"David Gemmell - Stones Of Power 5 - Shannow 3 - Bloodstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

follow to the 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.