Breakheart Pass by Alistair MacLean Page B

And you just sit there. Aren't you going to help them look for him?'
    Deakin leaned back leisurely in his chair, his legs crossed, produced and lit a cheroot. He said in what appeared to be genuine surprise: 'Me? Certainly not. What's he to me? Or I to him? The hell with the Reverend.'
    'But he's such a nice man.' It was difficult to say whether Marica was more aghast at the impiety or the callous indifference. 'Why, he sat there and talked to you–'
    'He invited himself. Now let him look after himself.'
    Marica said in disbelief, slowly spacing the words: 'You just don't care.'
    'That's it.'
    'The Marshal was right and I was wrong. I should have listened to a man of the world. Hanging is too good for you. You must be the most self-centred, the most utterly selfish man in the world.'
    Deakin said reasonably: 'Well, it's better to be best at something than best at nothing. Which reminds me of something else that is very good indeed.' He rose. 'The Governor's bourbon. Now seems like an excellent chance to help myself when they're all busy.'
    He left along the passageway past the Governor's and Marica's sleeping quarters. Marica remained where she was for a few moments, the anger in her face now with an element of puzzlement in it, hesitated, rose and walked quietly after Deakin. By the time she had reached the door of the officers' day compartment, Deakin had crossed to the cabinet above the sofa at the front end of the coach, poured some bourbon into a tumbler and drained the contents in one savage gulp. Marica watched, her face n ow showing only wonderment and an increasing lack of comprehension, as Deakin poured himself some more bourbon, drank half of it and turned to the right, gazing with seemingly unseeing eyes through the window. The lean, dark, bitter face was set in lines of an almost frighteningly implacable cruelty.
    Eyes widening under a furrowed brow, Marica advanced slowly and silently into the compartment and was less than four feet away from him when Deakin turned, the same almost viciously hard expression on his face. Marica recoiled before it, taking a step back almost as if expecting to be struck. Several seconds elapsed before Deakin appeared to become aware of her presence. His face gradually assumed its normal expression – or lack of it. He said, affably: 'Quite a start you gave me, ma'am.'
    She did not answer at once. She advanced like a sleep-walker, her face still full of wonder, lifted a hand and tentatively, almost apprehensively, touched his lapel. She whispered: 'Who are you?'
    He shrugged. 'John Deakin.'
    'What are you?'
    'You heard what the Marshal said–'
    He broke off as the sound of voices came from the passageway, loud voices that carried with them the connotation of gesticulating hands. Claremont entered, followed by the Governor, Pearce and O'Brien. Claremont was saying: 'If he's not here, he must have fallen off and be lying by the track-side. And he's not here. If we back up, say, five miles–'
    Fairchild interrupted, one more vexation added to his sea of troubles. 'Damn you, Deakin. That's my whisky!'
    Deakin gave an acknowledging nod. 'And excellent stuff it is, too. You don't have to be afraid of offering this to anyone.'
    Without a word and without warning Pearce stepped forward and savagely struck Deakin's right wrist, sending the glass flying.
    Marica's reaction was involuntary, as surprising to her as it was to the others. She said in sudden anger: 'What a brave man you are. Marshal – with that big gun hanging by your side.'
    With the exception of Deakin, everyone stared at her in astonishment. Pearce looked back towards Deakin, the surprise on his face giving way to contempt, a contempt reflected in his gesture as he pulled the Colt from its holster, threw it on the couch and smiled invitingly at Deakin. Deakin made no response. Pearce swung his left hand and hit Deakin, hard, across the lower face with the back of his clenched fist, a humiliating blow with