VIII
Back when state lines were mere suggestions, and towns were sprouting up like weeds across North America, a dying marshal promoted Adam to the rank of deputy so that he might pursue a man in the name of the law. The man’s name was Randy Turnbull, and he had shot the marshal during a confrontation outside the bank of the town where Adam had found work as a blacksmith. The bank’s new safe had not yet arrived, and the bankers had made the questionable decision to keep the miners’ wages inside a locked drawer, so Turnbull had decided to rob them. Adam was of the belief that Turnbull would have robbed them even if they did have a safe – there was a kind of wild desperation in his eyes, as if all the good steel in the state couldn’t keep him away from that cash.
Turnbull fled south on horseback, and Adam followed on foot, because he could find no horse strong enough to bear him. Across valleys and through mountain passes Turnbull went, pushing his horse harder than a horse should be pushed, until, at the end of the first week, Adam came across Turnbull’s steed, dead and abandoned at the edge of a shallow river. Turnbull had taken it upon himself to haul his stolen cash himself, making his tracks deep and his stride slow. Still he continued, displaying an almost supernatural turn of grit, through dusty plains and rocky valleys where the sun baked the ground and the warm winds swept away his tracks.
From time to time, Adam lost the trail, but it was plain enough where Turnbull was headed: south, and further south still, towards Mexico. It was at a town in what would soon officially be called New Mexico that Adam finally caught up with him, almost a month into the chase. The man was known to be taking a drink at one of the taverns. Yet, instead of simply striding inside and shooting Turnbull dead, Adam chose to ask the local sheriff for help.
This proved to be a vital mistake. The sheriff – a gruff man with drooping moustaches – was of the belief that Adam was a “no-good Negro” who had stolen a badge and was impersonating the role of deputy. Adam was promptly arrested at gunpoint, and only managed to avoid an immediate lynching because of the sheriff’s belief that a marshal should oversee it. By the time that marshal arrived – two weeks later – to confirm Adam’s legitimacy, Turnbull was long gone into Mexico. Adam carried on tracking him, without so much as an apology from the sheriff, who spat in the dust of Adam’s wake. But he would never catch up with Turnbull. The man had successfully vanished.
* * *
As Adam tracks Frank Sinclair and the remains of his hunting party through the autumn forest, his wounds start to insist on making themselves known. The bites in his arms and legs sting as he strides, and the gunshot wound in his shoulder is spreading a liquid warmth across him. Adam can feel the bullet lodged there, grating up against his collarbone with every jarring step.
The forest is filled with tracks. There are hoofprints and pawprints crossing the damp earth in every direction, and it’s difficult to tell where Frank Sinclair went. Blood marks the ground, splattered crimson across yellow leaves and thick dark roots.
There is movement ahead, and Adam follows it through the dripping yellow trees to where a pack of ragged dogs are tearing into the remains of a fallen hunter. There are long scars across their backs, and their ribs are protruding; they are a circle of teeth, devouring one of their torturers. Adam advances, and the dogs part to let him through. He crouches beside the fallen hunter, and recognises him as one of the naked people from the Sinclairs’ greenhouse. Retrieving the dead hunter’s rifle, he moves on, and behind him the circle of teeth closes.
Adam follows the tracks up a slope at the edge of the forest, and through a muddy pass between two high hills. Beyond the pass is a wide valley, filled with dying wild flowers. The flowers are purple, and deep orange, and white, and red, and the tangled mess of them sweeps away ahead of him, the mass of colours broken by the trail of muddy hoofprints trampled through them. Adam can see a dozen red-coat riders on horseback in the far distance, crossing the stream at the centre of the valley, one of which is small, and has wispy white hair. Kneeling among the wild flowers, which are so frosted that they crackle beneath him, Adam raises his rifle, pulls the bolt back, and takes aim across the iron sights.
Then, after a long pause, he lowers it.
The problem is the horses. At this distance, Adam knows that his aim will be too flawed. The rifle’s calibre is weak enough that the wind will make the bullet drift, and even if he were to compensate, he would still be more likely to hit a horse than a rider. Adam has already had to execute two horses today, and he has witnessed the bloody end of more. Those horses have done nothing to warrant more pain and panic than they have already endured.
Adam makes his way down into the valley, following the trail trampled through the flowers. Soon, there are only the colours of the flowers and the dazzling bright light from the sun, shadows shifting across the frosted ground as clouds drift quickly with the chill winds.
By the time he reaches the river, he can no longer see the riders. The waters froth white, and caught up in the current are colourful petals and yellow leaves. Adam kneels beside the water and lets it rush around his fingers, considering where to go from here. It took him a while to walk down to the river, and it will take him
