AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“¿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 may be 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.
