West of Tombstone (8 page)

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?'

‘No,' Cam said. ‘I told you.'

‘You told it both ways,' the Dutchman reminded him.

‘I'm not Harte.'

‘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 Territory over the years, why you plain wouldn't have had the time.'

‘It was all a frame.'

‘But,' Voorman persisted, ‘the way they caught you … you must know Harte. You must have ridden with him. A part of his gang?'

‘Yes,' Cameron said. The lies he had told to stay alive came easier now.

‘I thought so. Stony didn't want anyone alive who knew where he had stashed the loot, right? And so he tried to kill you and left his gear and his horse to convince everyone that you were him.'

‘That's about it,' Cameron said quietly, and it was very close to the truth if not a perfect fit.

‘All that being so,' Voorman said with a smile, ‘I guess you've as much reason to want to find Stony Harte as anyone.'

There was no denying that! Voorman nodded, satisfied with his own deductions and he started the weary bay horse on again, Cameron following after.

They had ridden no more than an hour when Voorman reined in again and lifted a joyous pointing finger. ‘Look, I told you! I know what I see.'

Cameron's eyes followed the indicated direction and now he could see that in the distance was indeed a collection of buildings, small as dice at this distance, and in several windows lights no brighter than sparks shined.

‘I said there was a pueblo ahead,' Voorman said, still enjoying his small triumph. He wiped his perspiring forehead with his sleeve and added, ‘Let's get on down there while it's still full dark. If we can avoid dogs we might be able to do ourselves some good.'

Cameron did not like the skulking feeling that come over him as they walked their weary ponies through the night toward the tiny pueblo with its scattering of adobe brick buildings. There were no sounds but once a large dog barked, deep in its throat, far across the town. A voice shouted it to silence and the two escaped prisoners rode on warily.

Voorman whispered to Cameron. ‘We'll leave the ponies here, behind that tumbledown shack. It's easier to do this kind of work afoot.'

Cameron nodded and swung down, leading both horses behind an adobe-walled building with a caved-in brush roof. One of the walls had come apart as well and a few bricks were scattered across the yard.

Voorman's eyes were still on him; he could feel their gaze in the night, or believed he could.

Cameron was tempted briefly to make his try then and there, but where could he go but back out onto the desert, and the horses were unfit for further riding? He returned to where Voorman waited and the two burglars slipped off through the night to see what they could accomplish.

SIX

They had discussed what they meant to do once they reached the dark pueblo, but so much depended on chance. The first item of business was to find other clothing. Being seen in their prison rags would be cause for them to be captured and held for a possible reward – if they weren't shot outright by irate townspeople.

Their stealth was remarkable. Moving on their toes among the houses, their long shadows cast by the moon preceding them, they came upon a clothes-line. Cameron kept his eyes on the rear window of the squat house beside it as Voorman collected what he could. They had to find a second line and loot it before they had two ill-fitting white peon outfits. The spare clothes they stashed in a dry rain barrel. There would be some unhappy laundresses in the village come morning.

Next, of course, came fresh horses. These would be more difficult to come by. Horses are generally watched more closely than laundry. They inched between buildings where the darkness was total. When they had to pass an alley the moonlight was startling in its brilliance. Not knowing the layout of the pueblo, they were at a great disadvantage. Once right in their path a front door opened to a small adobe and a big man in a nightshirt stepped outside to light 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.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘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.

‘You didn't spend much time tying him up,' Cameron commented in a low voice. ‘Are you sure he won't get loose?'

‘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.

‘We've got to blow town,' Cameron hissed as they swung aboard. Voorman shook his head.

‘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 to all of it.

Without gesture or word he turned his stolen horse up an alleyway cluttered with rubble and Cameron, glancing at the front of the building saw that Voorman had found his store. They rounded the building with the full glare of brilliant sunrise in their eyes. Voorman swung down without hesitation and approached the rear door of the store. In a moment he had shouldered through.

Cameron swung down to join him, but Voorman met him at the doorway with two canteens.

‘Get back to that fountain – you saw it? – fill these and be quick about it.'

Cameron nodded and started that way, keeping now to the backs of the buildings and off the main street. A rooster crowed and was answered by another. A two-year-old child wearing only a shirt stared at Cameron with wide brown eyes as he passed, skirting a tiny corn patch.

Reaching the fountain, Cameron found that he wouldn't be alone for long. Two women both thickly built, one with a basket full of laundry balanced on her head, were approaching leisurely, gossiping the morning away. Cameron let the stolen horse wander away a little from him and strode to the fountain, immersing the canteens. His heart still raced. There would be no mercy for them if they were caught in the pueblo on stolen horses. A yellow dog sniffed at his pant leg and then sat down to bathe indifferently.

Cameron hefted the canteens and corked them just as the women arrived, placing the laundry basket on the ground. He had turned his back to them and started away when the cry went up. His heart froze, he began to stride rapidly toward his horse, fear propelling him. But it wasn't him that the cry had gone up against.

Glancing up the street he could see three or four men, at least one of them with a machete, following a woman in a black skirt and red, collarless blouse toward the back of the store Voorman had entered. Her words were shrill but indistinct. She hoisted her skirt with one hand and pointed with the other. He made out the words
sombrero … rojo
, and knew the game was up. The woman had spotted Voorman and seen the sombrero with the distinctive red scarf, perhaps a woman's favor, used for a hat band.

Other men joined the pursuit. At the uproar, every doorway and window filled with curious brown faces. Cameron dropped the canteens out of sight and abandoned the horse. He dared not try to ride it out of town now. It, too, was probably a known inhabitant of the pueblo. He started slowly toward the store, deciding that to hurry in the opposite direction would only draw attention to him. He joined the crowd, hanging on the fringe of it, just another curious villager. Men stood on a wooden boardwalk in front of the cantina, watching speculatively. These were not Mexicans, but Americanos. Tall men wearing belted guns and high Texas boots.

And among them was a man with a wildly deformed nose, cruel eyes and misshapen jaw.
Willie Durant!
This member of Stony Harte's gang had a face that could not be mistaken. There he stood, thumbs hooked into his belt, a crooked, clumsily rolled cigarette dangling from his battered lips. Cameron turned his face and walked on more quickly. He could hear the voices of the men standing in front of the saloon.

‘What's up, Willie?' someone asked. ‘I don't understand that lingo.'

‘Somebody killed the old lady's husband over to the stables. She found him when she brought breakfast to him. Says she saw some stranger by the store wearing her man's hat.'

‘Well, that just wasn't real smart of him, was it?' the other man laughed.

‘They'll chop him to bits for sure,' Willie answered. ‘I seen 'em work with those machetes before.'

The conversation continued but Cameron could make out no more of it. He went on, jostled now and then by someone rushing to the scene. He slowed to a walk, looked for escape and shunted into a narrow alley where he halted. Doubled over he braced himself with one hand against the adobe wall, trying to catch his breath and quiet his heartbeat.

They had caught Voorman and justice would be swift. Cameron was out of luck. Alone again in a strange land. Maybe, he thought, the other nags were where they had left them – behind the tumbledown shack on the outskirts of the pueblo. What use were they? Those old plugs had broken down long back and he still faced travel on the desert without food or water.

He was trapped and beaten for sure. His every instinct was simply to flee and let Fate take its course. Let him die on the desert. That seemed to be what was intended for him one way or the other. But slowly as his breathing stilled and his heart rate dropped to something near normal, he began to feel a different sort of emotion wash over him in surging waves. Hatred. A cold hatred. He had been doomed by one man: the man who had pretended to be his friend.

Stony Harte.

If Willie was here, in this tiny pueblo, could Stony be far away?

He could still hear the crowd's uproar and he closed his eyes tightly for a moment, not wanting to think what those men with the machetes were doing to the Dutchman. Cameron had come to despise Voorman and knew him for a murderer, but he wouldn't wish that on any man.

His thoughts clearing, his breath regained, he began to think of survival. Two horses missing from the stable. One saddled, apparently ownerless, pony near the plaza's fountain. It wouldn't take the villagers long to realize that there was another intruder among them and that he was probably afoot. Cameron started toward the shanty where they had left their own weary mounts. The roan couldn't be pushed far or fast, but it surely had five more miles in it. Enough to get him clear of the pueblo precinct.

The sun was rising higher, growing white and hot across the vast desert as Cameron hurried on. He rounded the broken-down hovel with his breath coming in panting gasps – like those of the horned toad he had seen.