Breakheart Pass. Alistair MacLean

      Pearce boarded the train. Claremont looked back to check that the horse wagon doors were closed, then turned and raised his hand. Banlon gave an acknowledging wave from his cab, moved inside and opened the steam regulator. The driving wheels slipped once, twice, three times; then they began to bite.

       THREE

      By dusk, the troop train had left Reese City and the level plateau on which it stood So far behind that both were completely lost to sight. The high plain had now given way to the foothills of the true mountain country and the train was climbing gently up a long, wide, pine-wooded valley, the undulations of the track following closely those of the rock-strewn river alongside which it ran. The heavens were dark, there was no trace of the afterglow of sunset that must have been hidden behind those lowering clouds; there would be no stars, that night, and no moon; the leaden sky promised only one thing - snow.

      The occupants of the officers’ day compartment, understandably enough, displayed a minimum of concern for the chill bleakness and plainly deteriorating weather in the world beyond their windows. Cocooned as they were in warmth and ease and comfort, it seemed not only pointless but downright wrong to dwell upon the rigours without. Luxury is a pervasive anodyne and, for what was supposed to be an army troop train, the officers’ compartment was unquestionably very luxurious indeed. There were two deep couches with split arm-rests at the front and back, and several scattered armchairs, all splendidly upholstered in buttoned-down brushed green velvet. The embroidered looped-back window curtains, held in place by tasselled silken cords, were made of what appeared to be the same material. The carpet was rust-coloured and deep of pile. There were several highly polished mahogany tables in the vicinity of the couches and chairs. In the right-hand front corner was a liquor cabinet, which was clearly not there for the purposes of display. The entire compartment was bathed in a warm amber glow from the gimballed and gleaming copper oil-lamps.

      There were eight occupants of the compartment, seven of them with glasses in their hands. Nathan Pearce, seated beside Marica on the rear couch, had a glass of whisky, while she held a glass of port wine. On the front couch, the Governor and Colonel Claremont, and in two of the three armchairs, Dr Molyneux and Major O’Brien all held whisky glasses. In the third armchair the Rev. Theodore Peabody had a glass of mineral water and an expression of righteous superiority. The only person without a refreshment of any kind was John Deakin. Apart from the fact that it would have been unthinkable to offer hospitality to a criminal of such note, he would in any case have found it physically impossible to raise a glass to his lips as both hands were bound behind his back. His ankles, too, were tied. He was sitting on the floor, most uncomfortably hunched, close by the passageway leading to the night compartments. Apart from Marica, who cast him an occasionally troubled glance, none of the others present appeared to feel that Deakin’s presence there constituted a jarring note. On the frontier, life was cheap and suffering so commonplace as hardly to merit notice, far less sympathy.

      Nathan Pearce lifted his glass. ‘Your very good health, gentlemen. My word. Colonel, I never knew the army travelled in such style. No wonder our taxes -’

      Claremont was curt. ‘The army, Marshal, does not travel in such style. This is Governor Fairchild’s private coach. Behind your back are the two sleeping compartments normally reserved for the Governor and his wife - in this case the Governor and his niece - and beyond that again their private dining compartment. The Governor has very kindly offered to let us travel and eat with him.’

      Pearce raised his glass again. ‘Well, bully for you. Governor.’ He paused and looked quizzically at Fairchild. ‘What’s the matter. Governor? You look a mite worried to me.’

      The Governor did, indeed, look a trifle worried. He seemed paler than usual, his face drawn, his lips compressed. He forced a smile, emptied and refilled his glass and attempted to speak lightly.

      ‘Matters of state, my dear Marshal, matters of state. Life in the legislature is not all receptions and balls, you know.’

      ‘I’m sure it’s not. Governor.’ Pearce’s pacific tone turned to one of curiosity. ‘Why are you along on this trip, sir? I mean, as a civilian -’

      O’Brien interrupted. ‘A governor has full military powers in his own state, Nathan. Surely you know that.’

      Fairchild said pontifically: ‘There are certain matters calling for my personal presence and attention in Fort Humboldt.’ He glanced at Claremont, who gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘More I can’t say - not, that is, at the moment.’

      Pearce nodded, as if satisfied, and did not pursue the topic. A silence, not wholly comfortable, fell over the compartment, and was interrupted only twice by the entrance of Henry, the tall, immensely thin and almost cadaverous steward, once to top up glasses, once to replenish the cordwood-burning stove. Deakin’s head had fallen forward on to his chest and his eyes were closed: he was either shutting out the world around him or had genuinely fallen asleep, which would have been no mean feat for a man trussed as uncomfortably as he was and having to brace himself, however unconsciously, against the increasingly erratic movements of the coach. The train, having reached a comparatively level stretch, had picked up speed and was beginning to sway from side to side. Even in those plushly upholstered seats, the motion was becoming distinctly uncomfortable.

      Marica said uneasily to the Governor: ‘Must we go so fast. Uncle Charles? Why all the fearful hurry?’

      Claremont answered for the Governor. ‘Because the engineer. Miss Fairchild, is under orders to make the best speed possible. And because this is an army relief train, and we’re late. The United States Cavalry does not like to be late - and we’re already two days behind schedule.’ He lifted his eyes as Henry entered a third time and loomed there, the very image of the melancholy dyspeptic to whom, apparently, life was an intolerable burden.

      ‘Governor, Colonel. Dinner is served.’

      The dining-room was small, holding only two four-seater tables, but was furnished to the same luxurious standards as the day saloon. The Governor, his niece, Claremont and O’Brien were seated at one table, Pearce, Dr Molyneux and the Rev. Peabody at the other. There were some bottles of both red and white wines on the table and, by some legerdemain known only to Henry, the white wine was actually chilled. Henry himself moved around with a quiet if lugubrious efficiency.

      Peabody lifted an austere hand against Henry’s offer of wine, turned his glass, in what was clearly intended to be a significant gesture, upside down on the tablecloth, then resumed gazing at Pearce with an expression of mingled awe and horrified fascination.

      Peabody said: ‘By coincidence. Marshal, both the doctor and I come from Ohio, but even in those distant parts everyone has heard of you. My word, it is an odd sensation. Peculiar, most peculiar. I mean, to be sitting here, in person, so to speak, with the most famous - ah - lawman in the West.’

      Pearce smiled. ‘Notorious, you mean, Reverend.’

      ‘No, no, no! Famous, I assure you.’ Peabody’s assurances were made in a very hasty fashion. ‘A man of peace, of God, if you want, but I do clearly appreciate that it was in the line of duty that you had to kill all those scores of Indians -’

      Pearce said protestingly : ‘Easy on. Reverend, easy on. Not scores, just a handful and even then only when I had to. And there was hardly an Indian among them, mostly white renegades and outlaws - and that was years ago. Today, I’m like you - I’m a man of peace. Ask the Governor -he’ll bear me out.’

      Peabody steeled himself. ‘Then why do you carry two guns. Marshal?’

      ‘Because if I don’t, I’m dead. There are at least a dozen men, most of them recently released from the prisons to which I sent them, who would dearly love to have my head on a platter. None of them will pull a gun on me, because I have acquired a certain reputation in the use of a hand gun. But my reputation would offer me as much protection as a sheet of paper if any of them ever found me without a gun.’ Pearce tapped his guns. ‘Those aren’t