Nunslinger 6

by Stark Holborn

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

The True Tale of how Sister Thomas Josephine of St. Louis, Missouri came to Fight alongside Rebel Forces and deliver a Death Sentence in the deserts of New Mexico. Pitted against a powerful enemy, Sister Thomas Josephine finds herself reunited with an old ally. The only problem? They're fighting for different sides.

Release date: March 13, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 80

Sample

CHAPTER EIGHT

And poverty shall come as a runner, and beggary as an armed man

 

It took us three days to reach the ranch. By the time we saw the thin line of smoke fading into the sky, we had become accustomed to each other, and so I did not hesitate to follow when Owl slid from the horse in order to slip closer under the cover of greasewood bushes.

I had quickly learned that it was unwise to mention the crimes that stained both of our hands, unless I was prepared to withstand hours of strained silence and biting remarks about my own transgressions. Instead, we shared the sound of the desert, the flurries of life against the sandy ground, the high, mournful circles of buzzards. As my arm lost its stiffness, I taught her how to hunt jackrabbits with the pistols, the way Abe had taught me. She in turn showed me how to catch food with nothing but a blade, and laughed at my disgust the first time I tried to skin a snake.

I did speak of my adventures, sometimes, when the fire burned low at night. Owl listened, sitting so still that I almost forgot she was there. Once, I told of our escape from the steamer, described Abe rolling Templeton up as if he were a pudding. The laugh that burst from her was so unexpected that for a moment I only stared, before my own mirth broke over me. Too soon though, I remembered that my old friend was no longer with me. Then, I lay and watched the heavens turn, drowning myself in their remoteness.

Now, the woman next to me snorted in annoyance, eyes narrowed to peer at the lonely ranch.

‘I see no one,’ she murmured, ‘only a hound, but there is smoke.’

‘We shall have to get closer.’ I said.

‘They will see us.’

‘And what if they do? They will not shoot women, out of the blue,’ I whispered. ‘Take off your hat.’

She scowled but obeyed, cramming it under her arm as we strode out of the scrubland and towards the wooden structure. We had not travelled more than twenty paces before the door flew open and an old man stumped out, an ancient rifle in his hands. I began to call a greeting only for a bullet to whistle past my head.

‘”They will not shoot at women,”’ Owl mimicked, ducking low. There was nowhere to run or hide, no cover from the onslaught.

‘Perhaps he cannot see properly,’ I shouted.

The dirt exploded several inches from my boot.

‘We must run, come back when it is dark.’ Owl was saying, but before she could finish I was pushing her aside, commending myself to the Lord as I hid a pistol in my sleeve and fumbled for the rosary at my neck. She yelled for me to come back, but I ran into the open, hands raised.

‘Stop!’ I cried, expecting every moment to feel a bullet smash into my ribs. ‘We wish you no harm, in the name of the Lord!’

An empty shell clattered to the wooden porch as the echo of gunfire faded away. The man peered at me, mouth open, as though I were some strange creature that had wandered into his yard. His hair was more yellow than white, frayed by the sun and the wind. His eyes were clouded with rheum; otherwise his aim might have been true.

‘What in the name of damnation,’ he whistled around a brace of teeth. ‘Is that a goddamn nun?’

I felt the heat rise to my face, tried to keep my voice steady as I approached, hands crossed into my sle. . .