Ignoring the tangled corpse, the eyes of which had been plucked from its blackened head by the birds which circled squawking overhead, John Wesley Hardin strode into the little church. As he paused for a moment in the doorway, letting the coolness settle over him, he took in the bare wooden pews, the simplicity of the decorations, and the half-open door of the vestry no more than twenty feet from where he stood. Easing out his Colt, he moved down the narrow central aisle, senses alert and, on reaching the entrance to the vestry, nudged the door open with the barrel of his g*n. The hinges squealed. Half expecting the priest to emerge, armed and ready, Hardin c****d the Colt, preparing to shoot.
The silence lay heavy all around, mingling with the cool air to bring an enormous sense of peace
