Breakheart Pass

'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