Arthur Bowman leaned forward and began to slide from his chair.
“Peavish?”
John Randell’s face lit up.
“You know him?”
Bowman closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the room spinning around him anymore.
“It’s Peavish . . . He killed them.”
Randell stood up.
“What did you say? Bowman, you’re white as a sheet! What’s happening to you?”
Bowman reached out with one hand towards the desk and collapsed on the rug.
*
He woke up again, surrounded by horses. He was lying in fodder in the shade of the stable roof. The old Indian was drawing water from a well and pouring it from buckets into the troughs. He walked past Bowman without looking at him, slowly continuing his task.
It took Bowman a few seconds before he was able to look over at the too-bright courtyard. The fit had not been too violent, he could feel it in his body, and he quickly felt normal again and remembered everything. Brewster’s herbs had helped.
“Old man, give me some water.”
The Indian stopped, looked behind Bowman, put a bucket next to him, and moved away. Bowman turned around.
“Who’s there?”
No-one replied. A figure was visible in the shadows. The man was leaning against a post. The old Indian walked past him, head down. A white man with a sunburnt face, pale eyes, a rifle pressed against his leg.
“Stopped dreaming yet?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’ll come back to you.”
“What?”
“Everything you don’t want to see.”
The man had turned his head back towards the courtyard. Bowman followed his gaze towards the gallows and came to his senses.
“Are you one of Randell’s men? Are you here to keep an eye on me?”
The man smiled.
“No. Just here for the show, like everyone else.”
“Yeah, watching redskins die always draws a crowd.”
The man smiled and walked past Bowman. He left the stable and went straight into the sunlight. Bowman turned his eyes away.
“Old man, who is that?”
The old Indian dropped his bucket into the well without responding. Bowman stood up, shook his head and went out into the courtyard. He entered the foreman’s office again and asked to see Randell.
“Aren’t you the man they threw in the stable? Mr Randell doesn’t have time to talk to you. In fact, he said he didn’t want to see you again. So get out of here before things get complicated.”
An armed man was guarding the manager’s door.
“Where’s my rifle?”
“You’ll get it back when you leave the fort.”
“I have to speak to Randell.”
“He doesn’t want to see you anymore, and neither do I.”
The foreman made a sign and the armed man advanced towards Bowman.
“Better leave now.”
Bowman turned on his heel.
After eating and drinking, Walden had regained his strength. Bowman walked beside the horse to the main door and stopped in front of the guards.
“I have to pick up my rifle.”
“The Henry?”
The employee handed him back his gun after admiring it for a moment.
“I prefer the Winchester, it’s lighter. But this is a nice gun. What do you hunt with it?”
Bowman attached the holster to his saddle and left the fort, entering the fairground next to it. Standing by a rudimentary counter, in the shade of a tarpaulin, he ate some beans in mutton fat and drank some industrial-strength whiskey. He had been unconscious for several hours. Or maybe he had just slept after his fit, catching up on the sleep he had lost during his ride? Walden, his backside in the sun, had put his head under a corner of the tarp and fallen back asleep in the shade. The camp was calm: all those who had been drinking that morning were now lying in shade, taking a nap before night fell and they started drinking again.
Bowman looked over at the main door of the fort.
“Another one.”
His glass was filled.
“You gonna get me something?”
Bowman turned around. The man from the stable was scratching Walden’s head. The mustang, eyes half closed, made no protest.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I watched over you while you slept.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes.”
“It doesn’t. Except I didn’t just watch you sleep – I also listened to what you said.”
His eyes were almost as grey as Alexandra Desmond’s; his face was sharp, tanned and without a single line. Bowman ordered two more glasses.
“And what did you hear?”
“You were talking about a priest. You kept saying his name.”
“I don’t know any priests. I was just dreaming and I don’t remember anything.”
“You said it was him. That the Indians weren’t to blame. You also said another name – Penders. And the priest’s name was Peavish.”
Bowman turned towards the man and moved his face closer. Lowering his voice, he hissed: “I was just babbling. Now fuck off.”
The man finished his whiskey without grimacing and put the glass down. He was missing part of the little finger on both his hands, severed at the first knuckle. He looked up at the sky, over to the north, where a line of clouds was drifting towards the fort.
“It’s going to be a cloudy night.”
He touched the brim of his hat with one hand and walked off between the tents. Bowman stayed there the rest of the afternoon, drinking steadily, one glass after another, until night-time.
When the camp grew lively again and the crowd around him began to drink and sing, he walked about a hundred yards away from the tents. He didn’t unload his horse, he just rolled himself up in the blanket and closed his eyes to get some rest. Letting his body relax while he remained on the lookout: an old sentry’s habit. He monitored the camp and the fort, without needing a watch to know what time it was. First, he listened as the noise from the camp died down – the last drinkers, the vendors closing their stalls, about three or four in the morning – and then silence, insects buzzing and animals scurrying. Finally came the moment, just before dawn, when the Bent’s Fort guards were at their most tired. The hour when a good sergeant makes his round to kick the arses of any dozing sentries.
Walden was softly scratching the ground with his hooves. Still Bowman waited. The better he felt, the less vigilant the guards were becoming. He had managed to master the flow of his thoughts; no longer were they crashing over him. He had examined them as if reading a book.
Penders in Las Cruces.
Peavish in Bent’s Fort.
One month in between. Ten days on horseback.
Another murder in Mexico. The rumour, the legend of murderers on the Santa Fe track while he was crossing his deserts, following his path. Not the same as the path the two others had taken, but which kept crossing it.
Were Peavish and Penders travelling together?
Coyotes howled. The moon was hidden behind clouds. Bowman just needed a bit more light. His eyes, rested, would see clearly when the guards’ tired eyes no longer distinguished anything. Just that first line of brightness on the horizon. He remembered the courtyard, distances, the number of men, hiding places, the photographer’s cart against the wall, very close to the stable, the place where the old Indian kept his things and must be sleeping.
No. He would not sleep. The old warriors always wake up at the hour of the attack.
He knew where the shadows would be if the moon came out from behind the clouds and which doors the fort’s employees would leave through if the alarm was sounded. He had also spotted the well, when he passed the doors of the fort the previous morning. Bowman stood up.
*
He rode back towards the camp, going past the tents and the carts, listening to the noises and the snores. He go
t down from the horse, lit some tinder with a match, threw a few twigs on top and pushed the little fire under a tent where whiskey was stored. Then he jumped back in the saddle, galloped away and rode around the fort. In no time, he was on the other side, far away from the camp and the main entrance. There was an explosion. A barrel of alcohol. Very quickly, the red light of the fire rose into the sky. He heard the bell ringing inside the fort and the first yells.
“Fire! Everyone out!”
The panic spread. Bowman rode Walden fast towards the battlements and jumped down from the saddle. Pressed against the wall, he listened hard, waiting for the moment when the chaos was at its height. Just above him, a sentry shouted: “My God! The camp’s on fire! Come on, lads, we have to go out there!”
The screams of animals, men and women echoed over the plain. The foot of the battlement was shadowed by the fire, illuminating the sky over his head. Bowman began to run, dragging Walden behind him. He counted the arrow slits. The one in the foreman’s office, the one in the room where he’d spoken with Randell. Three more. And the fourth was the one in the stable. He stood on his saddle and pulled his hatchet from his belt, then started smashing it against the wattle and daub as hard as he could. The arrow slit was about eight inches wide; he needed twice that space to slide through. Under a first layer of dried mud, he unearthed a wooden support and began to chop at it. The wood, a tree trunk about eight inches in diameter surrounded by earth, was full of knots. When the hatchet’s blade hit any of these, it made a muffled thud.
Through the arrow slit, he could see the panicked horses, the courtyard, the gallows and, behind the wide open doors, the furiously burning camp. The stable’s well was the furthest away from the exit and, as he’d hoped, the chain of buckets was organised next to the entrance and the other wells. The blade got stuck in the wood after being buried more deeply. Bowman levered it upwards and heard a crack. He pulled out his hatchet, put it back in his belt, and dug into the earth with his bare hands to make a passage around the wood.
Once he had attached his rope to the upright, he tied it to the pommel of the saddle and spurred his mustang. One movement from Walden was enough to pull the trunk to the side, though it remained part of the wall. Bowman tied the reins to it, took the Henry from its holster, and hoisted himself inside the stable, where he rolled in the fodder, jumped over the troughs and weaved between the horses. He hid himself at the corner of the wall, cocked his rifle and did not forget to check it. Turning his head towards the old Indian’s corner, he aimed the barrel in his direction. The old man, sitting in front of a coffee pot, watched him and put a finger to his lips. Bowman crouched down and looked out. If he passed behind the photographer’s little cart, he could run to the door, where only two guards remained. Fifty feet out in the open.
Slowly, he opened the barrier of the stable, picked up a handful of hay and lit a second match. He threw the flaming hay into the stable and the horses, already nervous, began to rush in all directions before running out into the courtyard. As the flames touched the main door of the fort, the horses grew crazy and started racing around the courtyard. The chain of men attempting to control the fire was broken, the cell’s guards fled from the maddened horses, and Bowman sprang into action. He reached the oak door without being spotted, leaned his rifle against the wall and took out his hatchet. With three furious blows, he broke open the padlock, then picked up his gun, entered the cell and closed the door behind him. He could not see anything. The only light was that of the flames through the small, barred opening in the door. His pupils dilated and he made out the three figures sitting on the ground.
“Follow me. I’m going to open the door and you’re going to come with me.”
They did not react.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The three Indians had blankets over their heads. They watched him without moving. He went over to them, speaking louder than he would have liked: “Don’t you understand me?”
He saw a head move. One of the three was nodding: he understood.
“Then fucking move! If we go now, it won’t be too late!”
Bowman bent down and started whispering:
“We have to go now. Follow me.”
The one who understood shook his head: no. Bowman stared at those three pairs of dark eyes, each reflecting the light from the small, barred window. The Comanches watched him.
Bowman aimed the barrel of the Henry at the one in the middle.
“Get up.”
He didn’t even blink. Outside, close by, a man said:
“What’s going on here?”
Another voice answered him:
“The door . . .”
Bowman rushed over to the wall and raised his rifle. The Indians were still watching him. Bowman closed his eyes. A guard kicked open the door. The light came in with him and he saw the three prisoners, who had not moved.
“Shit, they’re still there!”
His colleague followed him inside.
“Who smashed the padlock?”
They turned around at the same time as the door was banged shut behind them. Plunged into darkness, their eyes were useless for a few seconds. Bowman opened his. He knew very few men capable of keeping their eyes closed when they were in danger, but those few seconds of terror, when you wanted to see and you had to fight against all your instincts, gave you a big advantage. He knocked out the two guards with the butt of his rifle. The guards never saw a thing.
He approached the Comanches again.
“This is your last chance. Come with me.”
The dark eyes gleamed dimly. The three Indians did not move.
“Fucking stupid monkeys! I’ll have to drag you out myself!”
Bowman grabbed one by his clothes and tried to lift him. The Indian was as heavy as stone. Bowman pulled him towards the door; he let himself be dragged like a sack of potatoes, and finally Bowman gave up.
“You’re going to die like dogs for something you didn’t do!”
He couldn’t wait any longer. He half opened the door, looked outside, and turned one last time towards them. The Indian he had dragged across the room was still in the same place. Bowman spoke loudly: “Fuck it, if that’s what you want . . . I’m not going to die with you.”
He closed the door behind him. The horses were still running wild, but the fire had died down, whether because it had been contained by the men outside or because there was nothing left to burn. Daylight was colouring the sky. Bowman crossed the distance that separated him from the photographer’s cart, slid behind it and entered the stable.
“What the hell are you doing there?”
The voice at his back was loud, a yell of surprise and fear.
“Hands up!”
He raised his hands and his rifle. The guard who had caught him screamed at the top of his lungs: “Sound the alarm! Shit, get over here! The cell is open! There’s someone in the stable . . .”
There was a flash through the arrow slit that Bowman had widened and the explosion made him jump. He turned around. The guard was curled up in a ball on the ground. A voice called out to Bowman: “Hurry up!”
Bowman had not even taken a step when there was a burst of gunfire in the stable. He charged towards the arrow slit. A blow to his back threw him forward and his head banged against the wall. Conscious but incapable of moving, he felt his hands being grabbed and pulled, then there was nothing else for a fraction of a second – nothingness, weightlessness – before hitting the rocks. Hands grabbed him.
“You’re heavier than a coffin!”
He was thrown across Walden’s saddle. In a flash, his wrists and ankles were tied up with a rope. There was more gunfire and, before losing consciousness, his head hanging low, he saw rocks rush past before his eyes and the frenzied blur of Walden’s black hooves.
9
The man with grey eyes stared out over the valley, the rifle resting on his arms. Black clouds rolled over the plain, bolts of lightning struck the ear
th and the thunder rumbled.
“We have to get going.”
He threw the water from the saucepan over the little fire, rolled up the blood-stained strips of cloth and shoved them in his pockets, then covered the ashes of the fire with stones.
“You gonna be O.K.?”
Bowman, supporting himself with the barrel of the Henry, got to his feet and buttoned his shirt and jacket over the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
He groaned as he climbed into the saddle and put on his long raincoat to protect himself from the wind. The man grabbed Walden’s bridle.
“Hang on.”
Steering his own horse with one hand, pulling the Englishman’s mount behind him, he continued climbing the hill, moving slowly up the rocky, back-breaking slope. The animals had not yet recovered from their flight and they stumbled in the scree. When Walden slipped, Bowman had to clench his jaw to hold back the yells of pain. The rain caught up with them as they were crossing the first mountain pass. Before them lay a little chain of eroded hills, like a field of rocky dunes. The first drops fell on the stone and stuck to the dust. The wind blew in violent gusts. The sky turned black and the rain beat down on them. Bowman lowered his head and let the man guide him, shivering with cold and listening to the sound of the water drumming on his hat and his jacket.
They crossed tiny valleys, climbed over other hills, hour after hour, until they reached a peak slightly higher than those around it, ending in a rocky tip. The rain was no longer falling on them: they were walking in the shelter of an overhang, following a narrow path along the rock wall. It sloped down almost vertically on the other side. The man halted the animals and got down from his saddle.
“Lie down on your horse.”
Bowman lay down over Walden’s shoulders and put an arm around his neck. His silent guide entered a passage between the rocks and the light vanished. For a minute, they followed a dark corridor, coming out in a cave with a crack in its vault. Through this crack, a feeble ray of light fell, and a thin line of raindrops.
Retribution Road Page 35