Retribution Road

by Antonin Varenne

  “Reunion?”

  “In Las Cruces, Richter was a travelling salesman. Rogers, in Rio Rancho, was a small-time conman who acted as a guide on the path. Petrovitch was trying to sell an extraction procedure to the Bent and St Vrain. At the mine, he killed a foreman and stole some gold. In Mexico, I don’t know who the victim was.”

  Peavish was concentrating on Bowman’s words, trying to be rational in order to distract himself from his body’s reaction. He took off his hat and tapped it back into shape with his thin fingers.

  “It’s not completely random.”

  “I met an old man who said it was a passion, that he couldn’t stop. And another man who said it was a mathematical sequence. Something that repeated.”

  An acid belch rose up Peavish’s throat. He covered his mouth with his hand as if to push the nausea back.

  “Are you saying there’s been a logic to this since the beginning?”

  “How much did he steal?”

  “Quite a lot, apparently. The mine is offering five hundred dollars to whoever catches the thief. The army was informed about it too. We’re not the only ones looking for him.”

  “Gold, a conman, and travelling salesmen.”

  Bowman gritted his teeth.

  “And Penders was a soldier. He has a plan.”

  “He wants to start a new life.”

  Bowman lowered his head.

  “Survive.”

  The preacher’s tongue flickered over his dry lips.

  “The victims . . . It’s as if he’s looking for a partner.”

  “Going into business.”

  “Or maybe he’s just like us. He can’t stand being alone anymore and he kills the people he meets.”

  Bowman looked at the preacher and continued as if he hadn’t heard this: “Everyone who wants to go into business is headed to the same place.”

  “Out West.”

  “And if he has money, he won’t hang around here. Now everyone who’s searching for him knows it wasn’t the Indians.”

  Walden advanced slowly as the two soldiers thought through this theory. Peavish took off his dog collar and scratched his neck.

  “This is all conjecture. Maybe he’s already on the way to St Louis. Maybe he’s headed back to England.”

  “He won’t go back.”

  The two men glanced at each other. Peavish put his collar in his pocket and put his hat back on, pulling it firmly onto his head. Bowman raised his arms and snapped the reins.

  “Giddy-up!”

  *

  Two hours later, they entered Denver, the biggest town Bowman had seen since St Louis. The dried-up lodes had left enough people behind that the town had a reason for its existence: customers to keep the shops going, artisans to build them, savings for buying land, children to justify the opening of schools, money for building churches, a sufficient number of citizens to pay for a police force and to fill the dozens of taverns and saloons in town. On the sign, beneath the name of Denver, was a proud, round number: 5,000 inhabitants. The town was as densely populated as a popular district of London, the only difference being that the houses were made of wood. For the rest, the streets and back alleys were, like those in the English capital, open-air sewers. Most of the constructions were raised up on stilts so as not to soak in the mire, and the inhabitants walked around on wooden sidewalks. Only animals, carts and Indians used the streets.

  While Bowman looked like he’d just come down from a mountain after a long retreat, Peavish – despite his gaunt and prematurely aged face, his toothless mouth and his madman’s eyes – inspired trust. The power of his filthy dog collar was impressive. People greeted him politely, then gave a suspicious nod at Bowman.

  “I didn’t realise it was so big. I’m not used to towns anymore.”

  “In general, I get a good welcome wherever I go.”

  “In general?”

  “I have been thrown out of a few farms and saloons.”

  Bowman smiled at the preacher’s dignified expression, the way he humbly accepted that some people would rather give a priest a good kick up the arse than listen to him preach.

  “Anyway, we won’t find anything here.”

  Peavish frowned.

  “Are you sure this is the right decision, Sergeant?”

  Bowman brought the cart to a halt outside a grocery store.

  “We don’t have any other choice. We were close to catching him. Now he has money, we need to speed up.”

  He got down from the carriage and tied the reins around a post. “We have to stick to what we said.”

  “And what if he went east?”

  “Then we turn around. We have to eat, and we have to find you a horse. The cart is too slow.”

  They bought reserves of flour, lard, coffee and bandages, and asked where they could go to buy a horse. The shopkeeper gave them directions to a corral in the north of town.

  After haggling, the horse merchant agreed to buy the cart for seven dollars and offered them an eight-year-old gelding, a piebald horse with strangely shaped markings on its face that made it look stupid. It was a good animal: Bowman had patted it and observed it. Healthy feet, solid back, teeth that backed up the assertion of its age, and its shoes were good for quite a few miles yet. It was not as fast as the mustang, of course, but it was a strong, muscular horse.

  The merchant wanted thirty dollars for it. After buying food supplies in town, Bowman had thirty-three dollars left, plus another three that Peavish had earned by preaching in Black Hawk. The corral owner agreed to lower the price to twenty-five.

  “Not that it’s a bad horse, but it looks so dumb that no-one wants it.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The man I bought it from never told me a name. I just called it the piebald.”

  They spent two of the five dollars they had saved on an old, worm-eaten saddle. When the transaction was over, they had nine dollars left. If they had ever intended to sleep in town, it was now out of the question.

  As soon as he put his foot in the stirrup, the leather broke and Peavish ended up on his back in the mud. When he was finally in the saddle, his horse tried to approach Walden, who bit its ear.

  “I have to christen this animal. He can’t remain nameless.”

  Bowman contemplated the preacher for a moment. He was as thin and straight as an I, his old suitcase strapped to the saddle of the black-and-white horse, which was stocky and apathetic-looking.

  “Apart from its colour, the two of you don’t have much in common.”

  Peavish smiled his black-gummed smile.

  “This is the first means of transportation I’ve ever possessed.”

  “You still owe me twenty-four dollars. You’ll have to preach to pay for our food. And, until you’ve repaid me, I reserve the right to eat your transportation.”

  After passing the last buildings in Denver, they crossed the South Platte River behind a large convoy of pioneers en route for Wyoming. There were about thirty carts, together raising a cloud of dust so high it looked like a sandstorm. On the other bank, they moved away from the convoy and set off at a canter. The piebald did not give it his all and Peavish was too squeamish to use his heels. Bowman came behind the preacher and kicked his horse’s backside. The piebald immediately launched into a gallop, perhaps also to escape Walden, who was trying to chew its tail. Peavish’s horse clearly had the capacity to move quickly, given the right motivation. They passed the convoy and got back on the track. After a few kicks from Walden, the piebald fell in line obediently behind the mustang. After an hour of this, Walden let the other horse walk alongside him, though not even an inch ahead of him. As night approached, they started looking for a place to sleep and set up camp near a stream. Before dark, Peavish cut a strip off his suitcase to patch up his stirrup leather.

  They had continued descending ever since they left Denver, riding past the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, and at dusk, it was still warm. The vegetation grew lower to the ground, but the grass
and bushes were dense enough to feed the horses. The trees, smaller and sparser than in the mountains, also provided firewood.

  The two former soldiers sat in silence around the campfire, eating the last pieces of Bowman’s pronghorn and watching the lanterns of the large convoy as it rode past. The carts, having caught them up, continued moving forward until late at night, coming to a halt half a mile further on and setting up their own camp. Bowman watched the pioneers’ fires while Peavish, exhausted from his first ride, lay down with his head on his saddle.

  Bowman took his oilskin from his bag and tossed it to the preacher.

  “We need to get you a blanket.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Bowman lit a pipe with his last few scraps of tobacco.

  “Preacher, will you stop calling me ‘Sergeant’?”

  Peavish sat up.

  “What do you want me to call you?”

  “Bowman. Or Arthur. As you like, but I’m not a soldier anymore.”

  Peavish crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the sky.

  “The first time I saw your Christian name was on the list of prisoners in Rangoon. After a year in the forest, I still didn’t know what you were called.”

  Bowman bit the mouthpiece of his pipe.

  “Call me Bowman.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I don’t remember your name.”

  “Edmund.”

  Bowman blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “Alright, I’ll try. But no promises.”

  12

  They passed the pioneers’ camp; the horses in the convoy had been pushed too hard the night before and they needed more time to recover. Peavish rode to the circle of carts and Bowman saw him talking with a few men before waving to them and coming back.

  “They’re not interested.”

  “Not even for a blanket?”

  The preacher did not look downhearted.

  “They’re Mormons. They’re heading to Salt Lake City.”

  Bowman glanced back at them.

  “Ryan mentioned them when I went to John Street. What are they going to do in Salt Lake?”

  “That’s their capital.”

  “Ryan said they had an army.”

  “They had a lot of problems in the east, so the Mormons decided to move to Utah. It’s still deserted over there. But three years ago, the American army sent an expedition there because they were afraid the Mormons would secede. They’d elected their prophet as the State governor.”

  “Their prophet? What do they believe in?”

  “The founder of their church, and also their first prophet, Joseph Smith, was murdered by dissidents from his own cult. He had an eventful life before becoming a prophet. Money problems and trouble with jealous husbands. That’s what his detractors say, anyway. Apparently, Smith met the angel Moroni at the foot of a tree in New York State, and the angel gave him some golden plates engraved with an unknown language. But he also found some magic glasses that allowed him to translate the words, and from that he wrote the Book of Mormon. That became their Gospel. They’re polygamous. I mean, the men have several wives. Their church is a great success. But that’s also why they’ve had problems with other Christians here.”

  Bowman smiled.

  “Not because of the magic glasses?”

  “No.”

  “How did it end, the army expedition?”

  “Since the California gold rush ten years ago, the road to the West has gone through Salt Lake City. They control the passage through the Rocky Mountains. The government had to negotiate and the only thing that changed was that the governor is no longer a Mormon. That church was stronger than the American government.”

  “You sound pleased about that.”

  “I understand the battle they’re fighting to defend their faith.”

  “Maybe you haven’t changed so much after all, preacher.”

  Peavish smiled, and so did Bowman.

  “All the same, you’d better find some good Christians sooner or later, because you still don’t have a blanket and the nights are cold.”

  They trotted on for a few miles, to put a bit of distance between the convoy and themselves.

  Peavish did not know this part of the path, but he had already travelled along the Platte River to outposts about a hundred miles further on along the road to Salt Lake City, the main track to the West taken by pioneers, stagecoach companies and the Pony Express.

  “When I was there before, there were no towns, just temporary camps, and some farms and inns. I don’t know what it’s like now. Towns here can be born in a few weeks. We should reach that track tonight.”

  “Is that the stagecoach road?”

  The preacher guessed at Bowman’s concern.

  “From the Platte River, if you get in a stagecoach, you can be in San Francisco in two weeks, in St Louis in one.”

  “Shit, I shouldn’t have left all that money.”

  “What money?”

  “I had two thousand dollars. I gave it to someone in Texas.”

  Peavish spurred his horse so it drew alongside Bowman’s.

  “Where did you get all that money? And who the devil did you give it to?”

  “I figured that you and Penders wouldn’t have any, so to find you I should travel in the same way.”

  Peavish scratched his cheek.

  “I suppose that made sense. But it doesn’t explain who you gave it to. Nor where it came from. Did you really say two thousand dollars?”

  “It was Reeves’s money.”

  “Reeves?”

  “The captain of the Sea Runner.”

  Peavish reflected for a moment. The name rang a bell. He frowned, then his smile disappeared and he muttered to himself: “The fishing village.”

  Bowman did not look at the preacher and was careful not to break this silence. It was as if a fuse had been lit, and Peavish had gone back there again. The boarding of the Sea Runner, the village in flames, the river, the rain, the deaths on the junk, the forest, the cages, the screams.

  Peavish did not say another word all day, even after they set up camp.

  In the middle of the night, Bowman woke up and grabbed his rifle. Peavish had come out of a nightmare and was yelling his head off. The screams of one woke the other. Just as they had over there. Seeing Bowman’s scars made it impossible for Peavish to forget his own.

  At dawn, when the preacher had finally fallen back asleep, sweating and mumbling as he dreamed, Bowman took out his papers to quickly write a few words.

  Alexandra,

  I found the preacher I was looking for. It wasn’t him and we are travelling together now. We’re looking for the other one, Erik Penders, who is somewhere ahead of us and who must be having the same nightmares as us every night.

  Together, we cannot escape what we are and who we were.

  It is an illusion to believe that anyone can change.

  We are going the wrong way but we don’t have any other way to go and it’s going to ’cost us our lives or drive us crazy.

  I think about you and I believe you were right to leave. There’s nothing to find here.

  They avoided the first inns they came to on the Pony Express road. Bowman began hunting again. The track went straight on along high plateaux crossed with ancient rivers that had left behind rocky peaks in the shapes of sentries and cathedrals. About fifty miles south, the jagged summits of the Rockies stood out on the horizon, reflecting the colours of the rising and setting sun.

  As long as they had food and could find animals to hunt, Bowman and Peavish remained far away from the track, seeing only the line of dust raised by a convoy or a stagecoach, following the hills by the side of the plateau, seeking out water and the cover of trees. They drove their horses on, waiting for nightfall before they stopped and setting off again before daybreak. Bowman’s wound had healed, and his ribs no longer hurt so much. They could have continued like that, contenting themselves with game and picked fruit, but their
parallel itinerary cut them off from all news, so they had no idea if they were still going in the right direction, if Penders was already far ahead of them or if they had perhaps overtaken him.

  On the fourth day, they drew close to an inn. Peavish went in alone to buy some food and to try to find out some information. Bowman waited for him, hidden in the woods. The preacher returned four hours later; he climbed down from the saddle and began unloading his purchases. Tobacco, flour, some coffee and two bottles of whiskey.

  “No-one has seen an Englishman travelling alone. Nothing has happened on the road.”

  The sergeant looked disappointed.

  “No murders?”

  “No. There’s a small town, two days’ ride from here. Rock Springs. Maybe we’ll have more luck there.”

  The preacher’s tone was gloomy. Bowman opened a bottle and started drinking.

  Peavish’s face darkened.

  “I didn’t find out anything about Erik, but . . .”

  “Stop calling him that.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know him anymore.”

  The preacher stood up.

  “I’ll call him whatever I want. And although I didn’t learn anything about him, the inn’s employees did talk about you.”

  “What?”

  “A group came through here two days ago: half a dozen men from the Bent and St Vrain, others from the Gregory mine. The companies are now offering a thousand dollars for the capture of the man who set fire to the pioneers’ camp, tried to free the Indians and stole the gold. They think the two cases are connected.”

  “And?”

  “It’s starting again, Sergeant. Like in London. They think you murdered the foreman and that you were the accomplice of the Comanches who were hanged.”

  Bowman did not react. Peavish drank a mouthful of whiskey and put the bottle between his legs. He did not put the cork back in it.

  “They don’t know where you are. That group was heading west; others have gone east and south. But as far as everyone else is concerned now, there’s only one Englishman, and Erik has your face.”

  Bowman balled his fists.

  “Stop calling him that.”