"David Gemmel - Sipstrassi Tales 03 - Bloodstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

Gap. But where was he going? Why did he ride out in the first place? Nestor liked the Preacher. He was
a quiet man, and throughout Nestor's youth he had treated him with kindness and understanding.
Especially when Nestor's parents had been killed that Summer ten years ago. Drowned in a flash flood.
Nestor shivered at the memory. Seven years old - and an orphan. Frey McAdam had come to him then,
the Preacher with her. He had sat at the bedside and taken Nestor's hand.
'Why did they die?' asked the bewildered child. 'Why did they leave me?'
'I guess it was their time, only they didn't know it.'
'I want to be dead too,' wailed the seven-year-old.
The Preacher had sat with him then, quietly talking about the boy's parents, of their goodness, and their
lives. Just for a while the anguish and the numbing sense of loneliness had left Nestor, and he had fallen
asleep.
Last night the Preacher had escaped out of the church, despite the flames and the bullets. And he had run
away to hide. Nestor would find him, tell him that everything was all right now and it was safe to come
home.
Then he saw the bodies, the flies buzzing around the terrible wounds. Nestor forced himself to dismount
and approach them. Sweat broke out on his face, and the desert breeze felt cold upon his skin. He
couldn't look directly at them, so he studied the ground for tracks.
One horse had headed back towards Pilgrim's Valley, then turned and walked out into the wild lands.
Nestor risked a swift, stomach-churning glance at the dead men. He knew none of them. More
importantly, none of them was the Preacher.
Remounting, he set off after the lone horseman.
*
People were moving on the main street of Pilgrim's Valley as Nestor Garrity rode in, leading the black
stallion. It was almost noon and the children were leaving the two school buildings and heading out into
the fields to eat the lunches their mothers had packed for them. The stores and the town's three
restaurants were open, and the sun was shining down from a clear sky.
But a half-mile to the north smoke still spiralled lazily into the blue. Nestor could see Beth McAdam
standing amid the blackened timbers as the undertakers moved around the debris, gathering the charred
bodies of the Wolvers. Nestor didn't relish facing Beth with the news. She had been the headmistress of
the Lower School when Nestor was a boy, and no one ever enjoyed the thought of being sent to her
study. He grinned, remembering the day he had fought with Charlie Wills. They had been dragged apart
and then taken to Mrs McAdam; she had stood in front of her desk, tapping her fingers with the
three-foot bamboo cane.
'How many should you receive, Nestor?' she had asked him.
'I didn't start the fight,' the boy replied.
That is no answer to my question.'
Nestor thought about it for a moment. 'Four,' he said.
'Why four?'
'Fighting in the yard is four strokes,' he told her. That's the rule.'
'But did you not also take a swing at Mr Carstairs when he dragged you off the hapless Charlie?'
That was a mistake,' said Nestor.
'Such mistakes are costly, boy. It shall be six for you and four for Charlie. Does that sound fair?'
'Nothing is fair when you're thirteen,' said Nestor. But he had accepted the six strokes, three on each
hand, and had made no sound.
He rode slowly towards the charred remains of the little' church, the stallion meekly following his bay
mare. Beth McAdam was standing with her hands on her ample hips, staring out towards the Wall. Her
blonde hair was braided at the back, but a part of the braid had come loose and was fluttering in the
wind at her cheek. She turned at the sound of the approaching horse and gazed up at Nestor, her face
expressionless. He dismounted and removed his hat.
'I found the raiders,' he said. They was all dead.'