as a disguise on his next robbery.
He took hold of the body to drag it out and nearly leaped out of his boots when it stirred in his grasp and uttered a feeble moan. Swollen lips moved in a croaking whisper.
“Water, in the name of heaven. Water, water—”
“Aiee.” Tuco spat. “Water is too precious in this desert to be wasted on a man as good as dead. Be quiet while I see if you have anything worth stealing “
He found a handful of small coins, a cigar case engraved with the name Bill Carson. A folded paper proved to be the enlistment record of one Bill Carson in the Third Cavalry, C.S.A.
Tuco put this carefuly away. His eyes glittered as ha considered the infinite possibilties inherent in carrying the identy of a man already dead.
The figure stirred again and the one eye opened. “Water—I’ll pay—for it—in gold dollars. Two-hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” Tuco grabbed the dying man and shook him roughly. “What is this? What about two hundred thousand gold dollars, Carson? Where would you get that much money? If you’re lying—”
“No,” the feeble whisper came. “Not Carson. Real name—Jackson. I stole—Fourth Cavalry funds—hid them. Only I—know—where. Water—”
“You’ll get the water,” Tuco rasped, “as soon as you tell me where the money’s hidden. I remember the story now. There was a court-martial. You went free. Out with it. Where is the money?”
“In—cemetery—grave.”
“What cemetery? Where? Talk, you filthy vermin.”
“Sad—Hill. In the—grave.”
“What grave? There are thousands there. What’s the name? What’s the number on it? Come on—talk, talk, you dirty louse. The name or the number. Quick. Spit it out”
“Name—on head—board. Name—wa—”
Tuco yelled, shookthe dying man savagely.
“What, you stinking rat? Get it out and I’ll give you water! What’s the name on that headboard, damn you?”
The dying man strained but only a wordless croak came from his lips. The one eye closed and his head fell back.
Tuco scrambled up, his eyes wild. “Don’t die—don’t pull a dirty, stinking trick like that on me. Don’t move. I’m going for the water. Don’t you dare die before I come back, you dirty scum.”
He whirled and ran madly towards his horse, which had wandered several hundred yards from the ambulance in search of grass. In his panic he failed to see the figure of the bounty-hunter crawling slowly towards the ambulance.
Tuco snatched the canteen from the saddle and raced back. He had almost reached the ambulance when he saw his hated enemy huddled in the tiny patch of shade beside the figure of Carson-Jackson.
“Get away from there,” Tuco screamed. “Get away, damn your black soul. Get away from him—”
“It doesn’t matter,” the hunter croaked. “He’s dead,”
Tuco threw himself down, shaking the lifeless body,. beating it in a fury of frustration.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you—” He reared back, his face working crazily. He jerked out his gun. “I’ll kill you.”
“I wouldn’t—if I were—you,” the hunter croaked “Kill me—now—and you’ll—stay the beggar—you are for the—rest of—your life.”
“He talked?” Tuco screamed. “He told you something? But, no. He was too far gone to talk. You’re lying to make me spare your stinking hide. He couldn’t talk.”
“He told name—grave—full of gold—somewhere—”
Tuco flung himself on the limp figure, shaking it furiously.
“The name, Whitey. Tell me whose grave.” The only response was a feeble moan.
“Whitey, you aren’t dying, too, like that pig? You can’t die—I won’t let you die. I’m your friend, Whitey. Wait, here is water. Suck a little but don’t swallow just yet. It will make you sick. Don’t die, Whitey—at least not for a while.”
The water brought some strength back to the hunter but now he was delirious. His eyes rolled wildly while wordless sounds came from the swollen lips. Tuco turned his eyes heavenward.
“Mother of God, don’t let him die. He is dearer than a brother to me.”
He scrambled up and dragged the remaining bodies out of the ambulance. One had been a very tall man, over six feet. Alternately praying and cursing, Tuco stripped the Confederate uniform from the corpse and somehow got it on to the inert figure of the bounty-hunter.
Another change transformed Tuco into the late Corporal Bill Carson, complete with eyepatch. He gathered up the limp figure of the hunter and deposited it tenderly on the ambulance floor.
“Don’t die, Whitey. Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die—.” He scrambled to the driver’s seat and slapped the reins. “Giddyup, you vulture’s bait. Move. If he dies—a part of me will die, too.”
CHAPTER 10
THE Rebel sentry lifted his gun and peered nervously into the darkness.
“Halt. Who’s there? Identify yourself or I’ll shoot.”
“What do you mean, who’s there?” Tuco bawled back. “Who were you expecting—Colonel Canby with the Yankee army at his heels, idiot? If I were the enemy you wouldn’t be alive to ask stupid questions. I’ve got a man here who’s in a terrible condition—maybe dying or already dead.”
The sentry lit a hooded lantern and cautiously approached the ambulance. He studied Tuco, then leaned into examine the figure of the hunter.
“He’s still alive, isn’t he?” Tuco called anxiously. “He’s breathing but that’s about all. What happened?”
“Our troop was ambushed. Only the two of us got away.”
“Your name, rank and unit—and show me your travel orders.”
“Travel orders?” Tuco choked. “The only travel orders we got came spitting out of Yankee gun muzzles, you jughead. I’m Corporal Bill Carson, Third Cavalry Regiment, Second Squadron, You got more damfool questions to ask while a man is dying? Or do you show as to the infirmary?”
“Infirmary?” the sentry hooted. “We’re on the edge of the desert, separated from our regiment and fleeing for our lives and you ask where’s our infirmary. I’ll tell you where the nearest infirmary is, Corporal. It’s in the Yankee camp.” He sobered. “Look, Corporal, we don’t even have a doctor here. Your best hope is to get him to the Mission of San Antonio.”
Turn started violently. “Did you say San Antonio?”
“Yep. It’s about eighteen miles in that direction. The friars there will take in any wounded man, never mind the colour of his uniform. Get along, but watch out for Federal troops. They’re all over the area.”
It was mid-morning when Turn drove up to the mission door. A gaunt, ascetic monk with a white beard came out as Tuco sprang down from the ambulance seat.
“Hello, Padre. I have a man here who is in bad condition. You must get to work on him at once.”
“But we are already overcrowded. There is no more room.”
“Then give him yours,” Tuco barked. “Where is Pablo Ramirez?”
“Father Ramirez is away from the mission now but we expect him to return any day.”
“It doesn’t matter. The important thing is to make my hurt friend well. See if he is still breathing, Padre.” The monk leaned into the ambulance.
“Yes, he still breathes.”
“God be praised. If you don’t know, Padre, God is with us because He, too, hates the Yankees. Give me a hand here and we’ll get this poor fellow inside. Easy, Whitey. Easy now, boy. They’ll have you as good as new in no time.”
The unconscious figure was deposited on the bed in a small cell. The white-bearded monk turned on Tuco and flapped his hands.
“Get out, now. Outside,”
