Retribution Road

by Antonin Varenne

  “Sometimes, yeah. Bowman. Arthur Bowman.”

  “May I ask why you are going to that town you mentioned – Reunion?”

  “I have to see someone.”

  “Yes, so you said. You’re English, aren’t you? Have you come all this way just to see someone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That person must be very dear to you.”

  Bowman finished his glass of alcohol, which tasted like fermented rocks and rodents.

  “You could say he’s my only friend.”

  The teacher gave a brief smile before standing up.

  “I’m going to rest for a while before we leave, Mr Bowman. I’ll see you later.”

  Bowman remained at the table, continuing to drink. When he got back in the stagecoach, fairly well oiled, at midnight, Brewster and Dietrich were already sitting there. There were no new travellers, but the mailbags occupied all the free space on the benches. With the rain still falling, Perkins had put his entire cargo under shelter. Bowman fell asleep as soon as the coach’s wheels jolted over the first rocks on the path.

  *

  Midway between Fort Smith and Fort Worth, the stagecoach came to a halt in a mile-wide valley. The track followed a river bordered by willows and poplars which ran between hills covered with dry grass, brown rocks and stunted sage. Perkins stopped the carriage in the middle of a ford, in a bend of the river. The horses plunged their heads into the water and the passengers got out to relax and enjoy the sun that had finally risen. The driver remained perched on his seat, rifle in hand. Dietrich offered him a drink and asked if he could try shooting his Remington. The driver, curious to see the brand-new revolver in action, told him he could take a few shots. His legs planted firmly, both hands on the butt of the pistol, the little man aimed at the trunk of a poplar. The echo of the gunshots ricocheted across the valley. After emptying an entire cylinder, he had lodged only a single bullet in the tree’s bark. The livestock trader looked disappointed, explaining to the others that he was not yet used to this weapon and had not spent long training with it. Perkins had a go. From sixty feet away, he put two out of four bullets into the trunk, handed the Remington back to Dietrich, declared that it was an excellent gun and even offered to buy it from him. Dietrich, embarrassed, refused.

  “Mr Bowman, would you like to try?”

  Bowman watched him reload the cylinder – six bullets in a few seconds – then took the pistol and weighed it in his hand.

  “I haven’t shot anything for a long time.”

  Perkins smiled.

  “There are plenty of people round here who carry guns but have no idea how to use them. I’ve seen men shooting at each other in the street, standing fifteen paces away, and hit nothing but a few windows in nearby houses.”

  Bowman took off his gloves, stood sideways on and, with his right hand, arm extended, aimed at the trunk. He took three shots. Each time, he sent the bark flying. He moved the pistol to his maimed left hand and missed with his first shot. Then, concentrating, he closed one eye and put the next two bullets straight into the tree.

  During the next two hours, inside the stagecoach, Dietrich bored Brewster and Bowman with tales of gunfights, gunslingers and bank robberies.

  They reached Fort Worth the next day in the late afternoon, barely one hour later than they were supposed to, according to the Butterfield timetable. They had just driven seven hundred miles south. The sky was blue and the temperature much milder than in St Louis, as if they had gone from winter to early spring. Dietrich bade farewell to his travelling companions, assuring Bowman that, if he needed anything, he would be in Fort Worth for the next week. He also congratulated the former sergeant on his shooting prowess and even asked him if he would like to buy the Remington from him. Bowman refused this offer and asked the driver how to get to Dallas.

  “There are often convoys leaving from here. If not, you can rent a carriage, or even a horse. It’s about twenty miles away. You won’t find anything tonight, but tomorrow there’s bound to be someone headed that way.”

  As Bowman walked off in the direction of the nearest hotel, old Brewster caught up to him.

  “Mr Bowman, someone’s coming to pick me up in town. We leave tomorrow morning. If you like, we could make the journey together.”

  “Could you take me to Reunion?”

  “We wouldn’t even have to make a detour. I’m going there myself.”

  “To Reunion?”

  The old man smiled.

  *

  Fort Worth was a trading post. About twenty buildings, all standing close together, separated by a wide, unpaved street. The town was constructed on either side of a track heading straight from east to west, like one big way-station. General stores, shops selling grain and agricultural equipment, a Texan government land vendor’s office, a Butterfield inn, a farrier, a saloon and two hotels. Other buildings were under construction at either end, increasing the size of the nascent town. Almost all the shops displayed signs offering rooms to rent. Brewster took a room in the same hotel as Bowman.

  “Would you like to dine together, Mr Bowman?”

  The place was clean, the furniture relatively new, and the bed comfortable. Bowman lay down for an hour, his back aching from the long trip. When he came out again into the passageway, he saw Brewster sitting at a table in the restaurant, speaking to a woman. Bowman could not see her face, which was hidden by a man’s wide-brimmed hat. She was wearing a dusty black dress and a canvas work jacket. Bowman walked past her as he went downstairs. She did not look up, but he caught a quick glimpse of her face and a few strands of red hair escaping from her hat.

  Brewster drank a beer, the foam sticking to his grey moustache. The table was set for three.

  “Why didn’t you say you were from Reunion, when we were in Fort Smith?”

  “Because I wanted to know a little bit more about you.”

  “Do you know more now?”

  Brewster smiled, took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief.

  “Not much, except that you are an excellent shot. Perfect military style. Which army did you serve in, Mr Bowman?”

  He put his glasses back on and peered at Bowman.

  “India Company.”

  “West or East?”

  “Africa and India. Why did you wait till we were here to tell me?”

  “Mr Bowman, the town of Reunion is not universally beloved. What exactly do you know about the place?”

  Bowman ordered a beer for himself.

  “Nothing. Just an article I read, by a journalist called Brisbane.”

  Brewster put his glass down and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.

  “An article by Brisbane?”

  “From last November.”

  The old man grew pale.

  “To my knowledge, he has only ever written one article about Reunion. The one describing the death of Mr Kramer.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Who are you going to see in Reunion?”

  “What makes you say that the town isn’t loved by everyone?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  Brewster’s face was white as a sheet. His head trembled on his narrow shoulders.

  “Why have you come here?”

  He had raised his voice. Bowman looked around him at the other customers sitting at tables.

  “I won’t stay long, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Mr Bowman, if you don’t answer me, I will not take you to Reunion.”

  “I’ll get there anyway.”

  Brewster stood up, offended.

  “We will forbid you to enter our territory, Mr Bowman.”

  At the other tables, faces turned towards them. Bowman gritted his teeth and spoke in a mumble: “Sit down, for God’s sake.”

  Brewster sat back down on the edge of his chair.

  “Did you know Richard? Is that why you’ve come?”

>   “Richard?”

  “Mr Kramer.”

  “No. I’m searching for his killer.”

  Brewster turned his head and looked up. The woman was standing there, smiling, but her expression changed when she saw the look on the old man’s face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She had put on a clean, figure-hugging dress and her hair was done up in a bun. At the other tables, men stared at her.

  “Alfred, what’s going on?”

  She glanced at the man with the scarred forehead. Bowman stood up.

  “If you don’t want to take me there, I’ll get there myself.”

  He moved away from the table, sat at the bar and ordered a drink. He downed several glasses while watching Brewster and the woman, deep in discussion. Then he left the hotel and walked over to the saloon, a smoke-filled room echoing with merry voices. He drank some whiskey, and asked the barman if there was a convoy leaving for Dallas the next morning. The barman pointed to a table occupied by two men.

  “They’re from Guadalupe Salt.”

  Bowman approached the men.

  “Can I get you gentlemen a drink?”

  They were already drunk. It struck them as a tempting proposal.

  The mines of the Guadalupe Mountains were next to El Paso, and the men had come four hundred miles with two carriages filled with blocks of salt, through a desert that, apparently, gave a man a terrible thirst. Bowman paid for a third round. They were filthy and they stank, they laughed a lot, and kept looking around them at the other customers; the kind of men who think an enjoyable evening should end with a good brawl.

  “You know Reunion?”

  “The community? Yeah.”

  “Loonies.”

  “They share everything and they all take turns doing chores, men and women. Or they did, anyway.”

  “Yeah, ’cos there’s hardly anyone left there. There were three hundred of them to start with. How many are left now?”

  “Twenty or thirty.”

  “Yeah, at the most.”

  “They bought shitty land and none of ’em knew how to plough a field.”

  “They’re better at explaining the mysteries of life than feeding their children.”

  “And then there was that incident.”

  “A man who got bumped off.”

  “Half of the ones who were still there took off after that.”

  Bowman negotiated the price of his journey and agreed to meet them the next day. Then he went to the bar and bought a bottle.

  “You know the men in the convoy?”

  The barman answered him without looking over at the table:

  “We see them pass through occasionally.”

  *

  In the hotel restaurant, a few customers were still sitting at tables, drinking alcohol. Others were finishing their drinks at the bar. Brewster had left, but the woman was still there, sitting with a well-dressed man of about twenty. She looked about Bowman’s age, perhaps a little younger. Bowman remained at the counter with the last of the stragglers, his back turned to the room, observing her in the large mirror on the wall. She leaned forward and whispered something to the boy before getting to her feet. Bowman turned around. She walked past the bar, glancing over at the tall Englishman, a wry smile on her face, her eyes tired from drinking. The door of her bedroom opened onto the passageway. Bowman watched her go inside. Her departure seemed to be the signal for the restaurant to close. The customers disappeared, the young man included, and the waiters cleared tables, then set them ready for breakfast and turned off the lights. The bar was shut up and only a few nightlights were left on in the entrance hall.

  The young suitor returned ten minutes later, discreetly pushing open the door, passing under the nightlights and climbing the stairs. He knocked at a door. In the dim light, Bowman saw the figure of the redhead in a dressing gown. The boy went in and she closed the door behind him.

  Downstairs, hidden in darkness, sitting on a chair in the restaurant, Bowman smiled and raised his bottle of bourbon.

  He ate steak and eggs, accompanied by a pot of coffee. Old Brewster came down from his room, carrying his suitcases, handed his key in at the reception desk and approached Bowman’s table. Bowman was slowly chewing the last piece of his steak.

  “I found a convoy. Told you I’d get there anyway.”

  Bowman bent over his plate and cleaned it with a hunk of bread.

  “Mr Bowman, if you are looking for Richard’s murderer, you may as well drive with us to Reunion. If you have questions, we will try to answer them. In exchange, we would like to know why you have come here.”

  “We?”

  “Mrs Desmond and I.”

  “Mrs Desmond?”

  “The woman you saw yesterday. She is the one who came to fetch me.”

  Bowman finished his coffee and stood up.

  “When do we leave?”

  The carriage, pulled by an old mare, left the hotel stable. The woman had put her work jacket back on, along with her wide-brimmed hat and her wool dress. Brewster was sitting next to her. Bowman threw his bag on the flatbed and sat on the back seat.

  The track was straight and flat, amid a backdrop of prairies scattered with thorny trees. Pale, round hills rose on the horizon; cattle – little dark specks in the distance – sought what little succour there was in the yellow grass. Ravines traversed the prairie: the dry beds of seasonal rivers. Although the air was still cool, the sun shone down from the blue sky, heating their heads and making them thirsty. They travelled seven or eight miles, or so Bowman guessed: it was hard to be sure of the distance in this unvarying landscape. Ahead of them, to the east, a dark line appeared.

  The mare was breathing hard as it jogged along. When they came within sight of a thicket of trees in the middle of the scree, Mrs Desmond turned off the main path and followed some tracks leading to the small, leafless trees, white-limbed and knotty. There was a muddy waterhole, fed by a spring that flowed unevenly. The mare headed towards the brown water. The woman helped old Brewster to descend, and he went to sit down in the meagre shade of a tree. She brought him a flask and some bread. Bowman stretched as he looked at the path to the west, arrowing towards Fort Worth. There was a dust cloud behind them: maybe the Guadalupe Salt convoy, catching them up. He sat close to the old man, accepted the flask, and drank a few mouthfuls of water. The woman remained at a distance, next to the spring.

  “Mr Bowman, I hope you didn’t take my reaction last night the wrong way. The local authorities did not try very hard to find Mr Kramer’s murderer. The idea that a stranger should come from England to get involved in the affair, after all this time . . . that is enough to disturb us. That horrible incident was a shock for our community.”

  Bowman picked up a stone, turned it between his fingers and began to rub the dust off it.

  “It’s not the kind of thing that’s easy to forget.”

  The old man turned towards him.

  “What did you say?”

  Bowman held the stone in his fist, watching the dust cloud move closer to them on the path.

  “I’m here because the man who killed Kramer did the same thing in London. Nearly two years ago now. I searched for him over there, but I never found him.”

  “The same thing?”

  “It was me who found the body.”

  The old man’s voice sounded hollow:

  “When we were in Fort Smith, you said . . . that you were looking for a friend.”

  “There’s no point me telling you that part of the story. It goes back a long way.”

  “Do you know who did this?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to the American police about it?”

  Bowman dropped the stone and kicked it away.

  “I can’t.”

  “That man must be arrested, whether he’s your friend or not.”

  “I can’t because the police in London think I did it.”

  Bowman stood up. He could now make o
ut the shape of a carriage on the track. The sound of shod hooves and wheels clattering against stones reached their ears. Mrs Desmond walked over to the old man and the Englishman. Bowman used his hand as a visor.

  “What do you do when you meet someone on this path?”

  She seemed to have to force herself to reply.

  “Normally, there are no problems here.”

  “Do you have a weapon in the carriage?”

  “Why?”

  “Those men were at the saloon last night. I don’t trust them. Are they going to stop?”

  “The Trinity River is only eight miles away, but convoys often stop here at the spring to rest their horses.”

  “Stay here.”

  Bowman unbuttoned his coat, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and walked towards the track. The two men from the saloon were each driving a covered wagon pulled by four horses, rifles lying across their legs. They did not deviate from their course, remaining on the main path and nodding to Bowman as they passed, without slowing down. Bowman waited until they had passed into the distance before turning around towards the woman and the old man.

  “You should be armed.”

  They got back on board the carriage, and the woman took the reins.

  “You said you didn’t trust those men? I wonder what impression you made on them.”

  *

  Two hours later, they reached the first trees bordering the Trinity River – the dark line they had been able to see since Fort Worth. They turned onto a secondary track running alongside the river to the north. The lands on the shores of the river were irrigated and cultivated. As far as Bowman could tell, it was a good place for farming, a flow of green amid the arid surroundings. The carriage followed another path and began to move away from the water. When they passed between the first buildings in Reunion, they were already two miles away from the Trinity.

  Half-collapsed fences encircled plots of sandy land where nothing but rocks grew. The town was a pile of ruins. Some of the houses had been abandoned during construction: four posts and some rafters blown down by the wind. Doors and windows banged in draughts, and the façades were so dusty they had turned the colour of the earth. The streets were not like those in other American towns that Bowman had seen. Instead of being parallel and perpendicular, they all converged on a central point, a large building whose outline he could just make out. Bowman guessed the shape of the unfinished town from the stakes planted in the ground and connected by string. The project had been imagined and designed, begun and then abandoned, just like the empty fields surrounded by fences. The carriage stopped outside a house. Alfred Brewster turned towards him.