Breakheart Pass (22 page)

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.

Pearce and White Hand, leaning out from opposite sides of the footplate, saw the fleeing figure of Deakin just clearing the bridge. Momentarily, the two men in the cab stared at each other, then simultaneously raised their Winchesters. Bullets struck the ground and ricocheted off the rocks near the flying figure of Deakin, but because of the latter's dodging, twisting run and the most unstable firing platform provided by the swaying locomotive, none came too close. Within seconds Deakin had thrown himself behind the shelter of the outcrop of rock.

'The bridge!' Pearce's voice was almost a scream. 'The devil's mined the bridge!' O'Brien, his face masked in rage and fear, slammed shut the throttle and jammed on the brakes. But the train, though abruptly slowing, was already on the bridge.

Fairchild, Claremont and Marica, now no more than two hundred yards distant, stopped and stared. The train appeared to be almost across the bridge; the locomotive and tender were, in fact, already across the bridge and on solid rock. O'Brien, at the controls, mouthing incomprehensible words, realized that he had made a mistake, possibly even a fatal one, released the brake and opened the throttle to its widest extent. But O'Brien was too late. There came two almost simultaneous white flashes, a double roar that combined into one and the bridge disintegrated and collapsed into the ravine. The three coaches disappeared at once into the depths of the gorge, dragging the still coupled tender and locomotive after them. The tender had already disappeared and the locomotive was fast following them when three figures, all bearing Winchesters, jumped clear from the cab and landed heavily on the solid rock. The locomotive was dragged inexorably over the edge and amid the rending screech of tearing metal and the splintering of heavy baulks of timber, the entire train dropped into the depths.

Shaken, but still going concerns, Pearce, O'Brien and White Hand scrambled to their feet. With the three men lining their guns on him Deakin seemed momentarily paralysed, then dived for safety without a shot being fired. Shock had slowed the reactions of the men with the Winchesters.

Fairchild, Claremont and Marica flung themselves flat as the three men advanced, their Winchesters cocked. Deakin thrust his hand under his coat. It came out slowly, empty. His gun was in the Commandant's room. The three men were now less than fifteen yards distant from him, rounding the outcrop: it was obvious that Deakin had no gun. But in his right hand he held an already ignited tube of blasting powder. He waited for what seemed a dangerously long period, then threw it over the outcrop.

The charge exploded over the three men, momentarily blinding them and throwing them off-balance. Deakin ran round the corner of the outcrop. There was much smoke and dust but he could see that White Hand, his hands clutched to his streaming eyes, had lost his rifle. Two seconds later it was in Deakin's hands, lined up on the still slightly dazed Pearce and O'Brien.

Deakin said:
'Don't
do it.
Don't
make me make history.
Don't
make me the first man in history to kill another with a Winchester repeater.'

Pearce, who had recovered the most quickly of the three, hurled himself to one side, bringing up his repeater. Deakin's gun boomed.

Deakin said: i think that's enough history for one day.'

O'Brien nodded and threw down his gun. His tear-filled eyes could barely see.

The three of them were joined by Fairchild, Marica and Claremont, the last with a very steady gun in his wounded hand. Deakin, Fairchild and Marica stood a little apart close to the edge of the shattered bridge, gazing downwards. Far below in the depths of the ravine lay the crumpled, broken remains of the train with the locomotive lying on top of the crushed coaches. There was no movement to be seen, no sign of life.

Deakin said heavily: 'An eye for an eye. Well, I suppose we have the ones who matter – O'Brien, Calhoun and White Hand.'

Fairchild was sombre. 'All except one.'

Deakin looked at him. 'You – you know about your brother?'

'I always suspected. I never knew. He – he was the ringleader?'

'O'Brien was. O'Brien used him, used his greed and his weakness.'

'And all his ambition, all his greed, ends in the bottom of a ravine.'

'For him, for you, for your daughter – the best way.'

'And now?'

'One detachment of your men to bring back the horses I abandoned down the line. Another to repair the telegraph line. Then we call up a train-load of army and civil engineers to rebuild this bridge.'

Marica said: 'And you'll be returning to Reese City now?'

'I'll be going back to Reese City when that bridge is repaired and a train has crossed it to load all the bullion in Fort Humboldt. I'll let that gold and silver out of my sight when it's reached Washington. But not before.'

Fairchild said: 'But it'll take weeks to repair that bridge.'

'Like enough.'

Marica smiled. 'It looks like being a long hard winter.'

Deakin smiled in return. 'Oh, I don't know. I dare say we'll find something to talk about.'