West of Tombstone Read Online Free PDF Page B

of Yuma. Well?’ he demanded, but all Cameron Black could do was sit there and slowly, heavily wag his head.
    Pocomo had returned from the river and he approached them now, shrugging. ‘No good sign. They all split apart. Maybe could catch sight four, five hours.’
    â€˜They’ve already got at least a twelve-hour lead on us,’ Yount said, looking into the distance, ‘and they have fresh ponies. We’ll have to give it up, Pocomo.’
    â€˜I think so too, Sheriff.’
    â€˜But we’ve got him ,’ Yount said, nudging Cameron with his boot toe. ‘And he’ll remember after he has had his taste of Yuma prison.’ The bulky lawman leaned lower, his broad shadow again covering Cameron’s eyes so that he could see Yount’s brutal leer. ‘They say crime doesn’t pay, don’t they, Harte? Your friends just wanted to dust you off for your cut. Me,’ he laughed, ‘I’m going to help you. I’m going to put you in a nice safe place where no one but me can hurt you!’
    He turned to Pocomo and said, ‘Get him up onto that gray mare of his and tie his boots to the stirrups. It’s going to be a long, hot ride to Yuma, boys.’
    The ride was an eternity of pain beneath a blistering sun. Cameron could not sit his saddle well and they offered him water only infrequently although Yount seemed to get enjoyment out of drinking it in front of him. Sand passed under Dolly’s hoofs, only sand and rock, white sand, black sand; red rock and white glittering quartz rocks. It was a forever ride across the demon desert which didn’t end until he found himself thrown, half-conscious, into some underground bunker in Yuma prison.
    Cameron had no memory of reaching Yuma, of being passed through the gates, of being manacled and sewn up roughly by a surgeon with hands like a tailor. The montage flitted past, out of sequence, smothered by the constant pain in his head. He slept, if it could be called that, on a broad board hung on chains from the side of the prison cell’s wall. It was hot, so hot he could no longer stay in his semi-conscious world and awoke with parched lips, swollen tongue, bathed in his own sweat which the dry air quickly evaporated.
    Then again it would be dark, so dark and cold that, uncovered by a blanket, he wrapped himself tightly in his arms and drew up his knees wishing for death.
    The warden entered his cell after peering in through the iron-barred window cut into the heavy oaken door on what they told him was his third day in Yuma prison. A jailer with his huge ring of keys stood by silently as the little man, cheerful and neatly dressed, stood next to Cameron’s bunk.
    â€˜So,’ the warden said, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his vest, ‘Richard Lovelace was wrong, wasn’t he?’
    Cameron stared dumbly at the eager little man in the dark suit.
    â€˜Stone walls do a prison make,’ the man said, smiling. Apparently he was amusing himself at Cameron’s expense, so Cam made no reply.
    â€˜Sit up, Mr Harte,’ the warden said with an inviting gesture.
    Cameron didn’t bother to deny the name the warden called him by. He struggled to sit up on the plank bed, each movement causing pain to hammer in his skull. He found that his legs were in irons but his hands were free.
    He had a vague memory of a great flabby, shirtless blacksmith driving the pins into the irons while his furnace sparked and smoked. Cam touched his head and found it swathed in bandages. Then he lifted his eyes to the warden.
    â€˜I’m John Traylor, warden here. I wanted to see you, Mr Harte.’
    â€˜What is it?’ Cam wanted to know.
    â€˜I like to pay all of my new wards a visit,’ the man said, ‘just so they know how things work here.’
    â€˜How do they work?’ Cameron asked, burying his face in his palms. ‘I haven’t even been tried or sentenced yet, you