While the men who transported the supplies were not particularly motivated workers, there were also problems with the suppliers themselves. The three big ranch owners – Paterson, Hollis and Michaeli – were in competition for the spring sales, with each trying to build the biggest ranch in the region. In wood merchants’ offices, bribes were a daily fact of life, and when Bowman encountered his counterpart at Hollis, he understood why Shepard had hired him. The leader of the Hollis Ranch team was a big, not very likeable man who bribed and threatened the suppliers. His name was Brisk but no-one laughed at his German accent or his broken English. When they went to Dallas for the second time, accompanied by Bowman, his men watched him take Brisk aside and talk to him in the middle of the street – and that was the end of it. From that day on, Brisk had not given them any trouble at all. Bowman’s mule-drivers and porters also suddenly started working harder.
*
One Sunday, after eight consecutive days of work, Bowman saddled up a mustang in the ranch’s stable. Shepard had chosen it for him, with a half-smile. It was a stallion, of an average size for these wild horses, like a slightly shorter and stockier version of an Arabian-Andalusian breed. A muscular, eight-year-old chestnut, with black feet. The horse had been broken in by Paterson’s cowherds, but it was too nervous to work with cattle: a common character trait among mustangs who have lived too long in the wild before being tamed. Captured at three years old, Bowman’s horse had a hair-trigger temperament. He liked it though: there was something about its faraway gaze. He had imagined that, once he was in the saddle, no-one would come too close to them, that they would make a good pair. The mustang had not been saddled for several months, and it was upset by the touch of the leather. Bowman stayed with it for a while in its box, sitting on a fence and smoking a pipe as the animal kicked at the wooden walls. Little by little, the horse came closer to smell the tobacco smoke. Bowman waited until it touched him first, then gently struck its neck, promising it a bullet in the head if it tried to throw him from the saddle. Hearing his voice, the horse had stepped backwards and its ears had pricked.
The mustang had no name; if it returned alive from its first trip to Reunion, Bowman would give the matter some thought. He let it follow the track from Dallas without touching the reins, observing its reactions as it passed a leafy copse or when they encountered another horse-rider or a horse-drawn carriage. The mustang did not even seem to see other horses. When it passed food, its ears rotated towards its rider, but it did not slow down or turn its head. It was waiting to find out more, as if it had understood that these slack reins on its withers were a kind of trap. As they approached the ford in the Trinity, Bowman urged the horse to a trot. The mustang maintained a constant speed without him having to use his spurs. It was a clever horse, and Bowman concluded that it was not, in fact, too nervous to work – it simply didn’t want to. Coming out of the water, Bowman dug his heels into its sides. Its legs cooled down by the river, the mustang went into a quick, supple gallop that spared Bowman quite a bit of pain. The horse might not have been saddled for months, but it had been more than six years since the sergeant had been on horseback.
They entered Reunion at a trot. This time, the mustang became agitated, turning its head from side to side when the doors of the abandoned houses banged in the wind. Perhaps the horse also sensed its rider’s nervousness.
Alexandra Desmond came out of her house as she saw Bowman approach.
“Back already? You’re braver than I thought, Mr Bowman.”
She smiled.
“Come in, please.”
She served him tea, apologising for her bourgeois formality, and Bowman did not understand why she said that. She listened as he told her in a few words about being hired at the Paterson ranch and his first visits to Dallas as the leader of the supply team.
“And what did you say to him, in the middle of the street?”
“Nothing. I just acted like I used to when I was a sergeant. I look them in the eyes and think about whatever passes through my head, and no-one messes around.”
“And this Brisk stopped causing you problems?”
“Yeah.”
She was amused, as if he were a child telling her about his adventures. Bowman didn’t care.
“I had an idea, an image, when I arrived at the Paterson ranch. It was as if their barns were being built up at the same time as your town, here, was falling apart.”
Alexandra Desmond lowered her eyes. Bowman no longer amused her.
“Another two families left this week.”
Bowman looked at her slender hands, barely misshapen by work, curling around the cup of tea.
“And you? How long will you stay here?”
She did not reply. Bowman spoke more gently:
“Will you go looking for that place? The one that will be better than Reunion?”
Alexandra stood up and took a book from a shelf, then put it on the table in front of him.
“You said you sometimes read books. I think this one might interest you.”
Bowman picked it up and traced the engraving on its cover with his fingertips.
“This is the one Brewster had in the stagecoach.”
“I lent it to him. Let me know what you think of it. And if you have to leave, take it with you. I’ll be the second woman on this earth to have given you a book. I’ll be content with that, but only because I’m younger and more beautiful than the first one.”
Her freckles glowed slightly on her pink cheeks. Bowman’s heart pounded, making his pulse beat noisily in his temples.
That night, Bowman, lying in his bed, separated from the rest of the dormitory by a hung sheet, opened Thoreau’s book and began to read.
Economy
When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again . . . I require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men’s lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me.
He lay there for two hours and, when he closed the book, after thinking about the pages he had just read, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
The next week, the foreman raised his weekly wage to sixteen dollars, and asked him to take charge of the ranch’s supply of food and equipment for the livestock.
“You’re the Patersons’ man in Dallas. Everything that comes here goes through you. I’ll take care of the work. It’s your job to make sure that everything we need gets here on time. If it continues going well, we’ll look at your wages again. And, Bowman, the next time you go into town, buy some clothes. The ranch will pay for them. If no-one else is going to, I’ll have to start taking the piss out of your fisherman’s rags.”
*
Once the mustang had crossed the Trinity, it set off at a gallop without Bowman even having to spur it on. He pulled lightly on the reins and the horse turned right onto the path to Reunion. This was not his day off, but Bowman had finished his business in Dallas and, if he rushed, he could spend an hour here before going back to the ranch for the night.
Alexandra was not at home. The horse, still nervous in the streets of this ruined town, let itself be led to Brewster’s house. She was there, in the shack full of books and flasks, the rooms dark behind closed shutters. The old man was in bed and Alexandra was looking after him. Bowman talked with her a little bit, then tried to exchange a few words with Brewster, who was pale and silent. The old man was dying. He did not seem to be suffering from any particular ailment, rather a general exhaustion, as if the air around him had grown thinner. Alexandra remained with him all day long, listening as the last warm heart in Reunion was slowly extin
guished. Brewster did not recognise Bowman, who wondered if his arrival had finished off the old herbalist. His place was not at this man’s bedside.
“I have to get back to the ranch.”
Alexandra accompanied him outside.
“Mr Bowman, you look more and more like an inhabitant of this country, with your horse and your new clothes.”
She was weary. In the dim light of dusk, even her hair was turned the same grey as the town. Bowman untied the mustang, which buried its nose in the woman’s hair, inhaling litres of her perfume in a single breath.
“He’s called Walden.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. Bowman mounted the horse.
“If you’re here, I’ll come back on Sunday.”
Passing in front of Richard Kramer’s house, Bowman felt a shiver run down Walden’s spine. As he left the town, the horse set off at a gallop along the black path.
Where I Lived, and What I Lived For
At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible site of a house. I have thus surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live.
“Bowman, Mr Paterson wants to see you. He’s expecting you.”
Everett Paterson was simultaneously younger and older than Bowman had imagined. Back from his trip, he received Bowman in his office. He threw his city clothes on the ground, putting on a horseman’s outfit that was folded on the back of a chair.
“Shepard told me about you, Mr Bowman.”
Behind Paterson, hung on the wall, the full-length portrait of a severe-faced man glared down on the room. Paterson’s father had sharp features and sunken eyes that the artist’s skill could not soften. The son had the same tiredness, the same aged and lightless expression on his face. Like the father’s eyes, sunk beneath heavy brows, Everett Paterson stood in the shadow of the portrait, his back bent beneath a sickly, invisible load that was turning him prematurely old. Bowman could not tell what ailed him, but the pain had long ago withered his skin and deepened the dark rings under his eyes. Bowman imagined him as an insomniac, spending his nights in a chair, eyes half closed, building dreams in order to forget his suffering.
Everett Paterson’s eyes lingered for a moment on Bowman’s wide shoulders and straight back. He probably knew how to judge the strength of a horse, a bull or a man in a single glance, this man who remained standing only by dint of his force of will. Bowman was impressed by his look, that spark of pride which forbade the pity inspired by his broken back and sloping shoulders.
“Shepard keeps telling me what excellent work you do. The ranch needs men like you. I wanted to tell you that personally. What’s more, I’ve just come back from New Orleans and the situation is becoming difficult. Washington is trying to impose its law on the southern States. The abolitionists are leaping at the chance to discredit us, and we are close to breaking point. The South will not bow down, you can be sure of that. Your military experience will be useful to us. A veteran of the English colonies knows what it takes to protect the interests of commerce. If you wish to stay, be assured of your place and your future at the ranch.”
Bowman wondered how long the Paterson heir had left to live. When it came down to it, what he said about the future made no sense.
“For the moment, I don’t have any other plans, Mr Paterson.”
The boss smiled and sat down in the chair.
“Very well. Then I wish you good day. I’ll be seeing you again.”
Bowman saluted him and walked across the office. Before leaving, he turned around and saw Everett Paterson, grimacing with pain as he put on his boots. The owner of the land that ran alongside the Trinity, the man who had refused access to the water for the citizens of Reunion . . . it was him.
When his working day was over, Bowman saddled his horse and rode along the river, following the bank until he came level with the ghost town where Alexandra Desmond was nursing old Brewster. He let Walden trot between the poplar trees, thinking about the fortune that Reeves had left him. He would not return to the workers’ building until late that night.
The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St Mary a fisherman. He who is only a traveler learns things at second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority.
The following Sunday, Bowman left the ranch before dawn. He rode Walden at a trot for almost the entire trip, launching into a furious gallop only after crossing the Trinity. They arrived at Reunion under a barely risen sun still yellow from the night. Outside the old herbalist’s house, the last remaining citizens of the town were gathered. Bowman stopped a few yards short and remained in the saddle, watching as the coffin moved past. A rough box made from planks of cladding; Brewster would enter the earth amid the ruins of his harmonious city. Bowman took off his hat as the funeral procession passed. Alexandra Desmond came over to say hello and Walden put his nose on her shoulder.
“You can wait for me at my house.”
She returned half an hour later. Brewster’s funeral had been a brief affair. The community lacked the strength to face up to this new bereavement; the ritual had been cut short and Alexandra Desmond’s weariness was turning to melancholy. She made coffee, and they sat in their usual places on either side of the table.
“I came home last night – for an hour, if that – to prepare a meal. He was dead when I got back to his house.”
She paused.
“When you look after a sick man, you have to do that too, even if it scares you.”
“Do what?”
“Leave them alone. In case he wanted to go out on his own. It’s an idea we have – that it is better to die surrounded by people – but sometimes the dying prefer to be alone. I didn’t go out for very long.”
“In the forest, when people were dying, no-one looked at them. Maybe they wanted to be alone, but they couldn’t be. So we turned our eyes away. For those who didn’t want to die alone, there was nothing we could do. We were in cages and we weren’t allowed to speak. Peavish, the preacher, always said a prayer, but not out loud, just moving his lips. If a woman like you had been there, they wouldn’t have died in such an ugly way.”
“Why are you still alive?”
Bowman’s maimed hand passed over his face, brushing the scar on his forehead in an embarrassed reflex.
“Because I’m tough. Because I was lucky.”
“Do you really believe that pursuing that murderer is your only reason for living, Mr Bowman?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is that enough to give your life purpose?”
He looked down.
“I dunno. For now, yeah. Afterwards, if I find him, I don’t know what will happen.”
“That was my question.”
She said this ironically. Perhaps she was thinking about her own fate as she interrogated him, but Bowman felt the blood rush to his head.
“And what about you? Now that your town is in ruins and you’ve lost your husband, now that Brewster is dead, what meaning does your life have?”
Mrs Desmond responded calmly:
“Don’t get angry. I was just trying to understand you. As for my life, I’ll be fine. But I am curious to know how a man like you can answer that question.”
“A man like me?”
“A man of action.”
“A thug?”
She looked at him reproachfully.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not an engineer and I haven’t read as many books as you, but I know that no-one can really answer your question in just a few words. There’s what we do now, and what we hope for afterwards. That’s all.”
“So you’re working at the Paterson ranch. Nothing else.”
“For now.”
“In that case, what are you hoping for afterwards?”
Bowman had to force himself to listen to her. He wanted to leave the widow’s house and forget this sickening conversati
on.
“That’s not how it works. Not for me.”
“So you have no more hope, Mr Bowman? Is that what you mean?”
He balled his fists.
“Shit, you know perfectly well that I think about things. But that’s not how it works. I can’t just do what I want anymore. And you . . .”
“And me?”
He stared at the table, wanting to throw it across the room.
“I’d better leave.”
“Are you angry?”
“Stop.”
“Because I don’t want you? Because you stay here without knowing why and because you might leave any day to find my lover’s murderer?”
Bowman’s anger died out and he was filled with an incomprehensible sadness.
“Why are you doing this?”
Alexandra pursed her lips. She lifted her hand in the air and Bowman did not react when she slapped him.
“You think a woman will save you from your condition, Mr Bowman? That it’s our job to close our eyes to what you are? I’m not talking about a love of that kind, servile and old-fashioned. There are greater loves. What you have are not hopes, they are pathetic fantasies.”
She lowered her head and rubbed her hand, which was red where it had slapped his face.
“You don’t even know if you’re seeking an honourable death or an honourable life, Mr Bowman. You’ll have to choose in the end, but until you do, you will not belong here, or anywhere else on this earth.”
Bowman waited for her to look up again, but Alexandra did not move. He went out of the house, leaving her alone, and spent the rest of the day following the course of the Trinity southward, before going back to the ranch along the other bank.
When he arrived at Paterson, night had fallen. One after another, sprawling in carriages, the employees returned to their quarters after getting drunk for the whole of Sunday in Dallas. With half their savings spent on alcohol and whores, their departure for the West had just been delayed for another week. Bill the Ukrainian, as usual, had made a Mexican-style bean soup, though all this really meant was adding a few handfuls of chilli peppers to liven up the flavour and to help sweat out the whiskey before everyone went to bed.
Retribution Road Page 29
