Free West of Tombstone by Paul Lederer

Voorman’s plan, but there had been no choice. To join Voorman would incur Hogan’s wrath, but to refuse the Dutchman would raise the suspicions of both of them as to where his loyalties lay.
    The die was now cast for the attempt anyway. Cameron rested on his back, squirming from time to time as the rocks prodded him. He had one hand behind his head and, as he lay there in the silence, the dark near shadow of a great horned owl cast its sudden broad-winged silhouette against the rising half moon and it sent a little tremor down his spine.
    Had he believed in omens as ancient men had.… He needed no omen to tell him that this night could come to no good end.
    Voorman touched his shoulder and beckoned and Cameron rose to his knees. Silently then they inched to where Hogan lay curled up on his side. The men moved slowly and silently, on hands and knees across the cold camp. Hogan groaned in his sleep and rolled over toward them. His eyes opened slightly, and Cameron could see the white glow in the mask of the mustached man’s dark face.
    Cameron saw Voorman leap forward and he tried to hold him, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Hogan threw up protective arms but the heavy stone in the Dutchman’s hand was already arcing down. It struck Hogan solidly on the skull and Hogan sagged back lifelessly.
    Voorman turned and sat on the ground, grinning.
    â€˜Don’t look like that, Stony. You know he would have made you lead him to the loot and then he would have watched as you dug your own grave.’ He rose heavily with a grunt of effort. ‘I told you I’d be your right hand.’ He nodded at the inert form of Hogan as if that were proof of his statement. ‘Now let’s find that gun.’
    About that, Voorman proved to be correct. The gun was not hidden away in the saddle-bags of Hogan’s horse, however. They found it strapped to his leg just above the ankle. Voorman opened the cylinder gate, satisfied himself that the revolver was fully loaded and nodded.
    â€˜We’re half again as well off,’ he said, tucking the pistol behind his belt. ‘Two horses, two men – and no one we have to watch behind our backs.’
    Cameron nodded. His stomach was cramped with revulsion. He liked none of this, had not from the start. At the first possibility, he was going to make an attempt to escape.
    Voorman was standing, hands on his hips, looking again toward the south where he thought he had seen lights earlier. He glanced up at the bright half-moon, still and silver hanging above them and told Cameron, ‘We might as well be traveling. I think there’s plenty of moonlight. Besides,’ he said disparagingly, ‘I’ve had enough of him to last me.’
    So had Cameron. He kept his eyes averted from the formless figure sprawled against the ground as he saddled and mounted up, riding the roan once again. The horse allowed his weight as if with utmost sadness, but with stolid resignation. They rode slowly southward. The terrain rolled gently, but the multitude of rocks strewn across the barren hills made for slow going. There were a few flowering yuccas around and now and then a patch of evil-looking cholla, ‘jumping cactus’, their barbed spines silver in the moonlight.
    Cameron still could see no lights on the far horizon hours later when Voorman suddenly drew up and, holding the bay’s reins loosely between two fingers enquired with some irritation, ‘You ain’t really Stony Harte, are you?’
    â€˜No,’ Cam said. ‘I told you.’
    â€˜You told it both ways,’ the Dutchman reminded him.
    â€˜I’m not Harte.’
    â€˜I didn’t think so. And then, back there,’ he said inclining his head, ‘it was pretty obvious that you don’t know this desert as well as Stony Harte is supposed to. Also,’ Voorman went on, ‘you’re too young to be Harte. As much hell as he has raised in the