Breakheart Pass by Alistair MacLean Page A

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.