He didn’t look back. There wasn’t any reason.
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Behind the jail there was a small, stone storehouse. Still secure and strong after the years of emptiness. In it, tied with brutal efficiency, a lump of cotton waste gagging her feeble cries, lay a girl.
She had heard the shooting. The yells and screams. The silence. The noise of digging. And the hollow sound of someone’s feet fading from the ghost town.
Susannah Jackson was left alone.
It was very dark.
Dark.
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Death School (Herne the Hunter Western Book 14) Page 12
