Breakheart Pass by Alistair MacLean

  But nobody jumped.

  The middle wagon of the three runaways – the second troop coach in which Sergeant Bellew was quartered – was already beginning to sway and rattle in the most alarming fashion. The clicketyclick of the wheels crossing the expansion joints in the lines increased in tempo with the passing of every moment; and as the fish-plates which held the lines were secured to the sleepers by spikes and not by bolts there was a mounting danger that the track itself might begin to work loose from the bed.

  The confusion among the soldiers in the coach was total, their expressions ranging from the dumbfounded to the panic-stricken. Most of the men – all of them struggling to maintain their balance – were milling about wildly without any set purpose or intent, but two pairs of soldiers, lashed by the urgency of Bellew's voice, struggled desperately to open two side doors. After only a few fruitless moments they gave up. One of the soldiers raised his voice above the bedlam of sound.

  'Godalmighty!' His voice was only one degree short of a shriek. 'The doors are locked! From the outside!'

  In fascinated horror, the six men and the girl in the day compartment, completely without any power to help, continued to watch the runaways, now quarter way round the quarter circle curve of Hangman's Pass and at least a mile distant, remorselessly accelerating and terrifyingly swaying to the extent that wheels were now beginning to lift clear of the track.

  Claremont shouted : 'Devlin! The brakeman! Why in God's name doesn't he do something?'

  The same thought, though understandably with even more urgency, was in the mind of Sergeant Bellew.

  'The brakeman! The brakeman! Why doesn't he do – what in God's name is he doing?'

  Bellew ran or more correctly staggered along the wildly shaking and vibrating aisle towards the rear door, a matter made easier by the fact that the central space was clear, nearly all the soldiers having their terrified faces pressed close against the windows, their minds mesmerized by the blurring landscape and hypnotized by shock into the blind acceptance of the inevitable.

  Bellew reached the rear door. He tugged desperately and completely without avail at the handle; this door, too, was locked. Bellew drew his Colt and shot above and to the side of the handle. He fired four times, oblivious of two ricochets which whistled with lethal potential through the coach; by this time there were more deadly dangers abroad than ricochets. After the fourth shot the door yielded to the desperate pressure of Bellew's hand.

  He emerged on to the rear platform and was almost immediately thrown off by the combination of a wind which had now reached near-hurricane force and an exceptionally violent lurch of the coach. To save himself he had to grab desperately at the rail with both hands. His Colt had been in his right hand: now it went spinning over the side.

  Bellew took a suicidal chance, but between sudden death by suicide and sudden death through external causes there lies no difference. He flung himself towards the front platform on the brake van, caught the rail, dragged himself to temporary safety and seized the door of the brake van. This he twisted, pulled and pushed with a close to fear-crazed violence, but this door, by now predictably, was also locked. Bellew flattened his face against the glass panel to the side of the door and peered inside; his eyes widened and his face became masked in the total and final despair of a knowledge that comes too late.

  The big brake wheel was at the end of the van but there was no hand on this wheel. Instead, the hand clutched a Bible, which was opened, face down, on the floor of the van. Devlin himself, also face down, lay beside his makeshift bed; between the thin shoulders protruded the hilt of a knife.

  Bellew turned his stricken face sideways and stared, almost uncomprehendingly, at the snowladen pines lining the track-side stream whizzing by in a hundred-mile-an-hour blur. Bellew crossed himself, something he hadn't done since boyhood, and now the fear was gone from his face. In its place there was only resignation, the acceptance of the inevitability of death.

  In the day compartment the seven horrified watchers were without speech for there was no longer anything to say. Like Bellew, although with a vastly different outlook, they too had dumbly accepted the inevitability of death.

  The runaway coaches, two miles away now and still somehow miraculously remaining on the track, were hurtling towards the final curve leading to the bridge. Marica jerked convulsively away from the window and buried her face in her hands as the runaways failed to negotiate the last bend. They shot off the track – whether they ripped the track off with them or not it was impossible to tell at that distance – toppled sideways as they then sailed out across the void of the gorge, turning over almost lazily in mid-air until the three coaches, still locked together, had assumed a vertical position, a position they still occupied when all three smashed simultaneously into the precipitous far cliff-side of the gorge with the explosive thunderclap of sound of a detonating ammunition dump. Unquestionably, for every man aboard those coaches death must have super- vened instantaneously. For a long second of time the flattened, mangled coaches remained in that position, seemingly pinned against the canyon wall as if unwilling to move, then, with a deliberation and slowness in grotesque contrast to their speed at the moment of impact, dropped reluctantly off and tumbled lazily into the unseen depths below.

  The eleven survivors of the original trainload from Reese City, most of them shivering violently, were gathered round the rear end of the second horse wagon – now, in effect, the end of the train – examining the coupling, the free end of which had formerly been bolted to the front of the leading troop wagon. Three of the four massive securing bolts were still loosely in place in the plate. Claremont stared unbelievingly at the plate and the bolts.

  'But how, how, how could it have happened? Look at the size of those bolts!'

  O'Brien said: 'Not that I have any intention of going down into that ravine to investigate – even although all the evidence is smashed to pieces anyway – but what I'd have liked to see was the condition of the timber to which those bolts were attached.'

  'But I thought I heard a report–'

  'Or,' Deakin suggested, 'a baulk of heavy timber snapping in half.'

  'Of course.' Claremont dropped the chain and plate. 'Of course. That's what it must have been. But why should it – Banlon, you're the engineer. In fact, you're the only trainman we have left.'

  'Before God, I've no idea. The wood may have rotted – it can happen without showing any signs – and this is the steepest climb in the mountains. But I'm only guessing. What I can't understand is why Devlin did nothing about it.'

  Claremont was sombre in both face and voice. 'Some answers we'll never know. What's past is past. First thing is to have another try to contact Reese City or Ogden – we must have replacements for those poor devils at once, God rest their souls. What a way to die! The only way for a cavalryman to die is in the face of the enemy' Claremont wasn't quite as pragmatic as he would have liked to sound and he had to make a conscious effort to return himself to the realities of the present. 'At least, thank God, we didn't lose those medical supplies.'

  Deakin was clearly in no mood to commiserate with Claremont. 'Wouldn't have made any difference if you had.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Medical supplies aren't much good without a doctor to administer them.'

  Claremont paused for a few seconds. 'You're a doctor.'

  'Not any more I'm not.'

  They had a close circle of listeners. Even a trace of interest was beginning to show in Marica's still rather shocked face.

  Claremont was becoming heated. 'But, damn it all, Deakin, that's cholera they have up there. Your fellow man–'

  'My fellow man's going to hang me. Probably, in spite of Pearce's protestations, from the nearest cottonwood tree. The hell with my fellow man. Besides, as you say, that's cholera they've got up there.'

  Claremont showed as much contempt as it is possible for a man to do without actually sneering. 'And that's your real reason?'

  'I think it's a v
ery good reason.'

  Claremont turned away in disgust and looked around the shivering company. 'Morse I've never learnt. Can anyone–'

  'I'm no Ferguson,' O'Brien said. 'But if you give me time–'

  'Thank you, Major. Henry, you'll find the set in the front of the supply wagon, under a tarpaulin. Bring it through to the day compartment, will you?' He turned to Banlon, his mouth bitter. 'I suppose the only good point about this ghastly business is that we'll be able to make better time to the Fort. With those wagons gone–'

  Banlon said heavily: 'We won't make better time. Devlin was the only other person aboard who could drive this train – and I've got to have sleep some time.'

  'My God, I'd quite forgotten. Now?'

  'I can make twice the speed in the day that I can by night. I'll try to hang on to nightfall. By that time–' he nodded to his fireman soldier standing by–'Rafferty and I are going to be pretty bushed. Colonel.'

  'I understand.' He looked at the dangling chain and the plate on the ground. 'And how about the safety factor, Banlon?'

  Banlon spent quite some time rubbing the white bristles on his wizened face, then said: 'I can't see it, Colonel. Any problem, that is. Four things. This has been a million to one chance – I've never heard of it before – and it's one to a million that it will happen again. I've got a lot less weight to pull so the strain on the couplings is going to be that much less. This is the steepest gradient on the line and once we're over the top it's going to be that much easier.'

  'You said four things. That's three.'

  'Sorry, sir.' Banlon rubbed his eyes. 'Tired, that's all. What I'm going to do now is to get a spike and hammer and test the woodwork around each coupling plate. Only sure way to test for rot, Colonel.'

  'Thank you, Banlon.' He transferred his attention to the returning Henry who wore upon his face the expression of a man whom fate can touch no more. 'Ready?'

  'No.'

  'What do you mean – no?'

  'I mean the set's gone.'

  'What!'

  'It's not in the supply wagon, that's for sure.'

  'Impossible.'

  Henry stared silently into the middle distance.

  'Are you sure?' It wasn't so much disbelief in Claremont's tone as a groping lack of understanding, the wearied bafflement of a man to whom too many incomprehensible things have happened too quickly.

  Henry assumed an air of injured patience which sat well upon his lugubrious countenance. 'I do not wish to seem impertinent to the Colonel but I suggest the Colonel goes see for himself.'

  Claremont manfully quelled what was clearly an incipient attack of apoplexy. 'All of you! Search the train!'

  'Two things. Colonel,' Deakin said. He looked around and ticked numbers off his fingers. 'First is, of the ten people you're talking to, Rafferty is the only one you can order about. None of the rest of us is under your command, directly or indirectly, which makes it a bit awkward for martinet colonels accustomed to instant obedience. Second thing is, I don't think you need bother searching.'

  Claremont did some even more manful quelling, then finally and silently gave Deakin a coldly interrogative look.

  Deakin said: 'When we were refuelling this morning I saw someone take a case about the size of a transmitter from the supply wagon and walk back along the track with it. The snow was pretty thick and the visibility – well, we all remember what that was like. I just couldn't see who it was.'

  'Yes? Assuming it was Ferguson, why should he do a thing like that?'

  'How should I know? Ferguson or no Ferguson, I didn't speak to this person. Why should I do your thinking for you?'

  'You become increasingly impertinent, Deakin.'

  'I don't see there's a great deal you can do about that.' Deakin shrugged. 'Maybe he wanted to repair it.'

  'And why take it away to do that?'

  Deakin showed an uncharacteristic flash of irritation. 'How the hell should–' He broke off. 'Is the supply wagon heated?'

  'No.'

  'And it's way below freezing. If he wanted to carry out some repairs or maintenance he'd take it to a heated place – one of the troop wagons. And they're both at the bottom of that ravine now – including the transmitter. There's your answer.'

  Claremont had himself well under control. He said thoughtfully: 'And you're pretty glib with your answers, Deakin.'

  'Oh my God! Go and search your damned train, then.'

  'No. You're probably right, if only because there would appear to be no other explanations.' He took a step closer to Deakin. 'Something's familiar about your face.' Deakin looked at him briefly then looked away in silence. 'Were you ever in the army, Deakin?'

  'No.'

  'Union or Confederate, I mean?'

  'Neither.'

  'Neither?'

  'I've told you, I'm not a man of violence.'

  'Then where were you in the War between the States?'

  Deakin paused as if trying to recall, then finally said: 'California. The goings-on in the east didn't seem all that important out there.'

  Claremont shook his head. 'How you cherish the safety of your own skin, Deakin.'

  'A man could cherish worse things in life,' Deakin said indifferently. He turned and walked slowly up the track. Henry, his lugubrious eyes very thoughtful, watched him go. He turned to O'Brien and spoke softly:

  'I'm like the Colonel. I've seen him before, too.'

  'Who is he?'

  'I don't know. I can't put a name to him and I can't remember where I saw him. But it'll come back.'

  Shortly after noon it had started to snow again but not heavily enough to impair forward visibility from the cab. The train, now with only five coaches behind the tender, was making fair speed up the winding bed of a valley, a long plume of smoke trailing out behind. In the dining saloon all but one of the surviving passengers were sitting down to a sombre meal. Claremont turned to Henry.

  'Tell Mr Peabody that we're eating.' Henry left and Claremont said to the Governor: 'Though God knows I've got no appetite.'

  'Nor I, Colonel, nor I.' The Governor's appearance did not belie his words. The anxiety of the previous night was still there but now overlaid with a new-found haggard pallor. The portmanteau bags under his eyes were dark and veined and what little could be seen of the jowls behind the splendid white beard was more pendulous than ever. He was looking less like Buffalo Bill by the minute. He continued: 'What a dreadful journey, what a dreadful journey! All the troops, all those splendid boys gone. Captain Oakland and Lieutenant Newell missing – and they may be dead for all we know. Then Dr Molyneux – he is dead. Not only dead, but murdered. And the Marshal has no idea who – who – My God! He might even be sitting here. The murderer, I mean.'

  Pearce said mildly: 'The odds are about ten to one that he isn't. Governor. The odds are ten to one that he's lying back in the ravine there.'

  'How do you know?' The Governor shook his head in slow despair. 'How can anyone know? One wonders what in the name of God is going to happen next.'

  'I don't know,' Pearce said. 'But judging from the expression on Henry's face, it's happened already.'

  Henry, who had that moment returned, had a hunted air about him. His hands were convulsively opening and closing. He said in a husky voice: 'I can't find him, sir. The preacher, I mean. He's not in his sleeping quarters.'

  Governor Fairchild gave an audible moan. Both he and Claremont looked at each other with the same dark foreboding mirrored in their eyes. Deakin's face, for a moment, might have been carved from stone, his eyes bleak and cold. Then he relaxed and said easily: 'He can't be far. I was talking to him only fifteen minutes ago.'

  Pearce said sourly: 'So I noticed. What about?'

  'Trying to save my soul,' Deakin explained. 'Even when I pointed out that murderers have no soul he–'

  'Be quiet!' Claremont's voice was almost a shout. 'Search the train!'

  'And stop it, sir?'

  'Stop it, O'Brien?'

  'Things happen
aboard this train, Colonel.'

  O'Brien didn't try to give any special significance to his words, he didn't have to. 'He may be on it. He may not. If he's not, he must be by the track; he can't very well have fallen down a ravine for there have been none for over an hour. If he were to be found outside, then we'd have to reverse down the line and every yard further we go on–'

  'Of course. Henry, tell Banlon.'

  Henry ran forward while the Governor, Claremont, O'Brien and Pearce moved towards the rear. Deakin remained where he was, evidently with no intention of going anywhere. Marica looked at him with an expression that was far from friendly. The dark eyes were as stony as it was possible for warm dark eyes to be, the lips compressed. When she spoke it was with a quite hostile incredulity.

  She said in a tone that befitted her expression: 'He may be sick, injured, dying perhaps. And you just sit there. Aren't you going to help them look for him?'

  Deakin leaned back leisurely in his chair, his legs crossed, produced and lit a cheroot. He said in what appeared to be genuine surprise: 'Me? Certainly not. What's he to me? Or I to him? The hell with the Reverend.'

  'But he's such a nice man.' It was difficult to say whether Marica was more aghast at the impiety or the callous indifference. 'Why, he sat there and talked to you–'

  'He invited himself. Now let him look after himself.'

  Marica said in disbelief, slowly spacing the words: 'You just don't care.'

  'That's it.'

  'The Marshal was right and I was wrong. I should have listened to a man of the world. Hanging is too good for you. You must be the most self-centred, the most utterly selfish man in the world.'

  Deakin said reasonably: 'Well, it's better to be best at something than best at nothing. Which reminds me of something else that is very good indeed.' He rose. 'The Governor's bourbon. Now seems like an excellent chance to help myself when they're all busy.'

  He left along the passageway past the Governor's and Marica's sleeping quarters. Marica remained where she was for a few moments, the anger in her face now with an element of puzzlement in it, hesitated, rose and walked quietly after Deakin. By the time she had reached the door of the officers' day compartment, Deakin had crossed to the cabinet above the sofa at the front end of the coach, poured some bourbon into a tumbler and drained the contents in one savage gulp. Marica watched, her face n ow showing only wonderment and an increasing lack of comprehension, as Deakin poured himself some more bourbon, drank half of it and turned to the right, gazing with seemingly unseeing eyes through the window. The lean, dark, bitter face was set in lines of an almost frighteningly implacable cruelty.