Alistair MacLean - Breakheart Pass

'We go now,' O'Brien said. The Paiutes, Pearce and Henry went back into the main body of the train while White Hand rejoined O'Brien in the cab. O'Brien released the brake and opened the throttle very gently indeed, at the same time peering out gingerly over the side. As the locomotive wheels reached the new section of the track the line dipped slightly but not dangerously. When the last of the coaches had passed over the damaged area O'Brien returned to the controls and opened the throttles wide.

Deakin, Claremont and Marica had stopped, all three still on horseback. Deakin was swiftly rebandaging Claremont's gory hand.

Claremont said urgently: 'Minutes count, man! We're losing time.'

'We'll lose you if we don't stop this bleeding.' He glanced at Marica, who with set face and lips compressed against the pain, held her left wrist tightly in her right hand. 'How's it going?'

'I'll be all right.'

Deakin looked at her briefly, without expression, then resumed the rebandaging. They had scarcely moved on when he looked at her again. She was slumped in the saddle, her head bowed. He said: 'Is your wrist that bad?'

'It's my ankle. I can't put my foot in the stirrup.' Deakin moved round to the other side of her horse. Her left leg was dangling clear of the stirrup. He looked away, turned around and glanced upward over his right shoulder. The snow was gone and the clouds drifting away to leave the washed-out blue of the sky; the sun was appearing over the shoulder of a mountain. Again, he looked at Marica: with ankle and wrist out of commission she was now scarcely able to maintain her seat in the saddle. He pulled in close to her horse, lifted her across to his own, took the reins of the now riderless horse in his free hand and urged both animals into a rapid canter. Claremont, who looked in no better case than Marica, followed close behind. They were now paralleling the line of the railway track. The ground there was flat and relatively free from snow and they made comparatively good time.

Sepp Calhoun was in his usual place, the Commandant's chair, with his feet in their usual position, the Commandant's table, pursuing his usual custom which was drinking the Commandant's whisky and smoking one of his cheroots. The only other occupant of the room was Colonel Fairchild, who sat on a straight deal chair and had his wrists bound behind him. The door opened and a scruffy and very swarthy white man entered.

Calhoun said genially: 'All right, Carmody?'

'Fixed. The telegraphists are locked up with the rest. Benson is at the gate. Harris is fixing some grub.'

'Fine. Just time for a snack before our friends arrive. Less than an hour, I should say.' He grinned mockingly at Fairchild. 'The battle of Breakheart Pass belongs to history now, Colonel.' He smiled even more broadly. 'I guess “massacre” is the word I'm looking for.'

In the supply wagon a still badly battered but much recovered Pearce was busy handing out repeaters and ammunition to the Paiutes who crowded round him. There was no sign of the traditional Indian reserve. They chattered and smiled and their eyes shone, children transported by their new toys. Pearce made his way forward and clambered into the tender, three Winchester repeaters under his arm. He passed into the cab and handed one to White Hand.

'A present for you. White Hand.'

The Indian smiled. 'You are a man of your word, Marshal Pearce.'

Pearce made to smile but his face at once felt so painful that he rapidly thought better of it. Instead he said: 'Twenty minutes. Not more than twenty minutes.'

Deakin had fifteen minutes on them. Momentarily he halted the horses and gazed ahead. The bridge over the ravine was no more than half a mile away; immediately beyond that lay the Fort Humboldt compound. He helped Marica on to her own horse and motioned for both her and Claremont to precede him. He drew his pistol and held it in his hand. In now brilliant sunshine the three horses picked their delicate way across the trestle bridge that spanned the ravine and cantered up to the compound gate. Benson, the guard, a man with a dull, stupid, brutalized face, moved out to intercept them, cocked rifle ready in his hands.

'Who are you?' His voice was slurred with a mixture of truculence and alcohol. 'What's your business at Fort Humboldt?'

'Not with you.' Deakin's voice was bleak, authoritative. 'Sepp Calhoun. Quickly!'

'Who you got there?'

'Are you blind? Prisoners. From the train.'

'From the train?' Benson nodded uncertainly, whatever mental processes he had clearly in temporary abeyance. 'You'd better come.'

Benson led them across the compound. As they approached the Commandant's office the door opened and Calhoun appeared, a gun in either hand. He said savagely: 'Who the hell you got there, Benson?'

'Says they're from the train, boss.'

Deakin ignored both Calhoun and Benson and moved his pistol in the direction of Claremont and Marica. 'Get down, you two.' He turned to Calhoun. 'You Calhoun? Let's talk inside.'

Calhoun levelled both pistols at Deakin. 'Uhuh. Too fast, mister. Who are you?'

Deakin said in weary exasperation. 'John Deakin. Nathan Pearce sent me.'

'So you say.'

'So they say.' He nodded to the now dismounted and clearly sick Claremont and Marica. 'My passport. Hostages. Safe-conduct. Call them what you like. Nathan said I was to take them for proof.'

A shade less aggressively Calhoun said: 'I've seen passports in better shape.'

'They tried to be clever. Meet Colonel Claremont, the relief Commandant. And Miss Marica Fairchild – the present Commandant's daughter.'

Calhoun's eyes widened, his mouth opened perceptibly and his guns momentarily wavered, but his recovery was almost immediate. 'We'll soon see about that. Inside.' He and Benson ushered the other three, at gun-point, into the Commandant's office.

Colonel Fairchild stared as the door opened. Despite the bound hands, he stumbled shakily to his feet.

'Marica! Marica! And Colonel Claremont.' Marica hobbled across the room and threw her arms around him. 'My dear, my dear. What have they done to you? And what – what in God's name – why are you here?'

Deakin said to Calhoun: 'Satisfied?'

'Well, I guess – but I never heard of no John Deakin.'

Deakin thrust his gun inside his coat, a pacific gesture which helped further reassure the wavering Calhoun.

'Who do you think took those four hundred rifles from the Winchester armoury?' He had the ascendancy now and used it with savage authority. 'God's sake, man, stop wasting time. Things are bad, terribly bad. Your precious White Hand botched the job. He's dead. So's O'Brien. Pearce is hurt, badly. The soldiers have the train and when they get it going again–'

'White Hand, O'Brien, Pearce–'

Deakin nodded curtly to Benson. 'Tell him to wait outside.'

'Outside?' Calhoun seemed dazed.

'Out. There's worse to come – but for your ears only.'

Calhoun nodded mechanically at a bewildered Benson, who left, closing the door behind him.

Calhoun said despairingly: 'There couldn't be anything worse–'

'Yes, there is. This.' The pistol was back in Deakin's hand, the muzzle pressing with brutal force against Calhoun's teeth. Deakin swiftly relieved the stupefied Calhoun of both guns and handed one to Claremont, who lined it up on Calhoun. Deakin produced a knife and sliced the bonds of Colonel Fairchild, who was no less flabbergasted than Calhoun, and laid Calhoun's other gun on the table beside him. 'Yours. When you're fit to use it. How many other men does Calhoun have? Apart from Benson?'

'Who in God's name are you? How–'

Deakin grabbed Fairchild's lapels. 'How – many – men?'