Man with No Name- Desert Walk

  Theo said, “No, Whitey. Not this time. The world is divided into two kinds of people, amigo—those who ride and those who walk. This time you walk.” He swung into his own saddle and grinned down. “They say walking is good exercise. It makes a man healthy. You are going to be the healthiest man in the territory, Whitey—if you live long enough. Start walking.”

  The Man From Nowhere stumbled and caught himself, forcing his legs to move on. The hot sand dragged at his boots, making every step a supreme effort of muscle and will. The sun hammered down with incredible ferocity until he felt as if he were being beaten from head to foot with white-hot irons. Even when he closed his eyes the fierce glare from the sand burned through the lids. Every sobbing breath of the superheated air seared his throat and lungs.

  “Come on there, Whitey,” Tuco said gaily. “Walk, man. Walk faster. You’re leaving me with no one to talk to. That is not polite.”

  He sat comfortably on his horse, grinning down at his dishevelled victim. Two full canteens of water hung from his saddle horn, sloshing with every movement of the horse. The blond man stumbled again and instinctively grabbed for Tuco’s stirrup to keep from falling. The outlaw jabbed with his spur and the horse skittered out of reach. The hunter fell heavily. It seemed to take him forever to struggle to his knees, then to his feet again.

  “You should watch where you are walking,” Tuco said in mock reproof. “Ah, but I know what the trouble is, Whitey. You are carrying too much extra weight.” He reached down, snatched off the hunter’s broad-brimmed hat and sent it sailing out of sight behind a dune. “There. Now you will walk lighter, amigo.”

  Even at a slow walk the horse was moving farther and farther ahead of the man on foot. Tuco reined in, waited for the stumbling figure to catch up.

  “Eh, Whitey, this desert makes a man thirsty just to look at it.” He uncapped a canteen and tipped it up, drinking noisily, letting some of the precious fluid dribble down his chin and on to his shirt. “Ahhhh, that’s better. You have no idea how good cool water can feel on the tongue and throat.”

  He made a pretence of peering down anxiously as the other caught up.

  “How this sun beats down. They say the sun is very bad for people with pale skin like yours, Whitey. It burns and blisters until the skin peels off in strips. And worse, it burns through a man’s skull and cooks his brains until they are nothing but jelly. You must be careful not to get too much of the sun, Whitey.”

  Tuco squirmed around to reach into the blanket roll tied behind his cantle. He brought out a ridiculously ruffled pink parasol. He opened it over his head and pretended to shiver.

  “It is strange how this thin air cannot hold the sun’s heat. A little bit of shade like this and I feel actually cold. Brrr!”

  “Where—are—we—going?” the hunter croaked.

  “Where? Towards a place where only one of us will arrive, amigo. Do you see all that beautiful sand ahead of us? That is the Jornada del Muerte—an oven a hundred and fifty miles long. Even armies are afraid to go through here. On that side the Confederates are trying to escape. The bluecoats are arriving on the other side. But neither dares set foot in here. Only you and I, Whitey, have the courage to take this beautiful walk where we can be alone and undisturbed. Is that not a pleasant thought?”

  The hunter stumbled again and made thick croaking noises.

  “What was it you told me once?” Tuco asked. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. ‘You might not survive—but again, you might. Consider it a challenge, amigo. A man needs a challenge to bring out the best in him.’”

  The hunter fell, made a feeble, aimless effort to getup again, then collapsed on the burning sand. Tuco shook his head sadly.

  “What? You are not resting already? Up, man. On your feet. We are almost there. It can’t be more than a hundred and twenty miles more. And in eight hours it will be sundown, when it gets so cold your teeth chatter and the dew falls like rain until you are drenched to the skin. Do you think you will be around to feel it, Whitey?”

  He roared with laughter, rocking in the saddle. The hunter made an herculean effort and made it to his feet He stumbled on. He endured an eternity of torment before Tuco squinted towards the sun and reined in.
...

  “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.”

- The Good, the Bad and the Ugly novel, chapter 9