House of the Rising Sun (Hackberry Holland 4)

He stroked her forehead. “You go to sleep now.”

He saw a shadow fall across his arm. He turned and looked into Ruby’s face.

“The sheriff was at the door. He said Cod Bishop is filing assault charges against you.”

“Remind me to shoot the sheriff.”

“He said Cod Bishop is a sorry sack of shit and not to worry about it.”

“I’ve always said the sheriff had redeeming qualities.”

“Your supper is ready.”

“I’m going into town for a little while.”

“If you want to get drunk, do it here.”

“I never drink in my home.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Getting drunk doesn’t, either. That’s why people get drunk. They cain’t make sense of anything, least of all themselves.”

“Thanks for explaining that. I’ll throw your supper in the yard.”

THAT NIGHT HE didn’t go into town; nor did he drink. Instead he wrote in his journal, at his desk, in the light of a brass oil lamp that had a green glass shade as thick as a tortoise shell. His journal entries often dealt with historical events or, rather, the consequences he believed would ensue from them: the populist movement, the stranglehold on the dollar by industrial interests, the theft of public lands by the railroads, anarchists throwing bombs, and company ginks shooting down strikers on picket lines. These observations and notations, however, were secondary in importance to his entries about the depression and murderous instincts that were bedfellows in the Holland family, passing from one generation to the next, perhaps unto the seventh generation.

He had read and reread many times Thomas Jefferson’s letter about the suicide of Meriwether Lewis and the fits of melancholia that Meriwether could avoid only by keeping his mind occupied. Jefferson, a child of the Enlightenment who believed the unexamined life was not worth living, looked upon melancholia and self-destructive thoughts as the inevitable products of a brilliant and curious mind when it became idle. While a dolt remained as happy as a cloth doll with a smile painted on its face—even when the dolt was about to fall off a precipice—an intelligent person suffered the pains of the damned simply because he paused long enough to hear his own thoughts.

“What are you writing?” Ruby said over his shoulder.

“I try to sort my head out by writing about the things that fret me. Most of the time it doesn’t work too well.”

“What things?”

“I lose time. I step into a windstorm that’s either outside or inside myself. Later I cain’t remember exactly what I did there. Then it comes back to me in a dream. Sometimes it scares the bejesus out of me. My father is the same way. His name is Sam Morgan Holland. A lot of men died in front of his guns, from here all the way to Wichita and Abilene.”

“He’s a gunslinger?”

“A Baptist preacher.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I wouldn’t wish my father on my worst enemy. If he gets sent to hell, I think the devil will quit his job.”

She placed her palm on the back of his neck. “You’re hot as a stove.”

“What you saw me do to Cod Bishop, that’s not me. It’s a sickness that lives in me, but it’s not who I am, at least not all the time. Maybe the Hollands got their bloodlust from the Indians. Or maybe we gave it to them. Whatever it is, we sure got it.”

She took her hand away and gazed at the wallpaper. It was printed with small roses. “Who was the woman who lived h

ere?”

“She called herself my wife. I’d call her otherwise.”

“She hurt you?”

“I made my own bed. The fault is mine. I need to tell you something, Ruby. I made a mistake.”