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“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 building a campfire? The dry washes are full of fuel.”
“There’s nothing like splitting your own wood,” Hackberry said, rising to his feet, the room tilting sideways. “Oh, Lordy, I’m getting too old for this.”
THE PRIEST PUT him in the back of a wagon full of corncobs and drove him up the trail to a shack in the hills where a goatherd lived. Hackberry retrieved his horse in back and thanked the priest and the goatherd and tried to give them money, which they refused.
“It will be dark in two or three hours,” the priest said. “If I were you, I’d leave now, while Miguel and his friends are in the cantina, and not rest until sunrise.”
“That’s good advice,” Hackberry said.
“Why is it that you look away from me when you speak?”
“Because I didn’t tell you the entire truth about something. I said I didn’t loot churches. I have some artifacts in my saddlebags that may have come from one.”
“What do you plan to do with them?”
“I haven’t thought about it. Sell them, maybe.”
“They’re not yours.”
“They’re not anybody else’s, either.”
“I hope you have a good life, Mr. Holland.”
“Your second meaning isn’t lost on me. I’ve asked the Man Upstairs for he’p in finding my son, but all I hear is silence. Maybe it’s different for you.”
“Not entirely.”
“I’ll have to study on that one,” Hackberry said.
For the first time since they met, the priest smiled.
