Breakheart Pass

Pearce said savagely: 'Now we know why Deakin slowed the train and set off that damned blasting charge – to distract our attention while Claremont dropped off the other side.'

'What worries me is the two things we don't know - why is White Hand here and how in the name of all that's holy did Deakin know he would be here?'

The Indians, guns lowered, now stood in a disconsolate group almost three hundred yards behind the train. Deakin, looking back, eased the throttle slightly.

'We've got to stop him.' The hysteria in Fairchild's voice was now unmistakable. 'We've got to, we've got to, we've got to! Look, we're hardly doing more than a walking pace. We can jump down, two on either side, out-flank him and–'

O'Brien said: 'And watch him wave goodbye as he opens the throttle wide?'

'You sure that's why he's going so slow?'

'What else?'

Claremont, his two riderless horses trailing, urged his horse up to the top of a narrow divide in a valley. Ahead of him, the rest of the troop of stampeding horses were now spread out, now gradually coming to a halt. Claremont reined in his horse at the top of the divide and looked into the middle distance. Less than three miles away, even through the still gently falling snow, the mouth of another valley could be seen branching off to the right. The telegraph poles issuing from the valley could be seen. It was the western exit of Breakheart Pass.

Claremont grimaced with pain and looked down at his bandaged left hand. Both it and a section of the rein it held were saturated with blood. He looked away and kicked his horse into motion.

The train was moving more quickly now, leaving the stationary Indians steadily further behind. White Hand, immobile and expressionless, watched the two scouts return from the pine wood. The leading scout said nothing, merely lifted his forearms, palms upwards. White Hand nodded and turned away. His men followed and they walked quickly, in double file, along the sleepers in the direction of the vanishing train.

Aboard the rear observation platform of the train Fairchild, O'Brien, Pearce and Henry looked acutely unhappy as they watched White Hand and his men becoming lost to sight round a bend in the track. Their unhappiness deepened further as they heard two pistol shots in rapid succession. Fairchild said, almost in despair: 'And what was that about?'

'Claremont, for a certainty.' Pearce spoke with conviction. 'Probably a signal to Deakin that he's driven White Hand's horses to hell and gone. Which means that White Hand's braves are going to have a long walk back to Fort Humboldt and by the time he gets there Deakin will be ready for him.'

'Sepp Calhoun will be there,' the Governor said hopefully.

'Calhoun has as much chance of coping with Deakin as my grandmother has,' Pearce said. 'Besides, he's usually half-drunk anyway.' His face tightened in a thin ugly line. 'What did I tell you? He's speeded up the train.'

No question, the train was accelerating. The four men looked at each other with even greater unease. O'Brien said: 'He's probably given up all hope of tricking us into jumping off.' He leaned out over the safety rail and looked ahead. There was a sharp crack and O'Brien jerked back into safety. He removed his hat with none too steady a hand and examined a jagged hole torn in the brim.

Pearce said drily: 'It would appear that he doesn't given up hope in other directions.'

Up front in the locomotive Deakin peered ahead through the cab window. The v snow had stopped now. The junction of the western exit of Breakheart Pass and the valley to his right – the agreed rendezvous with Claremont – was now less than two hundred yards away. Deakin said: 'Hold tight.' He closed the throttle and jammed on the brakes. The traction wheels locked to the accompaniment of the violent clanking of buffers crashing together. The four men on the rear platform regarded one another with a steadily increasing mixture of perplexity and apprehension. Deakin handed Banlon's gun to Marica, took the second tube of blasting powder from the toolbox.

The train ground to a standstill, Deakin said 'Now.' She stepped off the footplate and jumped, falling heavily, with an exclamation of pain, and rolling over several times. Deakin released the brake, put the lever in reverse and opened the throttle wide. Moments later he had joined Marica on the track-side.

It took the four men on the rear observation platform several minutes to realize that the train was moving backwards, not forwards. O'Brien, the first to recover, leaned out. His eyes widened as understanding came: Deakin, by the track-side, had his gun lined up on him: O'Brien had barely time to fling himself back even as the gun was fired.

'Jesus!' O'Brien used some choice language. 'They've jumped the train!'

'No one at the controls?' Fairchild was close to hysteria. 'For God's sake, jump off!'

O'Brien reached out a restraining hand. 'No!'

'God's sake, man, remember what happened to the troops in the runaways!'

'We need this train.' He pushed his way to the rear door of the leading coach. 'Drive a train, Nathan?'

Pearce shook his head.

'Me neither. I'll try.' He jerked a thumb forwards. 'Deakin.'

Pearce nodded and swung down from the platform. The train was already gathering speed and Pearce rolled over and over as he hit the trackside. But the steeply snow-covered slope of the embankment helped cushion his fall and he arrived at the bottom of the slope rather winded but unhurt. He rose at once to his feet and looked around.

The train, still accelerating, was already fifty yards away. Pearce glanced in the other direction where he could just see Deakin's head and shoulders; he was supporting a rather shaky Marica.

'This,' Deakin said, 'is just what I needed. Where are you hurt?'

'My ankle. And my wrist.'

'Can you stand?'

'I don't know. I don't think so.'

'Well, sit then.' He dumped her rather unceremoniously into a sitting position by the trackside. She favoured him with a very old-fashioned look, but Deakin's attention was already engaged elsewhere. Glancing back along the track, he could see that the train was already more than a quarter of a mile distant. What he could not see was O'Brien slithering down the cordwood in the tender and halting, his face an odd mixture of urgency and indecision as he found himself confronted with the baffling array of engine controls.

Deakin stooped and inserted the blastingpowder tube under a rail close to a sleeper. He tamped it all round with earth and stones, leaving only the fuse free.

Marica said in a noticeably cool tone: 'You're going to blow up the track?'

'That's the idea.'

'Not today, it's not.' Pearce advanced, Colt in hand. He glanced at Marica who was cradling her left wrist in her right hand. 'Maybe that'll teach you to jump off trains.' He closed on Deakin, ignoring Marica. 'Your gun. Under your coat. By the barrel, friend.'

Deakin reached under his coat. His gun came slowly into view.

Marica said: 'I've got a gun, too. Turn round. Marshal. Hands high.'

Pearce turned slowly, his eyes widening as he saw that Marica's right hand now cradled a revolver.

Deakin switched his grip on the barrel of his Colt. Pearce, who sensed what was coming, flung himself to one side, so that the blow lost some of its impact. But it was sufficient to make him stumble and fall, the gun coming free from his temporarily nerveless hand. He dived after it but Deakin was even quicker, jumping forward with his right foot swinging.

Marica winced in horror and revulsion at the sound of the heavy blow. She said in a whisper: 'You hit him when his back was turned, when his hands were up and then – and then–'

'And then I kicked him on the head. Next time you point a gun at a man like Pearce make sure the safety- catch is off.'

She stared at him, stared down at the gun in her hand, then shook her head slowly. After a moment she looked up.