Алистер Маклин: Breakheart Pass

Deakin eased back the throttle. Marica, from her observation post at the back of the tender, spared him a brief glance. ‘Stopping?’

‘Slowing.’ He indicated the right-hand side of the cab. ‘Leave the tender and get down there. On the floor.’

Hesitantly, she moved forward. ‘You think there’ll be shooting?’

‘Well, there won’t be too many rose petals thrown, and that’s a fact.’

The train was now crawling along at between ten and fifteen miles an hour but clearly was not about to come to a complete halt, a fact that was becoming increasingly obvious to White Hand. His face registered at first faint puzzlement, then exasperation, then finally outright anger.

‘The fools!’ he said. ‘The fools! Why don’t they stop?’ He jumped to his feet, waving his arm. The train continued on its way. White Hand shouted to his warriors to follow him. They all broke concealment and came running and stumbling up the slope as quickly as the shingly and snow-covered terrain would permit them. Deakin judiciously opened the throttle a notch or two.

Once again O’Brien, Pearce, the Governor and Henry were peering with what was by now a degree of justifiable anxiety through the window. Pearce said: ‘White Hand! White Hand and his braves! What in God’s name is the meaning of this?’ He ran towards the rear platform, the others closely behind him. As they arrived there the train perceptibly began to slow.

Fairchild said: ‘We could jump for it now. White Hand could give us cover and–’

‘Fool!’ Whatever respect Pearce might ever have had for the governor of his state had clearly diminished to vanishing point. ‘That’s just exactly what he’s inviting us to do. It’s still a long, long walk to Fort Humboldt.’ He waved to the rear and pointed towards the driving cab. White Hand waved a return acknowledgment, turned and shouted some unheard order. Immediately a score of rifles were levelled.

Deakin dropped to the floor of the cab as a fusillade of bullets struck the locomotive, then, in a momentary lull in the firing, risked a quick glance through the footplate doorway. The Indians, running as they reloaded, were clearly gaining. Once again, Deakin opened the throttle slightly.

O’Brien said with increasing unease: ‘What in hell’s name is Deakin playing at? He could leave them behind if he–’

He and Pearce stared at each other.

Claremont, safely arrived in the shelter of the wood, was moving swiftly and stealthily through the trees, circling so as to approach from the rear. The guards, he was certain, would be at the lower edge of the wood, watching the scene across the valley, which meant that their backs would be towards him. From the implacable expression on his face it was clear that Claremont had no compunction in the world about gunning down unsuspecting men from the rear; far too many lives, not to mention a fortune in bullion and all his men he had so recently lost, made any consideration of fair play seem totally irrelevant.

There were about sixty horses all told, none of them hobbled or tied – Indian ponies were as well trained as those of the United States Cavalry. Claremont picked out what he thought would be the three most likely horses – the rest he would stampede – and slowly worked his way through them. They neither whinnied nor neighed, some glanced incuriously at him, some not at all – despite the thickness of their coats, they were all clearly preoccupied with their own frozen miseries.

The guards – there were two of them – stood at the very edge of the wood, just beyond the last of the horses, looking speculatively at each other as they listened to the now desultory gunfire from across the valley. Because of the cushioning effect of the snow, the occasional restless stamping of the horses, and the Indians’ complete absorption with the running battle now almost two miles away, Claremont was able to approach within twenty feet before taking up position behind the sturdy bole of a pine. At that short distance the use of the rifle seemed superfluous. He laid his rifle silently against the trunk of the tree and brought out his Colt.

Aboard the train, both Pearce and O’Brien gestured frantically to the rear, pointing repeatedly towards the distant pine wood and motioning that White Hand and his men should return there. The Indian chief, comprehending, stopped in his tracks and indicated that his men should do the same. He wheeled and pointed to the pine wood.

‘The horses!’ White Hand shouted. ‘Back to the horses!’ He took just one running step, then stopped abruptly. The two distant revolver shots carried very clearly in the freezing air. White Hand, his face impassive, tapped two of his men on the shoulders. They set off at a jog-trot towards the pine wood, not really hurrying. From White Hand’s demeanour it was apparent that the time for haste was already past.

Pearce said savagely: ‘Now we know why Deakin slowed the train and set off that damned blasting charge – to distract our attention while Claremont dropped off the other side.’

‘What worries me is the two things we don’t know – why is White Hand here and how in the name of all that’s holy did Deakin know he would be here?’

The Indians, guns lowered, now stood in a disconsolate group almost three hundred yards behind the train. Deakin, looking back, eased the throttle slightly.

‘We’ve got to stop him.’ The hysteria in Fairchild’s voice was now unmistakable. ‘We’ve got to, we’ve got to, we’ve got to! Look, we’re hardly doing more than a walking pace. We can jump down, two on either side, out-flank him and–’

O’Brien said: ‘And watch him wave goodbye as he opens the throttle wide?’

‘You sure that’s why he’s going so slow?’

‘What else?’

Claremont, his two riderless horses trailing, urged his horse up to the top of a narrow divide in a valley. Ahead of him, the rest of the troop of stampeding horses were now spread out, now gradually coming to a halt. Claremont reined in his horse at the top of the divide and looked into the middle distance. Less than three miles away, even through the still gently falling snow, the mouth of another valley could be seen branching off to the right. The telegraph poles issuing from the valley could be seen. It was the western exit of Breakheart Pass.

Claremont grimaced with pain and looked down at his bandaged left hand. Both it and a section of the rein it held were saturated with blood. He looked away and kicked his horse into motion.

The train was moving more quickly now, leaving the stationary Indians steadily further behind. White Hand, immobile and expressionless, watched the two scouts return from the pine wood. The leading scout said nothing, merely lifted his forearms, palms upwards. White Hand nodded and turned away. His men followed and they walked quickly, in double file, along the sleepers in the direction of the vanishing train.

Aboard the rear observation platform of the train Fairchild, O’Brien, Pearce and Henry looked acutely unhappy as they watched White Hand and his men becoming lost to sight round a bend in the track. Their unhappiness deepened further as they heard two pistol shots in rapid succession. Fairchild said, almost in despair: ‘And what was that about?’

‘Claremont, for a certainty.’ Pearce spoke with conviction. ‘Probably a signal to Deakin that he’s driven White Hand’s horses to hell and gone. Which means that White Hand’s braves are going to have a long walk back to Fort Humboldt and by the time he gets there Deakin will be ready for him.’

‘Sepp Calhoun will be there,’ the Governor said hopefully.

‘Calhoun has as much chance of coping with Deakin as my grandmother has,’ Pearce said. ‘Besides, he’s usually half-drunk anyway.’ His face tightened in a thin ugly line. ‘What did I tell you? He’s speeded up the train.’