Алистер Маклин - Breakheart Pass

‘I’m – I’m just tired.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Not your fault, Colonel, but you’re not the bearer of very good news.’ She walked away stopped by the passageway entrance and looked for a long, considering moment at Deakin, then swung round to face Pearce.

‘Is this poor man to get nothing at all to eat or drink?’

‘Poor man!’ There was open contempt in Pearce’s voice but it was clearly directed at Deakin, not Marica. ‘Would you like to repeat that, ma’am, to the relatives of the folks who died in the fire at Lake’s Crossing? Plenty of meat on that ruffian’s bones yet. He’ll survive.’

‘But surely you’re not going to leave him tied up all night?’

‘That’s just what I intend to do.’ Finality in the voice. ‘I’ll cut him free in the morning.’

‘In the morning?’

‘That’s it. And not for any tender feelings I have for our friend here. By that time we’ll be deep in hostile territory. He won’t try to escape then. A white man, alone, unarmed and without a horse wouldn’t last two hours among the Paiutes. A two-year-old could track him in the snow – and apart from anything else he’d just starve or freeze to death. And whatever else we don’t know about Master John Deakin, we have learnt that he has a mighty high regard for his own skin.’

‘So he lies there – and suffers – all night.’

Pearce said patiently: ‘He’s a murderer, arsonist, thief, cheat and coward. You make a mighty poor choice for your pity, ma’am.’

‘And you make a mighty poor example of a lawman, Mr Pearce.’ Judging by the rather more than mildly astonished looks on the faces of the listeners, her stormy outburst was clearly out of character. ‘Or don’t you know the law? No, Uncle, I will not “shush, my dear”. The law of the United States is very explicit on this. A man is innocent until proved guilty, but Mr Pearce has already tried, convicted and condemned this man and will probably hang him from the first convenient tree. The law! Show me the law that says that you’re entitled to treat a man like a wild dog!’

With a swirl of her long skirts Marica made an angry departure. O’Brien said, poker-faced: ‘I thought you knew about the law, Nathan?’

Pearce scowled at him, then grinned ruefully and reached for his glass.

On the western horizon the dark clouds had now turned to a threatening indigo-black. The dimly seen and still distant peaks loomed palely white against the ominous backdrop: the upper pines in the valley, along the foot of which the railway track snaked in conformation with the winding and partially frozen river, were already covered with snow. The relief train, scarcely more than crawling up the steep gradient, was moving into the bitter cold, the icy darkness of the uplands.

The contrast aboard the train itself could hardly have been more marked, but Deakin, alone now in the officers’ day compartment, was hardly in a mood to appreciate this. The warmth from the cordwood stove, the warm glow from the single gimballed oil-lamp were clearly not the matters uppermost in his mind. He was still in his recumbent position but had now fallen over completely on his side. He grimaced in pain as he made another wrenching but futile attempt to ease the ropes that bound his wrists together behind his back; the brief attempt ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Deakin was not the only one in that coach who was not asleep. Marica sat upright on the narrow bunk which occupied more than half of her tiny cubicle, thoughtfully biting her lower lip and glancing occasionally and irresolutely at her door. Her thoughts were centred on precisely the same matter as was engaging the attention of Deakin himself – the uncomfortable predicament in which the latter found himself. Suddenly, decisively, she rose, pulled a wrap around her and moved silently out into the passageway, closing the door as silently behind her.

She put her ear against the door next her own. It was clear that, within, silence was not at a premium: judging from the stentorian snores, the Governor of the State of Nevada had decided to let tomorrow’s troubles look after themselves. Satisfied, Marica moved on, opened the door to the day compartment, closed it behind her and looked down at Deakin. He returned her gaze, his face giving away nothing. Marica forced herself to speak in a calm and detached manner.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Well, well.’ Deakin looked at her with an expression of faint interest in his face. ‘Perhaps the Governor’s niece isn’t quite the cocooned little marshmallow she seems to be. You know what the Governor or the Colonel or, for that matter, Pearce would do to you if you were found here?’

‘And what would they do to me?’ A degree of acerbity was not lacking in her voice. ‘I hardly think, Mr Deakin, that you are in a position to warn or lecture anybody. And I would remind you that today is today and not a hundred years ago and I can get by quite well, thank you, without any cotton-wool or rose-petals. I asked you if you were all right.’

Deakin sighed. ‘That’s it – kick a man when he’s down. Sure I’m all right. Can’t you see? I always sleep this way.’

‘As a form of wit, sarcasm is wasted on me.’ Her voice was cold. ‘And it looks as if I’m wasting my time on you. I came to ask if I can get you something.’

‘Sorry. No offence. John Deakin is not at his best. As regards your offer – well, you heard what the Marshal said. Don’t waste your sympathy on me.’

‘What the Marshal says goes in my left ear and out the right.’ She ignored the slight surprise, the increasing interest in his face. ‘There’s some food left in the galley.’

‘I’ve lost my appetite. Thanks, all the same.’

‘A drink?’

‘Ah, now! Did I hear the sound of sweet music?’ He straightened, with difficulty, until he had reached a vertical sitting position. ‘I’ve been watching them drinking all evening and it hasn’t been pleasant. I don’t like being spoon-fed. Could you untie the ropes on my wrists?’

‘Could I – do I look mad? If once you got your hands free, you – you–’

‘Would wrap them round your lovely neck?’ He peered more closely at her neck while she regarded him in stony silence. ‘It is rather lovely. However, that’s hardly the point. At this moment, I doubt whether I could wrap my two hands round a whisky glass. Have you seen my hands?’

He twisted round and let her see them. They were blue and almost grotesquely swollen, with the thongs cutting deeply into the badly puffed flesh of the wrists. Deakin said: ‘Whatever else our Marshal lacks, you must admit he brings a certain enthusiasm to the task on hand.’

Marica’s face was tight-lipped, both anger and compassion in her eyes. She said: ‘Do you promise–’

‘My turn now. Do I look mad. Escape? With all those nasty Paiutes out there. I’d rather take my chance on the Governor’s rot-gut whisky.’

Five minutes elapsed before Deakin could take that chance. It took Marica only a minute to untie him, but it took Deakin another four, after hopping to the nearest armchair, to restore a measure of circulation to his numbed hands. The pain must have been excruciating but his face remained immobile. Marica, watching him intently, said: ‘I think John Deakin is a great deal tougher than everybody seems to give him credit for.’

‘It ill becomes a grown man to bellow in front of a woman.’ He flexed his fingers. ‘I think you mentioned something about a drink, Miss Fairchild.’

She brought him a glass of whisky. Deakin drained half of it in one gulp, sighed in satisfaction, replaced the glass on the table by his side, stooped and started to free the ropes binding his ankles. Marica jumped to her feet, her fists clenched, her eyes mad; she remained like that for the briefest of moments, then ran from the compartment. She was back in seconds while Deakin was still untying his ankles. He looked in disfavour at the small but purposeful-looking pearl-handled pistol in her hand. He said: ‘What are you carrying that around for?’