Sally Skull, R.I.P.
Some mourned her passing, and some were happy as hell she’d died
(I’ve taken the following excerpt from a novella in my collection On the Wrong Side of the Law, published in July 2024 by Two Gun Publishing.)
On a gloomy, drizzly afternoon in Banquete, Texas, in 1867, the Reverend Stanley Holloway led a group of men, women, and children through weeds and piles of dead leaves, past barren trees and crumbling headstones, and toward an open grave, beside which several shovels lay on the ground.
He stopped at the grave, and the group stopped with him.
Merlie Grossman scratched his unshaven chin and looked at the dark clouds. He blinked, rubbed the drizzle from his blood-shot eyes, and smiled. He leaned toward Sheriff Theodore McAlister, who stood beside him.
“Good day for a funeral,” Merlie said.
The sheriff looked at him.
“Ain’t it?” Merlie asked and smiled again.
The sheriff shrugged, then looked at the sunbonnet he held.
The Reverend Holloway looked at the grave and cleared his throat.
“Our sister is dead,” he said.
“Amen!” Merlie proclaimed.
