(no subject)
Sad Hill Cemetary is found in a vast bowl-shaped recess in the earth; it's a stupid name. Graves ring out in huge concentric circles, tombstones and rickety wooden crosses. No matter how you slice it, it's a lot of wormfood. Somewhere in there, though, is two hundred thousand dollars in Confederate gold, and it's amazing how many corpses this particular man would go through to get his hands on that much money.
From a distant ridge the man they call Angel Eyes sits alone on a black horse. There were men, once, who followed him, and a uniform; they're dead now, and he's dressed in a manner more befitting himself. It's good to be free of the trappings. The dusty leather coat of the bounty killer fits a lot easier than Union blues.
He's patient. And he's smiling. He smiles a lot, and today is a good day, because Idiot No. 1 is going to take him right to the money. It's always nice to let fools do the heavy lifting, and now Tuco Ramirez is running and stumbling through the bowl, trying to read every marker, every name, looking for the right one.
So Idiot No. 2 told him. Angel Eyes had thought better of the man.
Ramirez finds the grave, and begins to dig with his hands. Time to move?
No. Not until No. 2 makes his appearance--aha!
His smile--the grimy, wedge-shaped smile of a demon--spreads. He nudges his horse forward, and draws the rifle from the holster slung along the saddle.
From a distant ridge the man they call Angel Eyes sits alone on a black horse. There were men, once, who followed him, and a uniform; they're dead now, and he's dressed in a manner more befitting himself. It's good to be free of the trappings. The dusty leather coat of the bounty killer fits a lot easier than Union blues.
He's patient. And he's smiling. He smiles a lot, and today is a good day, because Idiot No. 1 is going to take him right to the money. It's always nice to let fools do the heavy lifting, and now Tuco Ramirez is running and stumbling through the bowl, trying to read every marker, every name, looking for the right one.
So Idiot No. 2 told him. Angel Eyes had thought better of the man.
Ramirez finds the grave, and begins to dig with his hands. Time to move?
No. Not until No. 2 makes his appearance--aha!
His smile--the grimy, wedge-shaped smile of a demon--spreads. He nudges his horse forward, and draws the rifle from the holster slung along the saddle.