The Good the Bad and the Ugly

SENTENZA leaned against the corner of a harness shop and boredly watched the preparations for the hanging. He had seen—and meted out—violent death in too many forms to be thrilled by the sight of some poor devil kicking away his life at the end of a rope. He took out a yellow meerschaum pipe and packed it with exaggerated care.

Across the street a crowd of townspeople milled excitedly around the makeshift gallows hastily erected in front of the sheriff’s office that morning. The condemned man, his hands tied behind him, had been hoisted on to his horse. He slumped dejectedly in the saddle while a sour-faced judge droned through an endless list of charges.

“...previously wanted in fourteen counties of this Territory... the accused here present, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez...”

Sentenza had been lounging in the same place some two hours earlier when the outlaw was brought into town, kicking and cursing, flung across his saddle like a sack of grain. His captor, a tall, pale-haired bounty-hunter, had collected a three-thousand-dollar reward and departed without a word or a nod to anyone.

As he had ridden away he had glanced towards Sentenza. The hunter had carefully taken in the frock coat, looked up and for a moment the two men’s glances had met and locked. To Sentenza the hunter’s eyes had carried the impact of a physical blow.

Watching the tall, lean figure ride on he had thought, There goes probably the most dangerous man I have ever encountered...

The observation left him without emotion. Dead men knew no challenges. Still without emotion, Sentenza smiled.

He stiffened suddenly at the rhythmic clatter of wood on wood and a voice calling his name. A grotesque travesty of a man was hurrying toward him along the board walk.

Both of the newcomer’s legs had been amputated at the hips so that he was all torso and head and long arms He gripped two blocks of wood which he used as crutches, slapping them on to the plank walk and swinging his abbreviated body between them. Awkward as his means of locomotion seemed, he dexterously threaded his way through the crowd of onlookers,and approached Sentenza with remarkable speed.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Half-soldier,” Sentenza said. “Did you get a line on Carson?”

“Enough,” the cripple said, “to know why you’re looking for him and to be glad I’m not in his boots.” He shook his head. “It’s like something out of one of those dime novels, Sentenza.” He peered around and lowered his voice. “A Confederate escort unit was caught in an ambush by Yankees and practically wiped out. Only three men got through alive—Mondrega, Baker and Jackson. What didn’t get through was a chest full of gold dollars they were taking to Santa Fe. There was a hearing and Jackson claimed the Yankees got the gold. With nobody to contradict him, Jackson was acquitted of stealing it. But get this—Jackson disappeared right after the hearing and turned up around here, calling himself Bill Carson.”

“Yes,” Sentenza said with a touch of impatience. “I know that much. What else did you find out? Where is Carson now? That’s what I want to know, man.”

“I can tell you that. He re-enlisted in another outfit and lost one eye in a skirmish with Colonel Canby’s Colorado Volunteers. You’ll know him when you see him by the black eyepatch he wears now. I couldn’t find out where he is right at the moment but I located someone who can. She’s a prostitute by the name of Maria. This Jackson-Carson lives with her when he’s not out in the field with his outfit”

“Where do I find her?”

“Now, what in hell’s the name of that town? It’s an easy name, too.” He scratched his head, frowning then brightened. “Sant’ Ana—that’s it, Sentenza, Sant’ Ana.” The gunman stooped and slipped a handful of coins into the cripple’s shirt-pocket.

“You did a good job for me, Half-soldier, Adios, amigo.”

Sentenza leaned back against the wall, his sand-coloured eyes rolled and remote. He had most of the answers now. Both Baker and Mondrega had recalled fleeting glimpses of innumerable graves—and what better hiding place fora chest of stolen gold than a grave? The only cemetery of any size in the region of Glorietta Pass, where the ambush occurred, was the military burying ground at Sad Hill.

Two big problems still remained to be solved. One was to discover in which of the thousands of graves an Sad Hill the treasure lay hidden. Only Jackson, alias Bill Carson, could tell him that.

The second problem was to get there. The whole mountain area east of Santa Fe was now batdegroand as Colonel Canby’s Union forces flung themselves desperately at General Sibley’s invading Texans. The liars shifted daily and a civilian caught wandering there could be that by either side as a spy.

That fact would explain why Carson had rejoined the army. As a soldier he stood a far better chance of getting to Sad Hill and making off with his loot, under cover of the fighting.