Алистер Маклин - Breakheart Pass

‘Thank you, Banlon.’ He transferred his attention to the returning Henry who wore upon his face the expression of a man whom fate can touch no more. ‘Ready?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean – no?’

‘I mean the set’s gone.’

‘What!’

‘It’s not in the supply wagon, that’s for sure.’

‘Impossible.’

Henry stared silently into the middle distance.

‘Are you sure?’ It wasn’t so much disbelief in Claremont’s tone as a groping lack of understanding, the wearied bafflement of a man to whom too many incomprehensible things have happened too quickly.

Henry assumed an air of injured patience which sat well upon his lugubrious countenance. ‘I do not wish to seem impertinent to the Colonel but I suggest the Colonel goes see for himself.’

Claremont manfully quelled what was clearly an incipient attack of apoplexy. ‘All of you! Search the train!’

‘Two things, Colonel,’ Deakin said. He looked around and ticked numbers off his fingers. ‘First is, of the ten people you’re talking to, Rafferty is the only one you can order about. None of the rest of us is under your command, directly or indirectly, which makes it a bit awkward for martinet colonels accustomed to instant obedience. Second thing is, I don’t think you need bother searching.’

Claremont did some even more manful quelling, then finally and silently gave Deakin a coldly interrogative look.

Deakin said: ‘When we were refuelling this morning I saw someone take a case about the size of a transmitter from the supply wagon and walk back along the track with it. The snow was pretty thick and the visibility – well, we all remember what that was like. I just couldn’t see who it was.’

‘Yes? Assuming it was Ferguson, why should he do a thing like that?’

‘How should I know? Ferguson or no Ferguson, I didn’t speak to this person. Why should I do your thinking for you?’

‘You become increasingly impertinent, Deakin.’

‘I don’t see there’s a great deal you can do about that.’ Deakin shrugged. ‘Maybe he wanted to repair it.’

‘And why take it away to do that?’

Deakin showed an uncharacteristic flash of irritation. ‘How the hell should–’ He broke off. ‘Is the supply wagon heated?’

‘No.’

‘And it’s way below freezing. If he wanted to carry out some repairs or maintenance he’d take it to a heated place – one of the troop wagons. And they’re both at the bottom of that ravine now – including the transmitter. There’s your answer.’

Claremont had himself well under control. He said thoughtfully: ‘And you’re pretty glib with your answers, Deakin.’

‘Oh my God! Go and search your damned train, then.’

‘No. You’re probably right, if only because there would appear to be no other explanations.’ He took a step closer to Deakin. ‘Something’s familiar about your face.’ Deakin looked at him briefly then looked away in silence. ‘Were you ever in the army, Deakin?’

‘No.’

‘Union or Confederate, I mean?’

‘Neither.’

‘Neither?’

‘I’ve told you, I’m not a man of violence.’

‘Then where were you in the War between the States?’

Deakin paused as if trying to recall, then finally said: ‘California. The goings-on in the east didn’t seem all that important out there.’

Claremont shook his head. ‘How you cherish the safety of your own skin, Deakin.’

‘A man could cherish worse things in life,’ Deakin said indifferently. He turned and walked slowly up the track. Henry, his lugubrious eyes very thoughtful, watched him go. He turned to O’Brien and spoke softly:

‘I’m like the Colonel. I’ve seen him before, too.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t put a name to him and I can’t remember where I saw him. But it’ll come back.’

Shortly after noon it had started to snow again but not heavily enough to impair forward visibility from the cab. The train, now with only five coaches behind the tender, was making fair speed up the winding bed of a valley, a long plume of smoke trailing out behind. In the dining saloon all but one of the surviving passengers were sitting down to a sombre meal. Claremont turned to Henry.

‘Tell Mr Peabody that we’re eating.’ Henry left and Claremont said to the Governor: ‘Though God knows I’ve got no appetite.’

‘Nor I, Colonel, nor I.’ The Governor’s appearance did not belie his words. The anxiety of the previous night was still there but now overlaid with a new-found haggard pallor. The portmanteau bags under his eyes were dark and veined and what little could be seen of the jowls behind the splendid white beard was more pendulous than ever. He was looking less like Buffalo Bill by the minute. He continued: ‘What a dreadful journey, what a dreadful journey! All the troops, all those splendid boys gone. Captain Oakland and Lieutenant Newell missing – and they may be dead for all we know. Then Dr Molyneux – he is dead. Not only dead, but murdered. And the Marshal has no idea who – who – My God! He might even be sitting here. The murderer, I mean.’

Pearce said mildly: ‘The odds are about ten to one that he isn’t, Governor. The odds are ten to one that he’s lying back in the ravine there.’

‘How do you know?’ The Governor shook his head in slow despair. ‘How can anyone know? One wonders what in the name of God is going to happen next.’

‘I don’t know,’ Pearce said. ‘But judging from the expression on Henry’s face, it’s happened already.’

Henry, who had that moment returned, had a hunted air about him. His hands were convulsively opening and closing. He said in a husky voice: ‘I can’t find him, sir. The preacher, I mean. He’s not in his sleeping quarters.’

Governor Fairchild gave an audible moan. Both he and Claremont looked at each other with the same dark foreboding mirrored in their eyes. Deakin’s face, for a moment, might have been carved from stone, his eyes bleak and cold. Then he relaxed and said easily: ‘He can’t be far. I was talking to him only fifteen minutes ago.’

Pearce said sourly: ‘So I noticed. What about?’

‘Trying to save my soul,’ Deakin explained. ‘Even when I pointed out that murderers have no soul he–’

‘Be quiet!’ Claremont’s voice was almost a shout. ‘Search the train!’

‘And stop it, sir?’

‘Stop it, O’Brien?’

‘Things happen aboard this train, Colonel.’

O’Brien didn’t try to give any special significance to his words, he didn’t have to. ‘He may be on it. He may not. If he’s not, he must be by the track; he can’t very well have fallen down a ravine for there have been none for over an hour. If he were to be found outside, then we’d have to reverse down the line and every yard further we go on–’

‘Of course. Henry, tell Banlon.’

Henry ran forward while the Governor, Claremont, O’Brien and Pearce moved towards the rear. Deakin remained where he was, evidently with no intention of going anywhere. Marica looked at him with an expression that was far from friendly. The dark eyes were as stony as it was possible for warm dark eyes to be, the lips compressed. When she spoke it was with a quite hostile incredulity.

She said in a tone that befitted her expression: ‘He may be sick, injured, dying perhaps. And you just sit there. Aren’t you going to help them look for him?’

Deakin leaned back leisurely in his chair, his legs crossed, produced and lit a cheroot. He said in what appeared to be genuine surprise: ‘Me? Certainly not. What’s he to me? Or I to him? The hell with the Reverend.’

‘But he’s such a nice man.’ It was difficult to say whether Marica was more aghast at the impiety or the callous indifference. ‘Why, he sat there and talked to you–’