Free West of Tombstone by Paul Lederer Page B

a cigar and calmly study the moon and low stars. They waited, frozen in position until finally the man carefully stubbed out his cigar butt on the side of the house, scratched himself vigorously and re-entered the adobe.
    They moved on swiftly. A black cat, startled at their approach, ran off in silence, swallowed up in seconds by the deep shadows. Voorman put a restraining hand out and gestured for Cameron to use his nose. Perplexed for a moment, Cameron suddenly understood what the Dutchman meant. The smell of old hay and fresh droppings was full in the night air. There was a horse barn or a corral somewhere nearby. Voorman crept forward in a crouch and Cameron Black followed him.
    Rounding the corner of the large building to their left they came upon a peaceful-looking scene. A pole corral made of crooked unbarked limbs rested there, and in the corral half-a-dozen horses dozed, their coats sheened by moonlight. Voorman halted and crouched lower, pointing to a tiny adobe structure with a corrugated iron roof to the right. It was just large enough for storing hay and tack.
    The Dutchman whispered, ‘If there’s a stableman around, he’ll be sleeping in the shack.’
    Cameron nodded his understanding and they crept forward. The shack’s door stood open to the summer night and they saw a bundled figure curled up on some oat sacks in one corner. He had a wide straw sombrero with a red sash tied around the crown placed over his face. Voorman glanced at Cam, his eyes dark and glittering. He made a striking motion with one hand then crept toward the sleeping stablehand’s bed. Cameron saw Voorman’s hand rise and strike down and saw the figure tense and then go limp.
    Voorman tossed the rock he had used aside and said in a low voice, ‘Pick two horses out for us and saddle them.’
    â€˜What are you going to do?’
    â€˜Bind and gag this one. He might come to and we don’t want any yelling.’
    Cameron’s heart was thudding heavily as he crept back toward the pens. Two of the horses were now awake, eyeing him warily. Before Cameron could catch the first pony by its tether and throw the saddle on its back, the Dutchman had returned wearing the sleeping man’s sombrero. ‘That sun is baking my brains,’ Voorman said, as he noticed Cameron’s eyes on the hat.
    â€˜You didn’t spend much time tying him up,’ Cameron commented in a low voice. ‘Are you sure he won’t get loose?’
    â€˜He’ll be all right,’ Voorman said, and then Cameron saw Voorman slip the long awl he had been carrying into the top of his boot. Cameron shuddered a little and got back to his rapid saddling.
    Was there a faint gray light emerging from the nightscape to the east? How long was it until dawn? Cameron had lost track of time. He hurried even faster, his fingers feeling thick as he fumbled with the cinches. One of the ponies refused to take the bit and Cameron forced it roughly, caring more for escape than the horse’s tender mouth.
    â€˜We’ve got to blow town,’ Cameron hissed as they swung aboard. Voorman shook his head.
    â€˜We get supplies. Maybe we can break into a store.’
    Cameron glanced eastward uneasily as they slowly walked their horses out of the alley. Now he was sure of it: the eastern sky was slowly lightening with false dawn. Inwardly he moaned. Nothing seemed to bother Voorman. The Dutchman’s blood was ice cold.
    They walked their horses slowly down the main street, passing a central fountain in the tiny plaza. Voorman was still looking for a store to break into. In the gaps between the buildings now, Cameron could see dull flashes of red and of crimson as the sun began to crest the horizon. It seemed as if a giant hand was squeezing his heart in a fierce grip. People, one by one, were emerging from their places of rest. Stretching, buttoning shirts, yawning as they prepared to face a new day. Voorman seemed oblivious