Alistair MacLean - Breakheart Pass

ALISTAIR MACLEAN

Breakheart Pass

To Mary Marcelle

THE CHARACTERS

JOHN DEAKIN

A Gunman

COLONEL CLAREMONT

US Cavalry

COLONEL FAIRCHILD

Commandant of Fort Humboldt

GOVERNOR FAIRCHILD

The Governor of Nevada

MARICA FAIRCHILD

The Governor's niece and the daughter of Colonel Fairchild

MAJOR O'BRIEN

The Governor's Aide

NATHAN PEARCE

US Marshal

SEPP CALHOUN

A villain of some note

WHITE HAND

Chief of the Paiutes

GARRITTY

A gambler

REV. THEODORE PEABODY

Chaplain elect for Virginia City

DOCTOR MOLYNEUX

US Army Doctor

CHRIS BANLON

Engineer

CARLOS

Cook

HENRY

Steward

BELLEW

US Army Sergeant

DEVLIN

Brakeman on train

RAFFERTY

A trooper

FERGUSON

CARTER

US Army Telegraphists

SIMPSON

BENSON

CARMODY

Three minor villains

HARRIS

CAPTAIN OAKLAND

Passive but relevant

LIEUTENANT NEWELL

The following bears very closely on the choice of 1873 as the date for this story.

CALIFORNIAN GOLD RUSH

1855-75

COMSTOCK LODE DISCOVERED

1859

DISAFFECTED NEVADA INDIANS ACTIVE

1860-80

NEVADA BECAME STATE

1864

UNION PACIFIC RAILWAY BUILT

1869

BONANZA DISCOVERED

1873

CHOLERA IN ROCKIES

1873

DEVELOPMENT OF FIRST WINCHESTER

REPEATERS

1873

UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA (ELKO)

ESTABLISHED

1873

DISASTROUS FIRE IN LAKE'S CROSSING

(WHICH BECAME RENO IN

1879)

1873

NB. It might appear odd that a US Army relief mission should be sent to attend a cholera outbreak, but this is not so: the State of Nevada Health Service was not established until 1893.

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ONE

The saloon bar of Reese City's grandiosely named Imperial Hotel had about it an air of defeat, of uncaring dilapidation, of the hauntingly sad nostalgia for the half-forgotten glories of days long gone by, of days that would never come again. The occasionally plastered walls were cracked and dirty and liberally behung with faded pictures of what appeared to be an assortment of droopmoustached desperadoes: the lack of 'Wanted' notices below the pictures struck an almost jarring note. The splintered planks that passed for a floor were incredibly warped and of a hue that made the walls appear relatively freshly painted: much missed-at spittoons were much in evidence, while there were few square inches without their cigar butts: those lay about in their hundreds, the vast majority bearing beneath them charred evidence to the fact that their owners hadn't bothered to stub them out either before or after dropping them to the floor. The shades of the oil-lamps. like the murky roof above, were blackened by soot, the full-length mirror behind the bar was fly-blown and filthy. For the weary traveller seeking a haven of rest, the saloon bar offered nothing but a total lack of hygiene, an advanced degree of decadence and an almost stultifying sense of depression and despair.

Neither did the majority of the customers. They were remarkably in keeping with the general ambience of the saloon. Most of them were disproportionately elderly, markedly dispirited, unshaven and shabby, all but a lonely few contemplating the future, clearly a bleak and hopeless one, through the bottoms of their whisky glasses. The solitary barman, a myopic individual with a chest-high apron which, presumably to cope with laundry problems, he'd prudently had dyed black in the distant past, appeared to share in the general malaise: wielding a venerable handtowel in which some faint traces of near-white could with difficulty be distinguished, he was gloomily attempting the impossible task of polishing a sadly cracked and chipped glass, his ultra-slow movements those of an arthritic zombie. Between the Imperial Hotel and, also of that precise day and age, the Dickensian concept of a roistering, hospitable and heart-warming coaching inn of Victorian England lay a gulf of unbridgeable immensity.

In all the saloon there was only one isolated oasis of conversational life. Six people were seated round a table close by the door, three of them in a high-backed bench against the wall: the central figure of those three was unquestionably the dominant one at the table. Tall and lean, deeply tanned and with the heavily crow-footed eyes of a man who has spent too long in the sun, he was dressed in the uniform of a colonel of the United States Cavalry, was aged about fifty, was – unusually for that time – clean-shaven and had an aquiline and intelligent face crowned by a mass of brushed-back silver hair. He wore, at that moment, an expression that could hardly be described as encouraging.

The expression was directed at a man standing opposite him on the other side of the table, a tall and powerfully built individual with a darkly saturnine expression and a black hairline moustache. He was dressed entirely in black. His badge of office, that of a US Marshal, glittered on his chest. He said: 'But surely. Colonel Claremont, in circumstances such as those–'

'Regulations are regulations.' Claremont's voice, though civil enough, was sharp and incisive, an accurate reflection of the man's appearance. 'Army business is army business. Civilian business is civilian business. I'm sorry. Marshal – ah–'

'Pearce. Nathan Pearce.'

'Of course. Of course. My apologies. I should have known.' Claremont shook his head regretfully, but there was no trace of regret in his voice. 'Ours is an army troop train. No civilians aboard – except by special permission from Washington.'

Pearce said mildly: 'But couldn't we all be regarded as working for the Federal government?'

'By army definitions, no.'

'I see.' Pearce clearly didn't see at all. He looked slowly, thoughtfully, around the other five – one of them a young woman: none wore uniform. Pearce centred his gaze on a small, thin, frockcoated individual with a preacher's collar, a high domed forehead chasing a rapidly receding hair-line and an expression of permanently apprehensive anxiety. He shifted uneasily under the Marshal's penetrating stare and his prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down as if he were swallowing with considerable speed and frequency.

Claremont said drily: 'The Reverend Theodore Peabody has got both special permission and qualifications.' It was clear that Claremont's regard for the preacher was somewhat less than unlimited. 'His cousin is private secretary to the President. The Reverend Peabody is going to be a chaplain in Virginia City.'

'He's going to be what?' Pearce looked at a now positively cringing preacher, then unbelievingly at Claremont. 'He's mad! He'd last a damn sight longer among the Paiute Indians.'

Peabody's tongue licked his lips as he resumed his swallowing performance. 'But – but they say the Paiutes kill every white man on sight.'

'Not on sight. They tend to take their time about it.' Pearce moved his eyes again. Seated beyond the by now plainly scared pastor was a massively rotund figure in a loudly checked suit. He had the jowls to match his build, an expansive smile and a booming voice.

'Dr Edward Molyneux, at your service. Marshal.'

'I suppose you're going to Virginia City, too. Plenty work for you there, Doctor – filling out death certificates. Precious few from natural causes, I'm afraid.' Molyneux said comfortably: 'Not for me, those dens of iniquity. You see before you the newly appointed resident surgeon for Fort Humboldt. They haven't been able to find a uniform to fit me yet.'