Breakheart Pass

'Who are you?' His voice was slurred with a mixture of truculence and alcohol. 'What's your business at Fort Humboldt?'

'Not with you.' Deakin's voice was bleak, authoritative. 'Sepp Calhoun. Quickly!'

'Who you got there?'

'Are you blind? Prisoners. From the train.'

'From the train?' Benson nodded uncertainly, whatever mental processes he had clearly in temporary abeyance. 'You'd better come.'

Benson led them across the compound. As they approached the Commandant's office the door opened and Calhoun appeared, a gun in either hand. He said savagely: 'Who the hell you got there, Benson?'

'Says they're from the train, boss.'

Deakin ignored both Calhoun and Benson and moved his pistol in the direction of Claremont and Marica. 'Get down, you two.' He turned to Calhoun. 'You Calhoun? Let's talk inside.'

Calhoun levelled both pistols at Deakin. 'Uhuh. Too fast, mister. Who are you?'

Deakin said in weary exasperation. 'John Deakin. Nathan Pearce sent me.'

'So you say.'

'So they say.' He nodded to the now dismounted and clearly sick Claremont and Marica. 'My passport. Hostages. Safe-conduct. Call them what you like. Nathan said I was to take them for proof.'

A shade less aggressively Calhoun said: 'I've seen passports in better shape.'

'They tried to be clever. Meet Colonel Claremont, the relief Commandant. And Miss Marica Fairchild – the present Commandant's daughter.'

Calhoun's eyes widened, his mouth opened perceptibly and his guns momentarily wavered, but his recovery was almost immediate. 'We'll soon see about that. Inside.' He and Benson ushered the other three, at gun-point, into the Commandant's office.

Colonel Fairchild stared as the door opened. Despite the bound hands, he stumbled shakily to his feet.

'Marica! Marica! And Colonel Claremont.' Marica hobbled across the room and threw her arms around him. 'My dear, my dear. What have they done to you? And what – what in God's name – why are you here?'

Deakin said to Calhoun: 'Satisfied?'

'Well, I guess – but I never heard of no John Deakin.'

Deakin thrust his gun inside his coat, a pacific gesture which helped further reassure the wavering Calhoun.

'Who do you think took those four hundred rifles from the Winchester armoury?' He had the ascendancy now and used it with savage authority. 'God's sake, man, stop wasting time. Things are bad, terribly bad. Your precious White Hand botched the job. He's dead. So's O'Brien. Pearce is hurt, badly. The soldiers have the train and when they get it going again–'

'White Hand, O'Brien, Pearce–'

Deakin nodded curtly to Benson. 'Tell him to wait outside.'

'Outside?' Calhoun seemed dazed.

'Out. There's worse to come – but for your ears only.'

Calhoun nodded mechanically at a bewildered Benson, who left, closing the door behind him.

Calhoun said despairingly: 'There couldn't be anything worse–'

'Yes, there is. This.' The pistol was back in Deakin's hand, the muzzle pressing with brutal force against Calhoun's teeth. Deakin swiftly relieved the stupefied Calhoun of both guns and handed one to Claremont, who lined it up on Calhoun. Deakin produced a knife and sliced the bonds of Colonel Fairchild, who was no less flabbergasted than Calhoun, and laid Calhoun's other gun on the table beside him. 'Yours. When you're fit to use it. How many other men does Calhoun have? Apart from Benson?'

'Who in God's name are you? How–'

Deakin grabbed Fairchild's lapels. 'How – many – men?'

'Two. Carmody and Harris, they're called.'

Deakin wheeled round and dug the muzzle of his Colt violently into Calhoun's kidneys. Calhoun gasped with pain. Deakin repeated the process. He said, smiling: 'You have the blood of scores of men on your hands, Calhoun. Please, please believe me that I'm just begging for the excuse to kill you.' From the expression on Calhoun's face it was apparent that he believed him totally. 'Tell Benson that you want him, Carmody and Harris here at once.'

Deakin opened the door slightly and prodded Calhoun towards the opening. Benson was pacing up and down only a few feet away.

Calhoun said hoarsely: 'Get Carmody and Harris here. And yourself. Now!'

'What's up, boss? You look – you look like death.'

'God's sake, man, hurry!'

Benson hesitated, then ran across the compound. Deakin closed the door and said to Calhoun: 'Turn round.'

Calhoun obeyed. Deakin's reversed gun swung and he caught Calhoun before he toppled to the ground. Marica stared at him in horror.

'Spare me your goddamned lectures.' Deakin's tone was coldly conversational. 'A minute from now and he would have been as desperate as a cornered rat.' He turned to Fairchild. 'How many survivors?'

'We lost only ten men – and they gave a good account of themselves.' Fairchild was still trying to massage life back into his hands. 'The rest were caught in their bunks. Calhoun and his friends – we'd given the damned renegades lodging for the night – overpowered my night guards and let the Indians in. But they're two miles from here, in an abandoned mine, with Indian guards.'

'No matter. I don't need them. I don't want them. Last thing I want is a pitched battle. How you feeling now?'

'A great deal better, Mr Deakin. What do you want me to do?'

'When I give the word, go to the armoury and get me a sackful of blasting powder and fuses. Please be very quick then. Where are your cells?'

Fairchild pointed. 'The corner of the compound there.'

'The key?'

Fairchild took a key from the board behind his desk and handed it to Deakin, who nodded his thanks, pocketed it and took up a watching post by the window.

He had to watch only for seconds. Benson, Carmody and Harris were crossing the compound at a dead run. At a nod from Deakin, Claremont helped him to drag the prostrate Calhoun into a more or less standing position. As the three running men approached the Commandant's office the door opened wide and the unconscious form of Calhoun was pushed violently down the steps. The confusion was immediate and complete and the tangled heap of Benson, Carmody and Harris had nothing to offer in the way of resistance when Deakin, gun in hand, appeared in the doorway. Fairchild appeared immediately behind him and ran across to the opposite side of the compound. Deakin followed, leading his horse by one hand while with the other, Colt in hand, he shepherded the other three, now bearing the inert Calhoun, towards the cells. As he turned the key on them, Fairchild appeared from a nearby doorway, carrying what appeared to be a fairly heavy sack. Deakin, on horseback now, snatched up the sack, slung it across the pommel of his saddle and, urging his horse to a gallop, swung left through the main gateway of the compound. Marica, supported by a still shaky Claremont, the blind leading the blind, appeared from the Commandant's office. Together with Fairchild, they made their best speed towards the gateway.

Deakin pulled up his horse in the concealment of an outcrop of rock that had been blasted to make the approach to the trellis bridge, dismounted, flung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the bridge.

Pearce swung out from the left-hand cab window of the locomotive cab and looked ahead. A wide smile crossed his sadly battered face.

'We're there!' Exultation in his voice. 'We're almost there!'

White Hand joined him by the window. The trellis bridge was less than a mile ahead. White Hand smiled and lovingly rubbed the stock of his Winchester repeater.

Deakin, meantime, had just finished wedging two large charges of blasting powder between the wooden piers and buttresses of the trellis bridge, one on either side. He had used scarcely half of the powder Fairchild had given him, but estimated the quantity to be sufficient. He shinned up a wooden buttress, threw the halfempty sack on to the track, then cautiously raised his head; the train was now no more than a quarter of a mile distant. He descended swiftly, ignited the fuses of both charges, then climbed as swiftly back on to the bridge. The train was no more than two hundred yards distant. Deakin shouldered his bag and ran back to the western exit of the bridge.