Valley of Fire Read Online Free PDF

the air in my lungs when that bullet practically made my presence in a coffin fitting.
    A horse whinnied. Another answered.
    Horses?
    Bullets sang out. The train seemed to be picking up speed.
    â€œPush up!” I yelled at the nun.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPut your back against this lid.” Just talking filled my mouth with the stench of dead rats.
    She understood. She worked her hands between my arms and pressed against the bottom of the coffin. I lifted my arms on either side of her body, pushing the lid.
    I pushed harder. Her body strained. She drooled on my chin. The rats smelled deader. Harder we pushed. Straining. Hell, there was only four screws in that thing.
    The lid came flying off. The nun rose, and toppled over the side, crying out in pain. I sucked in air that didn’t stink of rats, sat up, reached for where I knew that Winchester should have been.
    It disappeared.
    The train lurched. So did I. The flour sack emptied its contents. I forgot all about the shell belt and the Winchester that was gone. I grabbed my hat, and flung myself out of the coffin, landing on straw, and something else.
    I cussed.
    â€œThat’s what it is,” Fenn called out in the darkness.
    I began peeling the fresh horse droppings off the palm of my hands.
    It occurred to me that no guns was shooting. I looked toward the sound of Sean Fenn’s voice, waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the new darkness.
    A match flared, and I caught Fenn’s face, then followed the light. It grew brighter. Then, glorious light.
    Fenn had fired up a lantern.
    By that time, the train was moving at a lively clip.
    I glanced around. Sister Geneviève was on her knees, shaking her head, then locating Fenn. She came to her feet in an instant, but didn’t cross herself, didn’t pray, didn’t do one thing but make a beeline for Sean Fenn and slam a fist into his jaw.
    â€™Twas a sight that made a pagan like me proud.
    Sean Fenn had four inches and thirty pounds on me. He was a big gent, tougher than a cob, but the nun’s fist had sent him backward. Unfortunately, he didn’t fall out of the boxcar.
    â€œRats!” Sister Geneviève sounded more like a fire-and-brimstone Baptist than a nun from the order of the Sisters of Charity. “Rats were not part of the plan!” She lowered her hand and began massaging the scraped knuckles.
    Fenn laughed and touched his jaw, turned to me and shrugged.
    The nun went about straightening her habit, her hood, then reaching inside the coffin. For a moment, I thought she was after the dead rats, but she pulled out the shell belt, and tossed it to Fenn, who was lighting a cigar from the lantern’s globe.
    Behind me, I heard hoofs scraping the floor, and turned, finding two bay geldings. Off to the other side, I spied a burro, two goats, and a crate full of chickens.
    A rooster crowed.
    Figuring my palm was as clean as I’d get it, I picked up a handful of hay, rubbed my hands in it, then brought the straws up to my nose . . . just to breathe something other than dead rats. I turned my head and spit, then dropped the hay, and faced Fenn.
    He held the Winchester. He was a fast one.
    A grunt caught my attention. Turning, I seen Sister Geneviève on her knees, hands pressed against the foot of the coffin. Stupid, I know, but my first thought was Is she really praying over those rats?
    Then the coffin moved. She was pushing it.
    I stepped out of the way.
    She give me a cold look. “Would you mind helping me?”
    â€œHelping you do what?”
    She didn’t answer, just stared into the coffin, and pushed again. At which time, it struck me. I walked to the front, grabbed the box, pulled it to the open door where the wind blew hard and the air smelled of piñon. I stepped to the side, grabbed the pine again, and me and the nun pushed that box full of dead rats out of the car, and into the night.
    Sean Fenn never lifted a hand to help. He did withdraw his