Breakheart Pass (18 page)

While Deakin acquainted himself with the controls, Claremont stoked the fire and Marica, sitting on some cordwood with a tarpaulin over her shoulders to protect her from the snow, kept a close watch on the front of the leading coach through a strategically placed chink in the cordwood barricade. Claremont closed the fire-box and straightened.

'So Pearce it was?'

'Yes,' Deakin said. 'Pearce it was. He's been on our suspect list for a long time. It's true he was once an Indian fighter but he moved over to the other side six years ago. But to the Vvorld at large he's still Uncle Sam's man keeping a fatherly eye on the reservations. Whisky and guns. Fatherly!'

'O'Brien?'

'Nothing against him. Every detail of his military record known. A fine soldier but a rotten apple – remember that big reunion scene in Reese City with Pearce, recalling the good old days at Chattanooga in '63? O'Brien was there all right. Pearce was never within a thousand miles of it – he was an Indian scout for one of the six cavalry companies raised by what became the new State of Nevada the following year. So that made O'Brien a bad one, too.'

'Which must go for the Governor as well?'

'What else? He's weak and avaricious and a manipulator of some note.'

'But he'll hang from the same tree?'

'He'll hang from the same tree.'

'You suspected everyone.'

'My nature. My job.'

'Why not me?'

'You didn't want Pearce aboard. That put you in the clear. But
I
wanted him aboard – and me. It wasn't hard – not with those splendid “Wanted” notices the Service provided.'

'You fooled me.' Claremont sounded bitter but not rancorous. 'Everyone fooled me. The Government or the Army
might
have taken me into their confidence.'

'Nobody fooled you. We suspected there
might
be something wrong at Humboldt so it was thought better to have two strings to the bow. When I joined this train I knew no more about what was going on at Humboldt than you did.'

'But now you know?'

'Now I know.'

'Deakin!' Deakin whirled round as the shout came from behind him, his hand reaching for the gun in his belt. 'There's a gun lined up on the little lady. Don't try anything, Deakin.'

Deakin didn't try anything. Pearce was sitting on the roof of the leading coach, his feet dangling over the front edge, a very steady Colt in his hand and his saturnine hawk-like face creased in a very unfriendly smile.

Deakin kept his hands well away from his body which seemed a doubly advisable thing to do for, a few feet behind Pearce on the roof, he could now make out O'Brien also, inevitably with pistol in hand. Deakin called: 'What do you want me to do?'

'That's more like it, Mr Secret Service man.' Pearce sounded almost jovial. 'Stop the train.'

Deakin turned towards the controls and said
sotto voce:
'Stop the train, the man said.'

He eased the brake very gently as he closed the throttle. Suddenly, in a convulsive movement, he closed the brakes all the way. The locomotive wheels locked solid and there came a series of violently metallic crashes as the buffers of the tender and the following coaches came into jarring successive contact.

The effect for the two gunmen on the roof was disastrous. The combination of the sudden deceleration and the violent jolting sent the seated Pearce sliding helplessly forward on the ice-coated roof to pitch wildly downward on to the platform beneath, his gun spinning away on to the trackside as he clutched at the safety rail to save himself. Further back on the roof O'Brien was sprawled out broadside on the length of the coach as he clung tightly to a ventilator to prevent himself from going the same way as Pearce.

Deakin shouted: 'Down!' He released the brake, opened the throttle wide and dived towards the tender. Claremont was already sprawled on the cab floor while Marica was sitting on the floor of the tender with a pained expression on her face. Deakin risked a quick glance over the cordwood barricade at the rear of the tender.

Pearce, already on his feet, was moving very quickly indeed into the shelter of the leading coach. O'Brien, face bitter and masked in rage, was lining up his pistol. Flame stabbed from the muzzle. For Deakin, the shot, the metallic clang as the bullet struck metal and the whine of the ricochet came as one. Almost as a reflex action he grabbed the nearest baulk of cordwood and, without exposing himself to O'Brien's fire, hurled it upwards and backwards.

O'Brien had no target to fire at, but then he did not think he required one. A haphazardly ricocheting spent shell inside that confined metallic space could be just as deadly as a direct hit. As he eased the pressure on the trigger, the expression on his face changed from anger to alarm; the cordwood baulk rapidly approaching him seemed as large as a tree trunk. Still retaining his grip on the ventilator, he flung himself to one side but too late to prevent the baulk of timber striking him on the shoulder with numbing force: his gun flew wide. Unaware that O'Brien was disarmed, Deakin continued to throw baulks of wood as fast as he could stoop and straighten. O'Brien managed to avoid some of the missiles and fend off others, but was unable to prevent himself from being struck by quite a number. He made an awkward, scuttling, crablike retreat towards the rear of the roof of the first coach and thankfully lowered himself to the shelter of the rear platform.

In the tender Deakin stood up, risked a quick first glance, then a longer one to the rear. The coast was clear. Both the front platform and the roof of the leading coach were deserted. He turned to Marica.

'Hurt?'

She rubbed herself tenderly. 'Only where I sat down suddenly.'

Deakin smiled and looked at Claremont. 'You?'

'Only my dignity.'

Deakin nodded, eased the throttle, picked up Rafferty's rifle, moved towards the rear of the tender and began to arrange a fresh gap in the cordwood barricade.

In the day compartment the Governor and his three companions were holding their second council of war. There was for the moment a certain aura of frustration, if not precisely defeatism. Governor Fairchild had the same brimming glass – or another brimming glass – of whisky in his hand. His expression as he gazed into the glowing wood stove was nervously unhappy in the extreme. O'Brien and Pearce, the latter just replacing a decanter on the centre of the table between them, wore the expressions of two very tough, very competent men who were not accustomed to being routed so completely and so easily. Henry, also with a glass in his hand, stood at a respectful distance; his expression was, if that were possible, more lugubrious than ever.

Pearce said savagely: 'Any more clever ideas, Governor?'

'The conception was mine. The execution was yours. Is it my fault he out-smarted you? By God, if I were twenty years younger–'

'You're not,' said O'Brien. 'So shut up.'

Henry said diffidently: 'We've a crate of blasting powder. We could throw a stick–'

'If you've nothing better to suggest, you'd better shut up, too. We need this train to take us back east.'

They relapsed into a brooding silence, a silence which came to an abrupt end as the whisky decanter shattered and sent the alcohol and razoredged slivers of glass flying across the compartment. The sharp crack of a rifle was clearly heard. The Governor took his hand away from his cheek and stared uncomprehendingly at the blood. There came a second crack and Pearce's black hat flew across the compartment. Suddenly, there was no more incomprehension. All four men flung themselves to the floor and crawled hurriedly towards the passageway leading to the dining compartment. Three more bullets thudded into the day compartment, but by the time the last of those had arrived the compartment had been vacated.

Deakin withdrew his rifle from the cordwood barricade, stood up, took Marica by the arm and led her into the locomotive cab. He eased the throttle some more, picked up the dead Rafferty, carried him to the tender and covered him with a piece of tarpaulin before returning to the cab.

Claremont said: 'I'd better get back on watch, then.'

'No need. They won't bother us again tonight.' He peered closely at Claremont. 'Only your dignity hurt, eh?' He lifted Claremont's left arm and looked at the hand which was bleeding profusely. 'Clean it with snow, ma'am, please, then bandage it with a strip of that sheet.' He returned his attention to the track ahead. The train was doing no more than fifteen miles an hour, a safe maximum in the very restricted visibility conditions. Unenthusiastically, he set about stoking the fire-box.

Claremont winced as Marica cleaned the wound. He said: 'Back there on the roof you said there would be no friends at the Fort.'

'There will be some – under lock and key. The Fort's been taken over. Sepp Calhoun, for a certainty. With the help, probably, of the Paiutes.'

'Indians! What's in it for Indians – except reprisals?'

'There's a lot in it for the Indians – and no reprisals either. Not once they've received the payment we're carrying aboard this train.'

'Payment?'

'In the supply wagon. Why Doctor Molyneux died. Why Peabody died. Molyneux said he was going to examine the medical supplies – so Molyneux had to die.'

'Had to?'

'There's no medicine on this train. The medical crates are stuffed with rifle ammunition.'

Claremont watched Marica complete the bandaging of his hand. After a long pause he said: 'I see. And the Reverend?'

'The Reverend? I doubt whether Peabody has ever seen the inside of a church. He's been a Union and Federal agent for the last twenty years, my partner for the last eight of those.'

Claremont said carefully: 'He's been what?'

They caught him opening up a coffin. You know, for the cholera victims.'

'I know. I know what the coffins are for.' Claremont sounded testy but the impatience in his voice probably stemmed from his confusion.

There's as much cholera in Fort Humboldt as there are brains in my head.' Deakin, with little or no justification, sounded thoroughly disgusted with himself. 'Those coffins are full of Winchester rifles, repeaters, lever action tubular magazines.'

'No such thing.'

'There is now.'

'How come I've never heard of them?'

'Few people have – outside the factory. Production began only four months ago, none has been on sale yet – but the first four hundred were stolen from the factory. Now we know where all those stolen arms are, don't we?'

'I don't know where
I
am. Coming or going. I'm lost. What happened to the horse wagons, Mr Deakin?'

'I detached them.'

'Inevitably. Why?'

Deakin glanced at the gauge. 'A moment. We're losing pressure.'

There was no easing of pressure in the comparative safety of the dining compartment where Fairchild and the others were holding their third council of war. It was a council singularly lacking in animation, or, for that matter, conversation. For the most part the Governor, O'Brien and Pearce sat in silent gloom, which another bottle of whisky they had obtained from somewhere seemed powerless to dispel, while Henry dispiritedly stoked the wood stove.

The Governor stirred. 'Nothing? Can you think of nothing?'

O'Brien was curt. 'No.'

'There
must
be an answer.'

Henry straightened from the stove. 'Begging the Governor's pardon, we don't need an answer.'

'Oh, do be quiet,' O'Brien said wearily.

Henry had his say to say and refused to be quiet. 'We don't need an answer because there isn't any question. The only question
could
be, what happens if we don't stop him. Well, it's simple. He just drives on till he's safe and sound with his friends in Fort Humboldt.'

There was a quickening of interest, a long and thoughtful silence, then O'Brien said slowly: 'By God, I do believe you're right, Henry. Just because he knows we're running guns to the Indians we've assumed that he knows all about us, what we
really
have in mind. Of
course
he doesn't. How could he? Nobody does. Impossible – nobody but us have been in touch with the Fort.

'What else?' O'Brien said expansively. 'Well, gentlemen, it's a bitter night. I suggest we just let Deakin get right on with his driving. He seems quite competent.'

Beaming broadly, the Governor reached for the bottle. He said with happy anticipation: 'White Hand will certainly give him a warm welcome when we arrive at the Fort.'

White Hand was, at that moment, quite a long distance from the Fort and increasing the distance between them by the minute. The snow was still falling but not so heavily; the wind was still blowing but not so strongly. Behind White Hand, two or three score heavily muffled horsemen cantered rapidly along the base of a broad and winding valley. White Hand turned his head and looked slightly to his left and upwards. Already, above the mountains, there were the beginnings of a lightening of the sky to the east.

White Hand swung in the saddle, gestured to the east and beckoned his men on, urgently. impatiently. The Paiutes began to string out as they increased speed along the valley floor.

Deakin, too, could see the first signs of the predawn as he straightened from the open fire-box. He glanced at the steam-gauge, nodded in satisfaction and closed the door of the fire-box. Claremont and Marica, both pale-faced and showing unmistakable signs of exhaustion, occupied the two bucket seats in the cab. Deakin himself could easily have felt the same way but he could not yet allow himself the luxury of being tired. As much to keep himself alert and occupied as for any other reason, Deakin resumed where he had left off.

'Yes. The horse wagons. I had to cut those loose. Indians – almost certainly the Paiutes under White Hand – are going to try to intercept and ambush this train at the entrance to Breakheart Pass. I know Breakheart Pass. They'll be forced to leave their horses at least a mile away – and I don't want them to have any more horses ready to hand.'

'Ambush? Ambush?' Claremont was a man groping in the dark. 'But I thought the Indians were working hand in hand with those – those renegades back there.'