll get it all. Feel good, don’t you, sending a poor man who never hurt nobody to his death?”

The tall man came out, stuffing a wad of banknotes into his pocket. He mounted his horse, rode off.

The sheriff came out and cupped hands to his mouth to bawl, “All right, folks, let’s get a jury together here—on the double. Alex, you to the noose and get the rope up on the hangin’ tree while we’re givin’ this son of a bitch a fair trial.”

CHAPTER 4

AT the end of the street the Man With No Name reined in. He turned in the saddle to watch the eager crowd converge in front of the sheriff’s office. Two men came out of the saloon, supporting a third who was having difficulty with his equilibrium. The bartender in a white apron followed them out, slamming the saloon door before galloping past to join the excitement. The rest of the street was deserted except for two horses drooping at the saloon hitch-rail.

The tall man reined around to the rail and leaned down to untie the two horses. He slapped their rumps with his hat.

“Get going, you jugheads. Clear out.”

He watched them vanish beyond the last shanty, galloping wildly.

The livery stable was behind the row of false-fronts. Wagons and buggies were lined up before it and the corral at one side held a dozen or more unsaddled horses. A pimply attendant popped into sight as he rode up. The bounty-hunter scowled at him.

“How come you’re not over at the sheriff’s office with everybody else, watching the trial and hanging?”

“Hell and Maria, mister, nobody told me about no hangin’. Is that what all the yellin’ was about? I’d sure hate to miss it but—”

“Go along,” the hunter said, swinging down. “I’ll put up my own horse and be there in a minute.”

“Gees, thanks, mister.”