High Noon Yorick for Yorick

Father Yorick can still feel the whisper of his lost love's stifled breath against his neck. He can't forget the blood on her veil, nor the shot that stole her away, ringing in the vault of the church. But fleeing into the heatsick West ain't enough to outrun her ghost. He shoulders her coffin and ambles onward, warm revolvers dancing in his nightmares.