wagons! They're not there!'
'Get down, fool!' White Hand's habitual impassivity had, for the moment, completely deserted him. His face was baffled, uncomprehending, as he saw that the train, now well into Breakheart Pass, clearly consisted of no more than three coaches.
O'Brien's face was now equally uncomprehending. He said: 'How the hell should
Fairchild said: 'You could try to find out, couldn't you?'
Pearce handed Fairchild one of his guns. 'Tell you what, Governor. You find out.'
The Governor grabbed the gun. For that brief passing moment he was clearly out of his mind. 'Very well, then. I shall.'
He took the gun, moved forward, opened the front door of the leading coach no more than a crack and slid an apprehensive eye round the edge. A second later there was the boom of a Colt and a bullet struck the coach less than a foot from his head: Fairchild withdrew with speed, banging the door behind him, his momentary period of insanity clearly behind him. Severely shaken, he re-entered the dining compartment.
Pearce said: 'Well, what did you find out?'
The Governor said nothing. He threw the gun on the table and made for the whisky bottle.
Up front, Deakin said: 'Company?'
'My uncle.' Marica examined the still smoking Colt with aversion.
'Get him?'
'No.'
'Pity.'
Claremont, still swathed in his white camouflage, inched slowly towards the edge of the embankment and hitched a wary eye over the top. The train, almost a mile away by that time, was well into the pass. He scanned the boulders in the dry watercourse ahead but could detect no sign of movement. He had not expected to see any, not yet; White Hand was far too experienced to make his presence known until the last moment possible. Claremont then looked across the valley to the distant clump of pine trees. If Deakin were right and horses there were, that was where the horses would be held in concealment; and Claremont no longer questioned Deakin's judgment. The approach to the pines would be difficult but not impossible: a smaller branching watercourse led up to the very edge of the copse and if he could reach the foot of this dry gully unobserved he should be under concealment for the rest of the way. The only danger lay in crossing the railway line, and while he was far too experienced a soldier to discount the possibility of any danger, he thought that the odds on a safe traverse of the track lay in his favour. The guard or guards in charge of the horses would, in the normal course of events, be taking a lively interest in what was happening, or what was about to happen across the valley. But their attention would almost certainly be fixed on the train and the hidden Paiutes and those were now a mile away to his left. Besides, it was still only dawn and the snow had not yet ceased to fall. Claremont did not hesitate, if for no other reason than that he knew that there were no options left open to him. Wraith-like, and using only his elbows and knees, he began to slither across the track.
Deakin eased back the throttle. Marica, from her observation post at the back of the tender, spared him a brief glance. 'Stopping?'
'Slowing.' He indicated the right-hand side of the cab. 'Leave the tender and get down there. On the floor.'
Hesitantly, she moved forward. 'You think there'll be shooting?'
'Well, there won't be too many rose petals thrown, and that's a fact.'
The train was now crawling along at between ten and fifteen miles an hour but clearly was not about to come to a complete halt, a fact that was becoming increasingly obvious to White Hand. His face registered at first faint puzzlement, then exasperation, then finally outright anger.
'The fools!' he said. 'The fools! Why don't they stop?' He jumped to his feet, waving his arm. The train continued on its way. White Hand shouted to his warriors to follow him. They all broke concealment and came running and stumbling up the slope as quickly as the shingly and snowcovered terrain would permit them. Deakin judiciously opened the throttle a notch or two.
Once again O'Brien, Pearce, the Governor and Henry were peering with what was by now a degree of justifiable anxiety through the window. Pearce said: 'White Hand! White Hand and his braves! What in God's name is the meaning of this?' He ran towards the rear platform, the others closely behind him. As they arrived there the train perceptibly began to slow.
Fairchild said: 'We could jump for it now. White Hand could give us cover and–'
'Fool!' Whatever respect Pearce might ever have had for the governor of his state had clearly diminished to vanishing point. 'That's just exactly what he's inviting us to do. It's still a long, long walk to Fort Humboldt.' He waved to the rear and pointed towards the driving cab. White Hand waved a return acknowledgment, turned and shouted some unheard order. Immediately a score of rifles were levelled.
Deakin dropped to the floor of the cab as a fusillade of bullets struck the locomotive, then, in a momentary lull in the firing, risked a quick glance through the footplate doorway. The Indians, running as they reloaded, were clearly gaining. Once again, Deakin opened the throttle slightly.
O'Brien said with increasing unease: 'What in hell's name is Deakin playing at? He could leave them behind if he–'
He and Pearce stared at each other.
Claremont, safely arrived in the shelter of the wood, was moving swiftly and stealthily through the trees, circling so as to approach from the rear. The guards, he was certain, would be at the lower edge of the wood, watching the scene across the valley, which meant that their backs would be towards him. From the implacable expression on his face it was clear that Claremont had no compunction in the world about gunning down unsuspecting men from the rear; far too many lives, not to mention a fortune in bullion and all his men he had so recently lost, made any consideration of fair play seem totally irrelevant.
There were about sixty horses all told, none of them hobbled or tied – Indian ponies were as well trained as those of the United Stares Cavalry. Claremont picked out what he thought would be the three most likely horses – the rest he would stampede – and slowly worked his way through them. They neither whinnied nor neighed, some glanced incuriously at him, some not at all – despite the thickness of their coats, they were all clearly preoccupied with their own frozen miseries.
The guards – there were two of them – stood at the very edge of the wood, just beyond the last of the horses, looking speculatively at each other as they listened to the now desultory gunfire from across the valley. Because of the cushioning effect of the snow, the occasional restless stamping of the horses, and the Indians' complete absorption with the running battle now almost two miles away, Claremont was able to approach within twenty feet before taking up position behind the sturdy bole of a pine. At that short distance the use of the rifle seemed superfluous. He laid his rifle silently against the trunk of the tree and brought out his Colt.
Aboard the train, both Pearce and O'Brien gestured frantically to the rear, pointing repeatedly towards the distant pine wood and motioning that White Hand and his men should return there. The Indian chief, comprehending, stopped in his tracks and indicated that his men should do the same. He wheeled and pointed to the pine wood.
'The horses!' White Hand shouted. 'Back to the horses!' He took just one running step, then stopped abruptly. The two distant revolver shots carried very clearly in the freezing air. White Hand, his face impassive, tapped two of his men on the shoulders. They set off at a jog-trot towards the pine wood, not really hurrying. From White Hand's demeanour it was apparent that the time for haste was already past.
