House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

“What did they do? They cried like children. What you think, man? What would you do?”

“Probably the same. Tell you what. I cain’t pay for food, but I’ll chop wood for it. I’d like to feed my horse, too. Then I’d like to be on my way and forget anything I saw here.”

The Mexican officer took a toothpick from his shirt pocket and put it in his mouth. His hair was black and thick and shiny and bunched out from under his hat. “Some Texas Rangers attacked one of our trains and killed a lot of our people. You heard about that?”

Hackberry glanced up at the clouds that were roiling like smoke. He rubbed the back of his neck as though he had a crick in it, his pale blue eyes empty. “What would provoke them to do such a thing?”

“I’d tell you to ask them. But they’re all dead. Except one. He got away. A tall man. Like you.”

“I still cain’t figure why you hung those colored soldiers. Y’all don’t let them use your cathouses?”

“You ever seen dead people tied on car fenders? Tied on like deer full of holes? Americans did that in the village I come from. I saw it, gringo.” The Mexican soldier drew down the skin below his right eye to emphasize the authenticity of his statement.

“Never heard of that one.”

“You’re a tall gringo, even without boots. If we hang you up, you’re gonna barely touch the ground. You’re gonna take a long time dying.”

“I guess that’s my bad luck. Before you do that to me, maybe you can he’p me out on something. Those soldiers back there were members of the Tenth or Eleventh Cavalry. There’s a white captain with the Tenth I’ve been looking for. You seen a young captain, not quite as tall as me, but with the same features?”

The Mexican removed the toothpick from his mouth and shook it playfully at Hackberry. “You’re lots of fun, man. But now we’re going inside and meet General Lupa. Don’t talk shit to him. This is one guy you never talk shit to, you hear me?”

“You’re saying he’s not quite mature, even though he’s a general in your army?”

“That’s one way to put it, if you want to get your head blown off. The Texas Rangers I was talking about? They killed his son when they attacked the train.”

THE WALLS OF the parlor were paneled with blue and magenta velvet dulled by either age or dust. The curtains were a gauzy white and embroidered on the edges, swirling and puffing with the wind, as though the decorator had wanted to create a sense of airiness and purity the house would never possess. There was a fringed rug on the floor and, in the corner, a pump organ. The settees had red cushions; old photos of nudes with Victorian proportions were framed in convex glass on the walls. Above the mantel, also encased in convex glass, was a painting of a pink and orange sunrise, with cherubs sitting on the sun’s rays. A wide hallway with a series of doors led through the back, like in the shotgun houses of southern Louisiana.

Two girls in shifts who looked like Indians sat in a corner, their legs close together, their eyes lowered, their hands folded on their knees. A middle-aged woman was standing behind a small bar cluttered with beer bottles. She wore a dark blue brocade dress with a ruffled white collar. Her eyes were recessed, almost luminous, unblinking. Behind her, on a table stacked with records in paper covers, was a windup gramophone with a fluted horn that had a crimson-mouthed, heavy-breasted mermaid painted inside it.

Hackberry’s attention was focused on a huge man sitting in an armchair, one leg stretched out in front of him, a blood-soaked dressing showing through a rent in his khaki trousers. He wore a billed cap with a polished black brim, like his junior officer, except it was canted on his head. He held an uncorked bottle of mescal on his thigh. When he picked it up to drink, the thick white worm that was the measure of the mescal’s potency drifted up from the sediment. The general’s mouth was wet and glistening when he perched the bottle on his thigh again. The coat that covered his sloping girth was stiff with table droppings and spilled liquids. The general sniffed. “You must have been far from water a long time, señor,” he said.

“If you’ve got a tub, I’ll take advantage of it.”

“You’re a prospector, you say?”

“I was till some Yaquis jumped me.”

“Do you know what our government has done to the Yaquis?”

“I’m not up on that.”

“You never heard of the one hundred and fifty who were burned in a church? The Indians are a long-suffering people.”

“Maybe that’s why they were in such a bad mood.”

“You do not have the eyes of a prospector. You have the eyes of a gunman. Your eyes do not match the rest of your face.”

“I was prospecting south of Mexico City in 1909. I prospected in the Yucatán and Chile. I’ve done other things as well, none of them dishonest. I’d surely like something to eat.”

“Yes, I think you should eat and build up your strength.”

“I’d like some feed for my horse, too.”

The general wagged his finger back and forth. “No, you don’t got to worry about your horse today. Your horse is Mexican. He’s gonna stay right here.”

“Does that mean I’ll be staying, too?”

“People go where they need to be. Under certain circumst