Breakheart Pass. Alistair MacLean

scout once, an Indian fighter, if you like. There are still plenty around. But a man gets sick of killing.’

      ‘A man?’ Despite what he probably imagined as his poker face, the preacher was manifestly still unconvinced. ‘You?’

      ‘There are more ways of pacifying Indians than shooting holes in them. I asked the Governor here to appoint me Indian agent for the territory. I settle differences between Indians and whites, allocate reservations, try and stop the traffic in guns and whisky and see to it that the undesirable whites are removed from the territory’ He smiled. ‘Which is part of my job as Marshal anyway. It’s slow work, but I’m making a little progress. I think the Paiutes almost trust me now. Which reminds me.’ He looked at the other table. Colonel.’

      Claremont lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

      ‘Might be a good idea to have the curtains pulled about now, sir. We’re running into hostile territory, and there’s no point in drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves.’

      ‘So soon? Well, you should know. Henry! You heard? Then go tell Sergeant Bellew to do the same.’

      Peabody tugged Pearce’s sleeve. His face was a mask of apprehension. ‘Hostile territory did you say? Hostile Indians?’

      ‘Mainly we just call them hostiles.’

      Pearce’s indifference served only to deepen Peabody’s fears. ‘But - but you said they trusted you!’

      ‘That’s right. They trust me.’

      ‘Ah!’ What this meant was not clear, nor did Peabody care to elaborate. He just swallowed several times in rapid succession and lapsed into silence.

      Henry served them coffee in the day compartment while O’Brien displayed considerable efficiency in dispensing brandy and liqueurs from the liquor cabinet. With all windows tightly closed and the top of the stove beginning to glow a dull red, the temperature in the compartment had risen into the eighties, but no one seemed unduly perturbed about this. On the frontier, extremes of heat and cold were an inevitable part of the way of life and phlegmatically accepted as such. The green velvet curtains were closely drawn. Deakin had his eyes open and, propped on one elbow, seemed more uncomfortable than ever, but because discomfort, like heat and cold, was also an integral part of the frontier, he received, apart from the occasional vexed glance from Marica, scant attention and even less sympathy. After some desultory small-talk, Dr Molyneux put his glass on the table, rose, stretched his arms and patted a yawn to discreet extinction.

      He said: ‘If you will excuse me. I have a hard day ahead tomorrow and an oldster like me needs his sleep.’

      Marica said politely: ‘A hard day, Dr Molyneux?’

      ‘I’m afraid so. Most of our medical stores in the supply wagon were loaded at Ogden only yesterday. Must have them all checked before we get to Fort Humboldt.’

      Marica looked at him in amused curiosity. ‘Why all the great hurry, Dr Molyneux? Couldn’t it wait till you get there?’ When he made no immediate answer she said smilingly: ‘Or is this epidemic at Fort Humboldt, influenza or gastric influenza or whatever you said it was, already out of control?’

      Molyneux did not return her smile. ‘The epidemic at Fort Humboldt -’ He broke off, eyed Marica speculatively, then swung round to look at Colonel Claremont. ‘I suggest that any further concealment is not only pointless and childish but downright insulting to a group of supposedly intelligent adults. There was, I admit, a need for secrecy to allay unnecessary fear - well, if you like, understandable fear - but all those aboard the train are now cut off from the rest of the world, and will remain that way, until we arrive at the Fort where they’re bound to find out -’

      Claremont raised a weary hand to dam the flow of words. ‘I take your point. Doctor, I take your point. I suppose we may as well tell. Dr Molyneux here is not an Army doctor and never will be. And, by the same coin, he’s not any ordinary run-of-the-mill general practitioner - he is a leading specialist in tropical diseases. The troops aboard this train are not relief troops - they are replacement troops for the many soldiers who have died in Fort Humboldt.’

      The puzzlement on Marica’s face shaded quickly into fear. Her voice, now, was little more than a whisper. The soldiers - the many soldiers who have died -’

      I wish to God, Miss Fairchild, that we didn’t have to answer your questions as to why the train is in such a hurry or why Dr Molyneux is in such a hurry or the Marshal’s question as to why the Governor is so anxious.’ He squeezed his eyes with his hand, then shook his head. ‘Fort Humboldt is in the grip of a deadly cholera epidemic’

      Of the Colonel’s seven listeners, only two registered anything more than a minimal reaction. The Governor, Molyneux and O’Brien were already aware of the existence of the epidemic. Pearce lifted only one eyebrow, and fractionally at that;the semi-recumbent Deakin merely looked thoughtful; apparently he was even less given than Pearce to untoward displays of emotional reaction. To an outside observer the lack of response on the part of those five might have appeared disappointing: but this lack was over-compensated for by Marica and the Rev. Peabody: fear and horror showed in the former’s face, a stunned and disbelieving shock in the latter’s. Marica was the first to speak.

      ‘Cholera! Cholera! My father -’

      ‘I know, my child, I know.’ The Governor rose, crossed to her seat and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I would have spared you this, Marica, but I thought that if - well, if your father were ill, you might like -’

      The Rev. Peabody’s recovery from his state of shock was spectacularly swift. From the depths of his armchair he propelled himself to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, his face a mask of incredulous outrage. His voice had moved into the falsetto register.

      ‘How dare you! Governor Fairchild, how dare you! To expose this poor child to the risks, the awful risks, of this - this dreadful pestilence. Words fail me. I insist that we return immediately to Reese City and - and -’

      ‘Return how?’ O’Brien maintained a carefully neutral tone and expression. ‘It’s no easy feat, Reverend, to turn a train on a single track railway.’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, padre, what do you take us for?’ Claremont’s surging irritability couldn’t have been more clearly demonstrated by the waving of a red flag. ‘Assassins? Would-be suicides? Or just plain fools? We have provisions aboard this train to last a month. And aboard this train we will remain, all of us, until Dr Molyneux pronounces the camp free from the epidemic’

      ‘But you can’t, you can’t!’ Marica rose, clutched Dr Molyneux by the arm and said almost desperately: ‘I know you’re a doctor, but doctors have as much chance - more chance - of catching cholera than anyone else.’

      Molyneux gently patted the anxious hand. ‘Not this doctor. I’ve had cholera - and survived. I’m immune. Good night.’

      From his semi-recumbent position on the floor Deakin said: ‘Where did you catch it. Doctor?’

      Everyone stared at him in surprise. Felons, like little children, were supposed to be seen and not heard. Pearce pushed himself halfway to his feet, but Molyneux waved him down.

      ‘In India,’ Molyneux said. ‘Where I studied the disease.’ He smiled without much humour. ‘At very, very close quarters. Why?’

      ‘Curiosity. When?’

      ‘Eight, ten years ago. Again why?’

      ‘You heard the Marshal read out my wanted notice. I know a little about medicine. Just interested, that’s all.’

      For a few moments Molyneux, his face oddly intent, studied Deakin. Then he nodded briefly to the company and left.

      This,’ Pearce said thoughtfully, ‘isn’t nice. The news, I mean. How many at the last count, Colonel? Of the garrison, I mean. The dead.’

      Claremont glanced interrogatively at O’Brien, who was his usual prompt and authoritative self. ‘At