solution was ludicrously simple. I said, ‘If we raise her off the rock with the jack and give her a good push she should roll clear soon enough.’
‘Why damn my eyes,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
He would have gone down well on the Dublin Docks, but I didn’t say so. Simply opened his boot which was full of five-gallon cans of petrol, got out the jack and started to work.
‘No reason why I shouldn’t do that, it seems to me,’ but he didn’t try too hard to dissuade me, lit one of those long, black cigarillos he favoured and stood watching. I was sweating hard and the shoulder holster was something of a nuisance so I unstrapped it and put it on the rear seat of the Mercedes. Chancing to glance up a moment later, I saw that he was holding the Enfield in his right hand.
‘Careful, father,’ I warned. ‘What’s known in the trade as a hair trigger. She’ll go off at a breath.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to have the pin fall on an empty chamber for the first pull,’ he suggested. ‘In case of accidents?’
Which was reasonably knowledgeable for a man of the cloth. ‘Fine, if you have the time to waste.’
‘Presumably you don’t.’
‘Not very often.’
He stood there, still holding the Enfield in one hand, the holster in the other. ‘You were out in the Troubles,’ he said. ‘Against the English, I mean?’
It was the kind of language American newspapers had been fond of at the time. I nodded. ‘You could say that.’
‘This Civil War back there is a bad business.’ He shook his head. ‘From what I read in the papers the Irish are killing each other off more savagely these days than the English ever did. Why, didn’t Republican gunmen kill Michael Collins himself only three or four months ago and I always understood he did more to beat the English than any man.’
‘Then settled for half a loaf,’ I said. ‘Not good enough.’
‘A die-hard republican, I see.’ He hefted the Enfield in his hand and said, ‘Not that I know about such things, but it doesn’t feel very comfortable.’
‘It wouldn’t,’ I told him. ‘I’m left-handed. The grip has been altered to fit.’
He examined the gun further, obviously intrigued by the absence of a sight at the end of the blue-black barrel, the way most of the trigger guard had been cut away. I concentrated on the jack lever and as the axle started to clear, he dropped the shoulder holster inside the Mercedes, hitched up his cassock and got to his knees beside me.
‘What do you think?’
‘Put your shoulder to the boot and we’ll find out.’
It took the two of us, and some considerable effort. There was a moment when I thought it wasn’t going to go and then the jack tilted forward and the Mercedes rolled free, scraping the rear bumper on the rock in the process. He lost his balance and fell on his hands and knees and I ran around and got the handbrake on before the Mercedes got clear away from us. When I turned, he was getting to his feet, rubbing dust from his beard and grinning like a schoolboy.
‘A hell of a way to spend an afternoon.’
‘I could think of pleasanter things to do,’ I admitted. ‘In more comfortable places.’ I stretched my aching back and looked out across the wilderness. ‘The last place God made.’
He was about to light another of his cigarillos and paused, the match flaring in his right hand, his face grave and somehow expectant. ‘At least you give him some credence, even for this.’
‘In a place like this it’s difficult to say God doesn’t exist, father.’ I shrugged. ‘Try and he’ll more than likely remind you of his presence rather forcibly.’
‘Something of an Old Testament view of things, I would have thought,’ he said. ‘A God of wrath, not of love.’
‘A view of the Almighty my own experience would tend to support,’ I said flatly.
He nodded, his face grave, ‘Yes, life can be very hard. It’s difficult to live each day as an act of faith. I know, I’ve been trying for forty-nine years, but it’s the only way.’
I picked up the jack, went round to the front of the Mercedes and set to work. He was carrying two spare wheels, a wise precaution in such country and the change over took me no more than five minutes. He didn’t offer to help, didn’t try to carry our conversation any further, but walked some little distance away to a slight rise where he stood looking out at the mountains.
When I called, he didn’t seem to hear me and I went towards him, cleaning my hands on an old rag. As I got closer, he turned and said harshly, ‘Yes, my friend, you’re right. In a place like this it must be difficult to believe in anything.’
But I was no longer interested in that kind of conversation. ‘I think everything’s all right now,’ I said. ‘Drive her back to the road and we’ll see.’
The Mercedes had a self-starter and the engine turned with no trouble at all, a change from most of the vehicles I’d had experience with. I jumped on the running-board and he took her in a wide circle, joining the road a few yards behind the Ford.
I got my shoulder holster and the Enfield from the rear seat and buckled them on. ‘You see, father, everything comes out in the wash if only you live right.’
He laughed harshly, switched off the engine and held out his hand. ‘Young man, I like you, damn me if I don’t. My name is van Horne. Father Oliver van Horne of Altoona, Vermont.’
‘Keogh,’ I said. ‘Emmet Keogh. Catholic priests who’ve been shot in the head must be rather thin on the ground in Vermont.’
His hand went to the scar on his temple instinctively. ‘True enough, but then I was the only one, to my knowledge, who served as chaplain to an infantry brigade on the Western Front.’
‘Aren’t you rather far from home?’
‘I’m on a general fact-finding trip on behalf of my diocesan authorities. We understood that in the back country in Mexico the Church has been in great difficulties since the Revolution. I’m here to see what help is needed.’
‘Look, father,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t joking this morning in Bonito when I told you there were people in these parts who thought it was still open season on priests. I know places where they haven’t seen one in years and don’t want to. Last month in Hermosa a young French priest tried to reopen the church after eight years. They hung him from the veranda of the local hotel. I saw him swinging.’
‘And did nothing?’
‘I’ve seen priests who stood by and did nothing in my own country,’ I said. ‘It’s easy to take the last walk with a prayer book in your hand when someone else is going to do the dying. Damned hard to stand up and fight for what you believe in against odds.’
For some reason I was angry, which was illogical in the circumstances and I think I knew it. In any event, I went round to the front of the Ford and turned the starting handle. As the engine jumped into life, van Horne
