The Good the Bad and the Ugly

All he, Sentenza, had to do was find Carson first and make him identify the particular grave before he died. He straightened, his eyes clearing, his course charted as far ahead as possible. He became aware that across the street the condemned man now sat beneath the gallows farm, the noose tight around his neck. The sheriff stood by, his whip poised to send the horse stampeding from under its rider.

Sentenaa glanced away and froze, his eyes flaring. A flicker of shadowy movement had drawn his attention to the open door of the hayloft above the livery stable. The blond bounty-hunter stood just inside the doorway, a cocked rifle across his left arm as he took careful aim towards the gallows below. A light of comprehension and reluctant admiration came into Sentenza’s eyes.

“I’ll be damned,” he murmured softly.

Across the street the judge intoned, “And may the Lord have mercy on his soul. Proceed with your duty, Sheriff.”

On the walk beside Sentenea a woman who had stopped to watch whimpered, “Poor wretch. What a terrible, terrible thing it must be for him.”

Sentenza’s lips moved without humour. “I wouldn’t fret, ma’am. Not all hangings end in tragedy. Some lucky devils—even that miserable beggar over there—have a guardian angel, perhaps an armed angel, watching over their fate.”

The whip whistled down, the rifle slammed and all hell broke loose. The horse went pounding off, riderless, leaving Tuco’s figure twisting and kicking from the uncut rope. The shot had missed.

The hunter levered a fresh shell into the chamber and shot again. This time the rope parted and Tuw sprawled in the dust below.

He scrambled up, howling, “Whitey—for the love of God, Whitey—”

He started to run.

The crowd was pushing and yelling. The sheriff tugged at his pistol. The rifle slammed again and the pistol whipped out of his hand, spun away down the street. Two men ran to intercept the stumbling Tuco. Two shots sent their hats flying and they abruptly lost the urge to be heroes.

The crowd yelled and scattered as the bounty-hunter dropped to his waiting horse and came pounding toward them. He thundered past, bending low to catch Tucos collar and hoist him up behind the saddle. By the time the crowd had recovered its wits the fugitives were a dwindling dust cloud in the desert.

Senteeza turned away, smiling.

“A man dead by rights—so now there are two of us. A most interesting diversion,” he murmured to that part of himself to which he often spoke. “But now it is time to visit a lady of professional love—but not for the usual reason.”

Tuco, hands still bound behind him, maintained a precarious balance on the rump of the running horse. The length of frayed rope streamed behind but he had managed to loosen the noose with his shoulder until he could breathe more freely.

“Whitey,” he bleated. “What are you doing to me? You missed that shot on purpose. You deliberately did it to scare me, to show what could happen if I insist on the bigger cut I deserve.”

“Anybody can miss a shot now and then,” the hunter said over his shoulder.

“What do you mean, anybody can miss a shot?” Tuco yelled. “You don’t miss a shot when I’m hanging from the end of a rope with my lungs bursting and my eyes popping out. Do you know what it feels like to have a rope jerked tight around your neck? Do you know how it feels to be hanged? No? Well, one day you will find out how it feels, Whitey. I, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez, make that solemn promise. And while you are choking you will learn what it is like to have someone you depend on miss a shot. That, too, I promise you on my honour as a bandit and a thief.”

They were far out in the bleak and burning desert by then. The hunter twisted around to look back. No clouds of dust marked pursuit. He noted with satisfaction that a hotwind, like the breath of a furnace, was erasing their tracks almost as soon as they were made.

He reined to a halt and waited for Tuco to slide awkwardly to the ground. Leaning an elbow on the saddle horn, he gazed thoughtfully down at the sweaty, bedraggled figure.

“You know, Tuco, I’ve been thinking things over and you’re right. This game is too dangerous for you. If anything happened and I had to leave you hanging there—I’d feel all-over responsible. I’d probably spoil my sleep, worrying.”

“What are you saying, Whitey?” Tuco whined nervously. “Stop talking foolishness and get down here and untie me. The cord has cut clear through my wrists.”

“Another thing I’ve been thinking,” the other said, “is that a small-time chicken thief like you will never he worth more than three thousand dollars. You’ve reached your top now.”

“What do you mean?”

“That there’s simply no future with a partner of your calibre. So I’m dissolving the partnership as of here and now, my friend. I’ll go my way and you may go yours. Adios, amigo.”