Read Online Breakheart Pass by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alistair MacLean
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smiled again. He could afford to smile. He looked at the four men close to the doorway, two raggedly dressed white men and two equally unprepossessing Indians, all four with rifles pointed variously at Fairchild and the two soldiers, and said: The Colonel must be feeling hungry. Let him get back to his breakfast.'
Claremont said: 'Now try for the telegraph operator at the Reese City depot. Find out if he has any information for us about Captain Oakland or Lieutenant Newell.'
Ferguson said: The depot, sir? that'll be the station-master. I mean, they don't have a telegraph office in Reese City any more. They tell me the telegraphist left for the Big Bonanza some time ago.'
'Well, the station-master.'
'Yes, sir.' Ferguson hesitated. 'The word is, sir, that he's not seen at the depot very often. He appears to spend most of his life in the back room of the Imperial Hotel.'
'Try, anyway.'
Ferguson tried. He transmitted the call-sign at least a dozen times, then looked up. 'I don't seem to be able to raise them, sir.'
O'Brien said, sotto voce , to Pearce: 'Maybe they should switch the telegraph to the Imperial.' The tightening of Claremont's lips showed that the remark hadn't been quite so sotto voce as intended, but he ignored it and said to Ferguson: 'Keep trying.'
Ferguson tried and kept on trying. His earphones remained obstinately silent. He shook his head and looked towards Claremont, who forestalled him. 'No one manning the other end, eh?'
'No, sir, nothing like that.' Ferguson was genuinely puzzled. 'The line's out of action. Dead. One of the relay repeaters gone, most like.'
'I don't see how it can have gone. No snow, no high winds â and nothing the matter with any of them when we called the Fort from Reese City yesterday. Keep trying while we have some breakfast.' He paused, looked first of all unenthusiastically at Deakin, then in grieved enquiry at Pearce. 'This criminal here, this Houston. Does he have to eat with us?'
'Deakin,' Deakin said. 'Not Houston.'
'Shut up,' Pearce said. To the Colonel: 'He could starve for all I care â but, well, he can sit at my table. If the Reverend and the Doctor don't mind, that is.' He glanced around. 'I see the good Doctor isn't up and about yet.' He took Deakin none too gently by the arm. 'Come on.'
The seven people taking breakfast were seated as they had been the previous evening, except that Deakin had taken the place of Dr Molyneux, who had yet to put in an appearance. Peabody, seated next to him, spent what was clearly a most uncomfortable meal: he kept glancing furtively at Deakin and had about him the look of a divine on the qui vive for the emergence of a pair of horns and forked tail. Deakin, for his part, paid no attention: as befitted a man who had just undergone an enforced absence from the pleasures of the table, his undivided attention was devoted to the contents of the plate before him.
Claremont finished his meal, sat back, nodded to Henry to pour him some more coffee, lit a cheroot and glanced across at Pearce's table. He permitted himself one of his rare and wintry smiles.
'I'm afraid Dr Molyneux is going to find some difficulty in adjusting to army breakfast times. Henry, go and waken him.' He twisted in his seat and called down the passageway. 'Ferguson?'
'No luck, sir. Nothing. Quite dead.'
For a moment, head still averted, Claremont tapped his fingers irresolutely on the table, then made up his mind. 'Dismantle your equipment,' he called, then turned to face the company again. 'We'll leave as soon as he's ready. Major O'Brien, if you would be so kindâ' He broke off in astonishment as Henry, his measured steward's gait in startling abeyance, almost rushed into the diningroom, wide eyes reflecting the shock mirrored in the long lugubrious face.
'What on earth's the matter, Henry?'
'He's dead, Colonel! He's lying there dead! Dr Molyneux.'
'Dead? Dead? The doctor? Are you â are you sure, Henry? Did you shake him?'
Henry nodded
Claremont said: 'Now try for the telegraph operator at the Reese City depot. Find out if he has any information for us about Captain Oakland or Lieutenant Newell.'
Ferguson said: The depot, sir? that'll be the station-master. I mean, they don't have a telegraph office in Reese City any more. They tell me the telegraphist left for the Big Bonanza some time ago.'
'Well, the station-master.'
'Yes, sir.' Ferguson hesitated. 'The word is, sir, that he's not seen at the depot very often. He appears to spend most of his life in the back room of the Imperial Hotel.'
'Try, anyway.'
Ferguson tried. He transmitted the call-sign at least a dozen times, then looked up. 'I don't seem to be able to raise them, sir.'
O'Brien said, sotto voce , to Pearce: 'Maybe they should switch the telegraph to the Imperial.' The tightening of Claremont's lips showed that the remark hadn't been quite so sotto voce as intended, but he ignored it and said to Ferguson: 'Keep trying.'
Ferguson tried and kept on trying. His earphones remained obstinately silent. He shook his head and looked towards Claremont, who forestalled him. 'No one manning the other end, eh?'
'No, sir, nothing like that.' Ferguson was genuinely puzzled. 'The line's out of action. Dead. One of the relay repeaters gone, most like.'
'I don't see how it can have gone. No snow, no high winds â and nothing the matter with any of them when we called the Fort from Reese City yesterday. Keep trying while we have some breakfast.' He paused, looked first of all unenthusiastically at Deakin, then in grieved enquiry at Pearce. 'This criminal here, this Houston. Does he have to eat with us?'
'Deakin,' Deakin said. 'Not Houston.'
'Shut up,' Pearce said. To the Colonel: 'He could starve for all I care â but, well, he can sit at my table. If the Reverend and the Doctor don't mind, that is.' He glanced around. 'I see the good Doctor isn't up and about yet.' He took Deakin none too gently by the arm. 'Come on.'
The seven people taking breakfast were seated as they had been the previous evening, except that Deakin had taken the place of Dr Molyneux, who had yet to put in an appearance. Peabody, seated next to him, spent what was clearly a most uncomfortable meal: he kept glancing furtively at Deakin and had about him the look of a divine on the qui vive for the emergence of a pair of horns and forked tail. Deakin, for his part, paid no attention: as befitted a man who had just undergone an enforced absence from the pleasures of the table, his undivided attention was devoted to the contents of the plate before him.
Claremont finished his meal, sat back, nodded to Henry to pour him some more coffee, lit a cheroot and glanced across at Pearce's table. He permitted himself one of his rare and wintry smiles.
'I'm afraid Dr Molyneux is going to find some difficulty in adjusting to army breakfast times. Henry, go and waken him.' He twisted in his seat and called down the passageway. 'Ferguson?'
'No luck, sir. Nothing. Quite dead.'
For a moment, head still averted, Claremont tapped his fingers irresolutely on the table, then made up his mind. 'Dismantle your equipment,' he called, then turned to face the company again. 'We'll leave as soon as he's ready. Major O'Brien, if you would be so kindâ' He broke off in astonishment as Henry, his measured steward's gait in startling abeyance, almost rushed into the diningroom, wide eyes reflecting the shock mirrored in the long lugubrious face.
'What on earth's the matter, Henry?'
'He's dead, Colonel! He's lying there dead! Dr Molyneux.'
'Dead? Dead? The doctor? Are you â are you sure, Henry? Did you shake him?'
Henry nodded
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