“Here’s the other thing I wanted to say,” Hackberry continued. “If you choose to he’p me, you’ll be at risk. That means dangerous men might be a stone’s throw from us right now. Are you troubled by any of this?”
“No, I am not.”
“You don’t address other men as ‘sir’?”
“If they request that I do.”
“You’re a regular blabbermouth, all right. Okay, here’s what has occurred. My neighbor, Cod Bishop, was in the employ of Arnold Beckman. I believe Mr. Bishop saw me up in the cave in those bluffs across the river and told Arnold Beckman I had probably hid something there. Mr. Bishop was found dead in his barn this morning. This was after he tried to quit Beckman.”
“Miss Beatrice has said I should do whatever you tell me.”
“What I’m telling you right now, Andre, is to listen. I don’t want you hurt. This is Texas. While you’re working with me, you do not lay your hand on a white man.”
“Why do white people always think black people want to put their hands on them?”
“I didn’t say ‘put.’ I said— Never mind. If we have trouble with somebody and he needs shooting, I’ll do it. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A breakthrough,” Hackberry said.
“Arnold Beckman sent someone to throw acid in Miss Beatrice’s face. If I meet him, it will not matter if he is white or black.”
“I spoke too soon. So be it. Better a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t worry about it. We need to cross the river and go to the cave.”
“If Beckman’s men are watching, they will see us.”
“That’s the point, partner.”
HACK
BERRY AND THE Haitian chauffeur crossed the river and climbed the trail to the cave’s opening. Down below, the long knifelike yellow leaves from the willow trees drifted in the riffle, steam rising off the boulders inside the shade. Hackberry was carrying a two-gallon fuel can, a hand-notched wood plug in the spout, the coal oil sloshing inside.
“I’d like for you to stay out here, Andre, and have a smoke,” he said. “Pay no mind to what I do in the cave. We’re going to take our friends on a snipe hunt.”
“What is a snipe hunt?”
“It means you convince a fellow he can catch all the snipe he wants if he holds a flashlight in front of an open gunnysack by a barbed-wire fence between the hours of eleven and midnight.”
“Who would be so stupid?”
“It’s a metaphor. It means you confuse and mislead and mystify your enemy. Stonewall Jackson said that.”
“The general who fought for the preservation of slavery?”
“Not everyone is perfect. Anyway, if you glance to the north, you’ll see the sunlight reflecting off a glassy or metallic surface. I have a feeling that’s Mr. Beckman’s people.”
“Do you believe in the unseen world?” Andre said.
“I never had a choice.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If I didn’t believe somebody was up there, I’d be forced to believe in myself. For me, that’s a horrible thought.”