Murdoch lay flat, struggling to control his breathing.

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 Murdoch lay flat, struggling to control his breathing.  He dared not close his eyes, but knew if he did not control his anxiety, his heart would continue to race, and he would struggle to keep his breathing soft and imperceptible.   Murdoch perched on a ledge about two or three feet above than the height of a man riding a horse and with the blue moon casting its shadows everywhere, his hiding place made him invisible.   Except, if Murdoch were not able to control his breathing, he was sure the Winston gang would figure out what happened to him.  His heart wouldn’t listen, it had its own angry song it wanted to pound rhythmically into Murdoch’s soul.   

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