House of the Rising Sun: A Novel (56 page)

They walked up a sandy trail bordered by cactus that bloomed with yellow and red flowers, and entered a grove of cottonwoods swelling with wind, and continued on to a village that had no name and whose indigenous people knew nothing of the outside world or the one from which they had probably descended.

The dirt streets had not changed, nor the lay of the mud buildings or the jail or the cantina or the outbuildings constructed of discarded slat board. The only differences Hackberry could see in the village since his visit in 1916 were the increase in bullet holes and the expansion of the cemetery, whose sticklike crosses stretched up a hillside.

Hackberry was wearing a powder-blue coat and a new Stetson and shined boots and dark trousers and a snap-button shirt that crinkled with light. He was not carrying a firearm, only a drawstring bag he had thrown over his shoulder. An old man in sandals and baggy pants tied with rope was sweeping off the line of flat stones that served as a walkway into the mud-walled church where Hackberry had awakened and been fed and cared for and armed with a hatchet three years ago.

“
¿Dónde está el sacerdote?
” Hackberry asked.

“
¿Qué sacerdote?
”

“
Es
Maryknoll.”

The man stopped sweeping. His eyes were blue and rheumy, his cheeks covered with white whiskers. “
Con los muertos.
”

“
¿Está muerto?
”

The man with the broom pointed at the cemetery on the hillside. “
No, él está limpiando las tumbas.
”

Hackberry put his arm over Ruby’s shoulders and walked up the incline behind the church. The Maryknoll missionary cleaning the graves looked up from his work, the sun in his eyes, obviously unable to see the two figures approaching him.

“Remember me?” Hackberry said.

The missionary shaded his eyes. “Mr. Holland, the Texas Ranger.”

“This is my wife, Miss Ruby.”

“How do you do, Father? I’m a great admirer of the Maryknolls,” she said. “One big union.”

He didn’t seem to make the association.

“Who shot up the place?” Hackberry asked.

“Everyone.”

“We won’t take up your time, Padre,” Hackberry said. “I brought you something I didn’t quite know what to do with.”

He swung the tote bag off his shoulder and handed it to the missionary. The weight of the object inside made a hard rectangular outline against the cloth.

“What is it?”

“Good question. I suspect it may have wandered two thousand years to arrive here. Or maybe not. I’ve yet to depuzzle it.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. If I remember correctly, you suffered a serious head injury. Are you all right, sir?”

“You gave me a hatchet I told you I was going to split wood with. I’m afraid I used it for other purposes. That’s bothered me a little bit.”

“Mr. Holland, what is in this bag?”

“The most evil man I ever met tried to get holt of it and hide it from the rest of the human race. For that reason alone, I think it’s probably the real deal. I saw a mess of children playing out in the street. I think the man who drank from this cup would like to see it here.”

Hackberry tipped his hat, and he and Ruby said good-bye and walked to their vehicle and drove away, the dust billowing in yellow clouds across the sun, filling the sky with the threat of a storm or monsoon that would bring new life to the land, reminiscent of the time when he was fifteen and flying hell-for-breakfast across the Cimarron, Indian arrows embedded up to the shaft in the leather mail pouches slung on his back.

I would like to thank my editor, Sarah Knight, and my copy editor, E. Beth Thomas, and my daughter, Pamala Burke, for their invaluable help on this manuscript. I would also like to express my appreciation to my publishers, Carolyn Reidy and Jonathan Karp, and my publisher at Pocket Books, Louise Burke, and my editor at Pocket, Abby Zidle, and the art director, Jackie Seow, and the production editor at Simon & Schuster, Kathleen Rizzo, and all the production and marketing and publicity team for the loyal support they have given my work over the many years.

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Born in Houston, Texas, in 1936, James Lee Burke grew up on the Texas-Louisiana Gulf Coast. He attended Southwestern Louisiana Institute and later received a BA and an MA in English from the University of Missouri in 1958 and 1960, respectively. Over the years, he worked as a landman for the Sinclair Oil Company, pipe liner, land surveyor, newspaper reporter, college English professor, social worker on skid row in Los Angeles, clerk for the Louisiana Employment Service, and instructor in the U.S. Job Corps. He and his wife, Pearl, met in graduate school and have been married fifty-five years; they have four children.