“You—Carson, Come along. The sergeant wants a word with you.”
Tuco wet his lips and his eyes shuttled wildly, searching in vain for help.
“On your feet,” Wallace snarled. “I’ve got strict orders not to lay a hand on you but don’t tempt me too far.”
Tuco dragged himself erect and tottered after the burly figure like a condemned man marching to the gallows. A prisoner named Angus looked pityingly at the bounty-hunter and wagged his head.
“I don’t know what your friend’s done—but God help him. I never seen a band concert set up so close to the sergeant’s quarters before.”
The hunter scowled.
“I don’t get it, friend. What’s the connection between the sergeant’s sending for Tuco and the band concert?”
“Don’t you know about the Battleville band, mister? They only give a concert when some poor bastard is due to get beaten within an inch of his life or maybe strung up by the thumbs. It’s supposed to play so loud Cap’n Harper can’t hear his screams.”
The hunter’s face went tight and icily blank. His fists clenched until the knuckles turned frosty white. Until that moment he had taken it for granted that only he and Tuco shared the dead Carson’s secret of the buried gold.
CHAPTER 12
“COME in, Tuco,” Sentenza said genially. “Don’t stand on ceremony. How long has it been?”
He was seated at a big table, ladling a rich-looking stew from a large bowl into a smaller one at his place. A chunk of crusty bread lay beside the stew. An open whisky bottle and a hall-filled tumbler of amber liquid stood close to his hand.
Tuco wet his lips and moved a few reluctant steps toward the table.
“A long time, Sentenza.”
“You can take off that silly eyepatch, too. I recognised you immediately out there in line.”
Tuco stripped off the patch with unsteady hands. The vapours from the succulent stew assailed his nostrils. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled with longing. Sentenza heard the sound and laughed. He gestured toward a chair at the end of the table.
“Hungry? I guess the standard prison fare does leave a little something to be desired. Sit down and eat, Tuco.” He pushed the large bowl of stew and the bread over. “Take it all. I’ve finished my dinner, except for the— ah—dessert.”
He sipped whisky appreciatively, his mocking gaze fixed on the bandit’s nervous, shifting eyes. Tuco slid into the mat, snatched up a spoon, then froze. Fear and suspicion came into his eyes. He looked longingly at the stew while an inner battle raged between doubt and hunger. Doubt won and he laid the spoon back on the table.
Sentenza reached over and dipped a heaping spoonful of the stew. He chewed appreciatively and swallowed.
“You see, Tuco—no poison. You always were a suspicious character. Now dive in and fill yourself.”
Tuco’s face cleared. He snatched the bread with one hand and the spoon with the other and wolfed down the food, making little animal squeals of delight. Sentenza watched him, sipping his whisky. Wallace stood just inside the closed door, a look of anticipation on his brute face.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Tuco mumbled between bites, “I knew it. The moment I saw you I said to myself, ‘Look at that pig of a Sentenza. He’s got himself set up real good here. And Sentenza is not the kind who forgets his friends. Especially not an old friend like Tuco.’”
“That’s right, Tuco. Particularly an old friend like you.”
“Good.”
Tuco beamed, swallowing a huge chunk of meat.
“And I do enjoy seeing friends once in a while. That way I know I’m not forgotten.”
“Right,” Tuco mumbled, nodding vigorously.
“Especially,” Sentenza went on smoothly, “when friends have travelled a long distance and have many interesting and exciting things to tell me.”
Tuco’s eyes were suddenly wary and hooded.
“Sure.”
“What do you have to tell me, Tuco?”
“Uh—you mean, like about the war and the fighting? And about getting captured?”
“Tuco,” Sentenza said softly. “Let’s see, you were captured at Fort Craig, or somewhere in that general area, I believe.”
Tuco’s reply was a cautious grunt that could have been either affirmative or negative.
Sentenza put his fingertips together and studied the outlaw thoughtfully.
“So, you were with Sibley’s Texans—which means you must have come from Santa Fe.”
“Uh,” Tuco grunted. He wiped sudden moisture from his forehead with a ragged sleeve.
“The desert has killed a lot of men. It must have been pretty terrible to cross.”
“Very bad,” Tuco agreed. He stared wistfully at the whisky bottle. “It is especially bad when you have nothing to drink.”
Sentenza pushed the bottle toward the bandit’s out-stretched hand.
“Help yourself, Tuco, and don’t feel obliged to stint. Good whisky is sometimes a help in loosening the tongue and yours needs it.”
Tuco tilted the bottle and his throat worked convulsively. He lowered it at last with an explosive breath. He wiped his mouth and belched.
“You are a fine fellow, Sentenza. Like I have always said, ‘That Sentenza—he is one of the best.’”
“And also—” Sentenza still spoke softly—“one of the most curious. For instance, how did you happen to start calling yourself Bill Carson?”
Tuco’s eyes shifted
“It’s as good a name hs any, isn’t it? You know using my own name too much might not be so healthy, eh? It could give me a very sore throat” He guffawed at his own joke but the sound was strained. “Besides, I don’t see you using your name so much, either, Sentenza. Sergeant Sentenza? That might not sound so nice in some places, eh?”
“I see. Then you mean Bill Carson is just a name that popped into your head for no reason at all. Is that the way it was, Tuco? It wasn’t one you might have—ah—borrowed from a real Bill Carson?”
“Is there a real Bill Carson?” Tuco asked. “The name just came into my mind.”
“I see,” Sentenza purred. “And the eyepatch. That just came into your mind, too?” He watched big drops of sweat form and crawl down the swarthy cheeks. “Tell me, Tuco, do you like music? Band music?”
The bandit looked puzzled, then shrugged.
“Well, sure, I guess so.” He patted his bulging belly. “Anyhow, they say it is good for the digestion.”
Wallace said eagerly from his post beside the door, “Now, sergeant?”
“I think very shortly now,” Sentenza replied quietly. “Just be patient a little longer, Wallace.”
Tuco’s gaze shuttled nervously from one man to the other. The meaning of the cryptic exchange eluded him but it had had an ominous sound. He swallowed noisily and wet his lips.
“So the whole Bill Carson identity is just a fake? Is that your story, Tuco?”
“That’s right.”
Sentenza drew the gold cigar case from his pocket, opened the lid and set it on the table where Tuco could stare at the engraved name.
“Then this cigar case is part of the fake, too. It seems to me you went to a great deal of trouble and expense to build up the identity of a man who never existed.” His hands slapped down on the table and be bent forward, the pale eyes cold and deadly. “Carson was alive when you found him, wasn’t he? Alive and able to talk. What did he say? What did he tell you about two hundred thousand gold dollars? Where did he tell you he hid it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sentenza leaned back again, his pent breath hissing out through clenched teeth.
