House of the Rising Sun: A Novel by James Lee Burke Page A

so his fingers hung down on his fly. “It will improve your humility, your spiritual vision.”
    “I’ve got some money. I’ve got a couple of artifacts from a church. I’ve got a rare pistol in my saddlebags. I would like to make a present of them.”
    “You have been looting churches? You have been a very bad gringo. It’s time you show humility. What you will do down there will take less than a minute or two. Then everything will be as before. You can take the crazy one out in the hills and the people will call you a saint.”
    The soldier was smiling, the forked white scar at the corner of his eye as tiny and thin as a snake’s tongue. He began to unbutton his fly.
    “You don’t want me as an enemy,” Hackberry said.
    “You are very vain. It is too bad for your friend the crazy man.” Without taking his eyes off Hackberry, the soldier shouted, “ ¡Fuego! ”
    The rifles fired in unison just as the soldier butt-stroked Hackberry with the Mauser, knocking him into the dirt. Then he raised the butt and drove it into Hackberry’s head. In his mind’s eye, Hackberry saw his horse bolting down the street, stirrups flying, the saddlebags flopping on its rump. A mariachi band began playing in front of the cantina, and a bottle rocket popped high overhead. The festival had resumed.
    H ACKBERRY WOKE ON a wood pallet in a dank dirt-floor room that smelled of moldy hay and water that had seeped through the walls and candles that were burning in an adjacent room. The priest who had tried to intercede on behalf of the prisoners was sitting on a chair by the pallet. He removed a damp rag from Hackberry’s forehead. “We caught your horse for you, up the trail in the hills,” the priest said.
    “You’re American?”
    “I’m a Maryknoll missionary. You have to leave.”
    “Where’s my rifle?”
    “The soldier who struck you took it. His name is Miguel Ordoñez. He’s drunk and in the cantina now. Don’t let him get his hands on you again.”
    The priest couldn’t have been over twenty-five. His face was lean and unshaved, his hair over his collar, his breath heavy with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes.
    “What about my saddlebags?”
    “They’re with your horse. No one has opened them. Miguel has told the villagers you robbed a church. Is that true?”
    “No, sir. I’m a Texas Ranger.”
    “If Ordoñez finds that out, he’ll shoot you for fun.”
    When Hackberry sat up, he thought his head would fall in his lap. “Maybe he ought to be afraid of me .”
    “He isn’t. This is Mexico. You’re an outlaw and he’s the government.”
    “I’ve been rode hard and put away wet, Padre. Cain’t I hide here’bouts for a while?”
    “Believe it or not, I’d like to stay alive. So would my friend who hid your horse.”
    “I had that one coming, didn’t I?”
    The priest made a noncommittal expression.
    “On another subject, I’ve been looking for my son,” Hackberry said. “He’s a captain in command of colored cavalry. His name is Ishmael Holland. Has some nigra cavalry been through here?”
    “I don’t know. You use the term ‘nigra’?”
    “It’s a pronunciation. Yes, ‘nigra.’ It’s not like they wouldn’t stand out. Have you seen any?”
    “Aside from your bad sense of humor, you obviously don’t understand our situation. When Americans come into a village and the villagers feed them, the villagers pay for it. The government thinks all Americans are adventurers working for Villa. The price for the villagers is very high. In the United States, you don’t hear about these things. That makes it convenient for you but not for us.”
    “Can you give me some food to take with me?”
    “Of course. But you must go. We can’t bargain on that point.”
    “And a big canteen? I’ll pay you for it.”
    “I have a goatskin wine bag. Anything else you need?”
    “I didn’t mean to provoke you, Padre.”
    “I asked what else you needed.”
    “I could use a hatchet.”
    “For