Алистер Маклин - Breakheart Pass

No question, the train was accelerating. The four men looked at each other with even greater unease. O’Brien said: ‘He’s probably given up all hope of tricking us into jumping off.’ He leaned out over the safety rail and looked ahead. There was a sharp crack and O’Brien jerked back into safety. He removed his hat with none too steady a hand and examined a jagged hole torn in the brim.

Pearce said drily: ‘It would appear that he doesn’t given up hope in other directions.’

Up front in the locomotive Deakin peered ahead through the cab window. The snow had stopped now. The junction of the western exit of Breakheart Pass and the valley to his right – the agreed rendezvous with Claremont – was now less than two hundred yards away. Deakin said: ‘Hold tight.’ He closed the throttle and jammed on the brakes. The traction wheels locked to the accompaniment of the violent clanking of buffers crashing together. The four men on the rear platform regarded one another with a steadily increasing mixture of perplexity and apprehension. Deakin handed Banlon’s gun to Marica, took the second tube of blasting powder from the toolbox.

The train ground to a standstill, Deakin said ‘Now.’ She stepped off the footplate and jumped, falling heavily, with an exclamation of pain, and rolling over several times. Deakin released the brake, put the lever in reverse and opened the throttle wide. Moments later he had joined Marica on the track-side.

It took the four men on the rear observation platform several minutes to realize that the train was moving backwards, not forwards. O’Brien, the first to recover, leaned out. His eyes widened as understanding came: Deakin, by the track-side, had his gun lined up on him: O’Brien had barely time to fling himself back even as the gun was fired.

‘Jesus!’ O’Brien used some choice language. ‘They’ve jumped the train!’

‘No one at the controls?’ Fairchild was close to hysteria. ‘For God’s sake, jump off!’

O’Brien reached out a restraining hand. ‘No!’

‘God’s sake, man, remember what happened to the troops in the runaways!’

‘We need this train.’ He pushed his way to the rear door of the leading coach. ‘Drive a train, Nathan?’

Pearce shook his head.

‘Me neither. I’ll try.’ He jerked a thumb forwards. ‘Deakin.’

Pearce nodded and swung down from the platform. The train was already gathering speed and Pearce rolled over and over as he hit the trackside. But the steeply snow-covered slope of the embankment helped cushion his fall and he arrived at the bottom of the slope rather winded but unhurt. He rose at once to his feet and looked around.

The train, still accelerating, was already fifty yards away. Pearce glanced in the other direction where he could just see Deakin’s head and shoulders; he was supporting a rather shaky Marica.

‘This,’ Deakin said, ‘is just what I needed. Where are you hurt?’

‘My ankle. And my wrist.’

‘Can you stand?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Well, sit then.’ He dumped her rather unceremoniously into a sitting position by the trackside. She favoured him with a very old-fashioned look, but Deakin’s attention was already engaged elsewhere. Glancing back along the track, he could see that the train was already more than a quarter of a mile distant. What he could not see was O’Brien slithering down the cordwood in the tender and halting, his face an odd mixture of urgency and indecision as he found himself confronted with the baffling array of engine controls.

Deakin stooped and inserted the blastingpowder tube under a rail close to a sleeper. He tamped it all round with earth and stones, leaving only the fuse free.

Marica said in a noticeably cool tone: ‘You’re going to blow up the track?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Not today, it’s not.’ Pearce advanced, Colt in hand. He glanced at Marica who was cradling her left wrist in her right hand. ‘Maybe that’ll teach you to jump off trains.’ He closed on Deakin, ignoring Marica. ‘Your gun. Under your coat. By the barrel, friend.’

Deakin reached under his coat. His gun came slowly into view.

Marica said: ‘I’ve got a gun, too. Turn round, Marshal. Hands high.’

Pearce turned slowly, his eyes widening as he saw that Marica’s right hand now cradled a revolver.

Deakin switched his grip on the barrel of his Colt. Pearce, who sensed what was coming, flung himself to one side, so that the blow lost some of its impact. But it was sufficient to make him stumble and fall, the gun coming free from his temporarily nerveless hand. He dived after it but Deakin was even quicker, jumping forward with his right foot swinging.

Marica winced in horror and revulsion at the sound of the heavy blow. She said in a whisper: ‘You hit him when his back was turned, when his hands were up and then – and then–’

‘And then I kicked him on the head. Next time you point a gun at a man like Pearce make sure the safety-catch is off.’

She stared at him, stared down at the gun in her hand, then shook her head slowly. After a moment she looked up.

‘You might at least say thanks.’

‘What? Oh, sure. Thanks.’ He glanced down the track. The train, rapidly dwindling into the distance, was now going very quickly indeed and beginning to sway wildly. He switched his gaze. Claremont, two other horses held on loose reins, came cantering round the spur of a hill. At a gesture from Deakin he reined the horses in and held them where they were. Deakin dragged Pearce along the line, dropped him in unceremonious fashion, hurried back up the line, stooped, lit a fuse, picked up Marica and came quickly down the embankment. He helped her on to one of the spare horses, swung aboard the third himself and gestured that they should move away. After a short distance, as if by mutual consent, they stopped and looked back.

The explosion was curiously quiet. Rubble and dirt flew through the air. When those and the smoke settled, it could be seen that one sleeper was twisted and the left-hand line badly distorted.

Claremont said uncertainly: ‘They can fix that, you know. They can unbolt the damaged section of the track, take it out and replace it with a section from behind the train.’

‘I know. If I’d wrecked it permanently with a large charge, they’d have no option but to walk to the Fort.’

‘Well?’

‘That way they would arrive at the Fort alive, wouldn’t they?’

Marica looked at him in horror.

‘That means that we would all die.’

Marica’s expression did not change.

‘Don’t you see?’ Deakin’s voice was gentle. ‘I’ve no option.’

Marica shuddered and turned away. Deakin looked at her without expression, urged his horse into a canter. After a moment, the others followed.

O’Brien sagged against the side of the cab, mopping a sweat-stained brow in relief. The train was still reversing but, just as clearly, it was markedly slowing. O’Brien looked from the footplate towards the rear. White Hand and his men were now less than a quarter of a mile distant. For once, White Hand’s iron impassivity had deserted him. His face reflected at first astonished disbelief, then gladness. He waved towards the train, beckoned to his men and broke into a run. Within two minutes the Paiutes were swarming aboard the stopped train while White Hand swung up on to the footplate to be greeted by O’Brien. Immediately, O’Brien opened the throttle and the train began to move forwards.

O’Brien said: ‘And the horses were all gone?’

‘All gone. And two of my men shot in the back. You have saved us a long walk, Major O’Brien. My friend, Marshal Pearce – I do not see him.’