Breakheart Pass

by Alistair MacLean

  Pearce hesitated, nodded and moved off after Deakin, O'Brien following close behind. Deakin reached the locomotive, walked a couple of paces past the cab and looked up. The snow in the vicinity of the engineer's window and on the after part of the boiler casing had been rubbed off. Deakin swung up to the cab and, watched by Pearce, O'Brien and Banlon, who had now joined them, looked first around him and then behind him. The tender was now two-thirds empty, with the bulk of the cordwood stacked to the rear. On the right-hand side the cords lay in disarray on the floor, as if a heap of them had fallen forward.

  Deakin's eyes had become very still and watchful. His nose wrinkled and after a few moments his eyes shifted sideways and downwards. Deakin stooped, reached behind some tangled pieces of cordwood, straightened and held out a bottle.

  'Tequila. He was reeking of the stuff, had some of it spilled on his clothes.' He looked incredulously at Banlon. 'And you knew nothing – nothing of this?'

  'Just what I was going to ask.' Pearce looked and sounded grim.

  'God's my witness, Marshal.' If Banlon kept shrinking at his present rate his eventual disappearance was only a matter of time. 'I've no sense of smell – ask anybody. I didn't know Jackson until he joined us at Ogden – and I never even knew that he drank that stuff.'

  'You know now.' Claremont had made his appearance in the cab. 'We all know now. Poor devil. As for you, Banlon, I'm putting you under military law. Any more drinking and you'll end up in a cell in Fort Humboldt and I'll have you dismissed the Union Pacific'

  Banlon tried to look aggrieved but his heart wasn't in it. 'I never drink on duty, sir.'

  'You were drinking yesterday afternoon at the Reese City depot.'

  'I mean when I'm driving the train–'

  'That'll do. No more questions. Marshal?'

  'Nothing more to ask. Colonel. It's open and shut to me.'

  'Right.' Claremont turned back to Banlon. 'I'll have Bellew detail a trooper as fireman.' He made a gesture of dismissal and made to turn away.

  Banlon said hurriedly: 'Two things, Colonel.' Claremont turned. 'You can see we're running low on fuel and there's a depot about a mile and a half up the valley–'

  'Yes, yes. I'll detail a loading party. And –?'

  'I'm pretty well bushed, sir. And this business of Jackson … If Devlin – that's the brakeman – could relieve me in a couple of hours–'

  'That shall be arranged.'

  A soldier in a peaked cavalryman's cap peered out from the side of the locomotive through the now heavily falling snow. He said to Banlon: 'I think this must be the fuel dump coming up.'

  Banlon joined them, nodded, returned to the controls and brought the train to a gentle stop, so positioning it that it brought up with locomotive and tender precisely opposite the fuel dump, an open-faced, three-sided shack piled high with cordwood. Banlon said: 'Fetch the loading detail, would you?'

  The loading detail, about a dozen men in all, were on the scene in only a matter of seconds and a remarkably unhappy band of troopers they appeared to be. One had the impression that, given the option, they'd have taken on twice their number of hostile Indians rather than the chore on hand and their reluctance for the appointed task was wholly understandable: although it was now approaching noon, the sky was so dark and the now wind-whipped snow so heavy that the light was no better than that of late dusk and visibility no more than a few feet; and the cold was deepening with the passing of every moment. The soldiers, shivering with cold and stamping their feet, lined up with their backs to the developing blizzard and passed the cordwood arm to arm between the fuel store and the tender. And they moved very quickly indeed: no one had to tell them that the sooner they had finished, the sooner they were back in the comparative warmth of their coaches.

  Some way back on the other side of the train. an indistinct figure moved quickly and silently along the track-side and climbed silently on to the platform at the front of the supply wagon. The door was locked. The man, wearing an army overcoat and a peaked cavalryman's cap, stooped, examined the lock, produced a heavy bunch of keys, selected one and inserted it. The door opened at once, and closed almost immediately as the man entered.

  A match scratched, flared and a small oil-lamp came to life. Deakin brushed snow from his greatcoat – O'Brien had provided him with some protection against the elements – moved towards the centre of the wagon and looked around him.

  To the rear of the coach, packed four deep and two wide in obviously makeshift racks on either side of the central aisle, were exactly thirty-two coffins, all of them identical in shape and size: whoever made coffins for the army apparently visualized all cavalrymen as being exactly the same shape, size and weight. Most of the rest of the wagon was given up to supplies of one kind and another. The right-hand side was given up to neatly stored piles of bagged and crated food supplies. All the left-hand side was stacked with brass-bound oiled wooden boxes, which took up a relatively small space, and unidentified objects lashed down under tarpaulins. The wooden boxes bore the legend: MEDICAL CORPS SUPPLIES: UNITED STATES ARMY. Deakin lifted a corner of the first tarpaulin. The boxes there, also oiled wood, bore the marking, in large red letters: DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! The next few tarpaulins covered boxes similarly marked. The last and smallest tarpaulin to be lifted revealed a tall narrow grey box with a leather carrying handle. It was marked: US ARMY POSTS & TELEGRAPHS.

  Deakin lifted off the tarpaulin covering this box, rolled it, thrust it under his coat, picked up the grey box, doused the lamp and left, locking the door behind him. Even during the brief time he had been inside the supply wagon the visibility had become appreciably worse. It was as well, Deakin reflected, that they had the security of the railway lines to guide them on their way: in such weather, a horse and rider, or horses and coaches, would, like as not, have ended up in the depths of the ravine.

  Lugging the heavy transmitter and now making little attempt at concealment, Deakin hurried along the length of the supply wagon and climbed up the front platform of the leading horse wagon. The door was unlocked. He passed inside, closed the door, lowered the transmitter, located and lit an oil-lamp.

  Nearly all the horses were standing, the majority of them chewing mournfully on the hay from the managers bolted to the side of the wagon. They had little enough room to move in their individual stalls but seemed unconcerned about it. Nor did they show much concern for Deakin's presence. Such few as bothered to acknowledge his presence looked at him incuriously, then as idly turned their heads away.

  Deakin paid no attention to the horses. He was much more interested in the source of their food supply, a wood-slatted haybox by his right shoulder that reached almost to the roof. He removed the two top slats, climbed on to the top of the hay and burrowed a deep hole at the back, hard against the side of the wagon. He swung down to the floor, wrapped the transmitter in the tarpaulin, carried it to the top of the haybox, buried it deep in the hole and covered it with hay to a depth of almost three feet. Even allowing for the most evil mischance, Deakin reckoned, the transmitter should remain undetected for at least twenty-four hours: and twenty-four hours would be all he would ever want.

  He doused the lamp, left and made his way to the rear end of the second coach. He shook out his coat on the platform, went inside, hung the coat on a hook in the passageway outside the officers' sleeping cubicles and made his way forward, sniffing appreciatively as he went. He stopped and looked through an open doorway to his right.

  The galley was small but spotless with an array of pots simmering gently on the wood-burning stove. The occupant, when he turned, proved to be a short and very plump Negro most incongruously dressed in a regulation galley uniform, complete even to the chef's tall white hat. He smiled widely at Deakin, teeth white and shining and perfect.

  'Morning, sir.'

  'Good morning. You must be Carlos, the chef?'

  'That's right.' Carlos beamed happily. 'And you must be Mr Deakin, the murderer. Just in time for some coffee, sir.'

>   Claremont by his side, Banlon stood on the footplate of the locomotive, examining the tender. He turned and leaned out.

  'That's the lot. Full. Many thanks.'

  Sergeant Bellew raised a hand in acknowledgment, turned and said something to his men, who at once trudged thankfully away in the direction of their coaches, being lost to sight almost at once in the whitely swirling gloom.

  Claremont said: 'Ready to roll then, Banlon?'

  'Just as soon as this snow-squall clears. Colonel.'

  'Of course. You said you wanted the brakeman to relieve you. This would be a good time.'

  Banlon said very firmly: 'I did say that, but this would not be a good time, sir. For the next three miles, I want Devlin right where he is.'

  'The next three miles?'

  'To the top of Hangman's Pass. The steepest climb in all the mountains.'

  Claremont nodded. 'A brakeman could have his uses.'

  FIVE

  Fort Humboldt lay at the head of a narrow and rock-strewn valley which debouched on to a plain to the west. The strategic position of the Fort had been excellently chosen. Behind it, to the north, was a sheer cliff-face: to the east and south it was bounded by a ravine, narrow but very deep, the eastern arm of which was traversed by a trestle railway bridge: the railway line itself passed eastwest in front of the Fort descending slowly down the winding valley into the plain beyond. From the point of view of defence Fort Humboldt could not have been more advantageously located. It could be approached only across the bridge or up the valley; facing in either direction, a small group of determined and well-entrenched men could have easily held off ten times their number.

  Architecturally, the Fort itself had no claims to originality. Built years before the completion of the Union Pacific Railway in 1869, it had to depend entirely on local building materials, and the plentiful stands of conifers provided unlimited supplies of that. The wooden stockade was built in the customary form of a hollow square with a boardwalk, about four feet from the top of the stakes, running the entire length of the inside perimeter. The heavy gate, facing both railroad and the river which wound down the valley, lay to the south; immediately inside the gate there was, to the right, the guard-house and to the left the store for weapons, ammunition and explosives. The entire eastern side of the compound was given over to stables. To the western side were the troops' quarters and cookhouse; the northern side was given over to officers' quarters, administrative and telegraph offices, sick bay and some spare accommodation for the invariably weary travellers who made Fort Humboldt a port of call with a not surprising frequency; it was a long long way from any other place.

  Approaching the Fort from the west – up valley – were a group of weary travellers who were clearly looking forward very keenly to whatever the Fort might offer them in the way of shelter and hospitality. They were Indians, wrapped to the ears in an unavailing attempt to protect themselves from the biting cold and the thinly falling snow. Tired, very tired, they looked, but not as exhausted as their horses, who were literally trudging through the fetlock-deep snow. Of them all, only their leader, an unusually pale-faced and strikingly handsome Indian, seemed unweary. He sat very erect in the saddle. But then, the chief of the Paiutes always did.

  He led his men through the open and unguarded doorway, raised his hand in a gesture of dismissal and headed across the compound, bringing up at a wooden hut with, above the door, the legend COMMANDANT. The Indian dismounted, climbed the few steps and entered, closing the door quickly behind him to keep out the swirling snow.

  Sepp Calhoun was seated in Colonel Fairchild's desk armchair, his feet on the Colonel's desk, one of the Colonel's cheroots in one hand and a glass of the Colonel's whisky in the other. He looked up, swung his feet to the floor and rose, a most unusual gesture of respect on the part of Sepp Calhoun, who customarily showed no respect towards anyone. But then, people did not show disrespect to this particular Indian. Not twice.

  Calhoun said: 'Welcome home, White Hand. You made fast time.'

  'In weather such as this the wise man does not linger.'

  'All went well? The line to San Francisco–'

  'Is cut.' Imperiously, almost contemptuously. White Hand waved away the proffered bottle of whisky. 'We destroyed the bridge over the Anitoba gorge.'

  'You have done well, White Hand. You and your men. How much time do we have?'

  'Before the soldiers from the west could reach here?'

  'Yes. Not that there's any reason to assume that they think that there is anything wrong in Fort Humboldt and will be coming here anyway. But chances we cannot take.'

  'The stakes are high, Sepp Calhoun.' He thought briefly. 'Three days. Not less.'

  'More than enough. The train arrives tomorrow between noon and sundown.'

  'The soldiers on the train ?'

  'No word yet.' Calhoun hesitated, then cleared his throat apologetically. 'It would be as well, White Hand, if you and your braves have some hours of rest. You may need to ride again before dark.'

  There was silence during which White Hand regarded a highly uncomfortable Calhoun with total impassivity, then he said: 'There are times, Calhoun, when White Hand questions your judgment. We had an agreement, you remember, about capturing this fort. You and your friends were to come here in the hours of darkness and seek lodging for the night. You would be invited to spend the night, for you are white men and the night was full of snow. So much came true. Then you were to kill the night guards, open the gates, let us in and fall upon the soldiers in their bunks.'

  Calhoun reached for his bottle of bourbon.

  'It was a wild night. White Hand. We could not see well. The night, as you say, was full of snow and there was a great storm blowing. We thought–'

  'The storm was in your minds and the snow came from that bottle of fire-water. I could smell it. So two of the guards they did not kill and there was time for a warning. Not enough time, Calhoun, but enough that fifteen of my best men lie dead. Fire-water! Bourbon! And the white men are better than the red!'

  'Now look. White Hand. You must understand–'

  'I understand everything. I understand that you care only for yourself, your friends who are all bad men, but not for the Paiutes. Then we ride a night and a day to destroy the Anitoba bridge. This, too, we did. And now you ask us to ride again.'

  Calhoun was at his most nervously soothing. 'Only perhaps. White Hand. Those troops must be prevented from arriving here. You know that.'

  'I may lose more men, it is sure that I will lose more men. I may lose many more men. But not for you, Calhoun, not for your evil bourbon, but for what they have done to my people the army of the white men are my enemies and will be while White Hand lives. But they, too, are brave and skilful fighters. And if they find out that it is White Hand and the Paiutes who have attacked them they will never rest until they have hunted down and destroyed each last one of us. I say the price is too high, Sepp Calhoun.'

  'And if there is no white man left to tell what happened?' Calhoun let this thought take hold, then went on softly, persuasively: 'The rewards are even higher.'

  After a long pause. White Hand nodded several times. 'The rewards are even higher.'

  Fifteen minutes after the troop train had embarked on its laborious crawl up Hangman's Pass, Marica stood gazing through the day compartment window, oblivious both of the six men seated behind her and the icy chill of glass against which her forehead rested. She said to no one in particular: 'What a fantastic view!'

  She could hardly be faulted for her comment. The blizzard-like squall had passed away and from where she stood she could see the track curving round and downwards for the space of almost two miles as it followed the breathtaking contours of the conifer-lined white valley until it reached the spidery bridge spanning the gorge at the foot of the valley. As was so often the case after snow had ceased to fall, everything could be seen with preternatural clarity.

  Claremont was uninterested in the view; he had more pressing a
nd disturbing matters on his mind. He said: 'Made any progress with your enquiries. Marshal?'

  'No, sir.' Pearce wasn't demonstrably unhappy, because it wasn't in his nature either to feel or express such an emotion, but he certainly couldn't have been described as ebullient. 'Nobody knows anything, nobody's seen anything, nobody did anything, nobody heard anything and nobody as much as suspects anybody else. No, sir, you can take it that I haven't made any progress.'

  'Oh, I don't know.' Deakin spoke encouragingly. 'Every little elimination helps, doesn't it, Marshal? For instance, I was tied up, so it couldn't have been me. Means you've got only eighty-odd suspects left. Marshal. For a man of–'

  Deakin broke off as a sharp report was heard. Claremont, already half out of his seat, said in the voice of a man who knew that impending doom was no longer at hand but had arrived: 'In God's name, what was that?'

  Marica must have left him in no doubt as to the accuracy of his diagnosis. Her voice rose to a scream. 'No! No! No!'

  Apart from Claremont, Pearce and Deakin there were three other men in the compartment – O'Brien, the Governor and the Rev. Peabody. Within two seconds the last of them had propelled himself to his feet and flung himself towards the nearest window on Marica's side. The faces of the six reflected, or appeared to reflect, all the consternation, shock and horror that Marica's voice had held.

  The last three wagons of the train – the two troop-carrying coaches and the brakevan – had broken away from the main body of the train and were already rolling quite quickly back down the long steep descent of Hangman's Pass. The rapidly widening gap between the leading troop coach and the second of the horsewagons showed just how rapidly the three runaway wagons were accelerating.

  Deakin shouted: 'For God's sake, jump! Jump now! Before it's too late.'