Breakheart Pass. Alistair MacLean
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Название: Breakheart Pass
Автор: Alistair MacLean
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780007402632
isbn:
Pearce said: ‘Well, Colonel, I guess this buys me my train ticket after all.’
Claremont looked at him and said nothing. His expression didn’t say very much either, just that of a man politely waiting.
Pearce read from the notice: “Wanted: for gambling debts, theft, arson and murder.”’
‘A nice sense of priorities,’ O’Brien murmured.
“John Houston alias John Murray alias John Deakin alias” - well, never mind, alias a lot of things. “Formerly lecturer in medicine at the University of Nevada.”’
‘University?’ Claremont’s tone reflected the slight astonishment in his face. ‘In those Godforsaken mountains?’
‘Can’t stop progress, Colonel. Opened in Elko. This year.’ He read on: “Dismissed for gambling debts and illegal gambling. Embezzlement of university funds subsequently discovered, attributed to wanted man. Traced to Lake’s Crossing and trapped in hardware store. To cover escape,used kerosene to set fire to store. Ensuing blaze ran out of control and central part of Lake’s Crossing destroyed with the loss of seven lives.”’
Pearce’s statement gave rise to a splendid series of expressions among onlookers and listeners, ranging from incredulity to horror, from anger to revulsion. Only Pearce and O’Brien and, curiously enough, Deakin himself, registered no emotion whatsoever.
Pearce continued: ‘“Traced to railroad repair shops at Sharps. Blew up wagonload of explosives destroying three sheds and all rolling stock. Present whereabouts unknown.”’
Garritty’s voice was still a croak. ‘He - this is the man who burnt down Lake’s Crossing and blew up Sharps?’
‘If we are to believe this notice, and I do believe it, this is indeed the man. We all know about the long arm of coincidence but this would be stretching things a bit too far. Kind of puts your paltry hundred and twenty dollars into its right perspective, doesn’t it, Garritty? By the way, I’d pocket that money right now if I were you - nobody’s going to be seeing Deakin for a long, long time to come.’ He folded the notice and looked at Claremont. ‘Well?’
They won’t need a jury. But it’s still not Army business.’
Pearce unfolded the notice, handed it to Claremont. I didn’t read it all out, the notice was too long.’ He pointed to a paragraph. I missed this bit, for instance.’
Claremont read aloud : “‘The explosives wagon in the Sharps episode was en route to the United States Army Ordnance Depot at Sacramento, California.” He folded the paper, handed it back and nodded. ‘This makes it Army business.’
Colonel Claremont, whose explosive temper normally lay very close to the surface indeed, was clearly making a Herculean effort to keep it under control. It was just as clearly a losing battle. A meticulous and exceptionally thorough individual, one who cleaved to prescribed detail and routine, one who had a powerful aversion to the even tenor of his ways being interrupted, far less disrupted, and one who was totally incapable of suffering either fools or incompetence gladly, Claremont had not yet devised, and probably never would devise, a safety-valve for his only failing as an officer and a man. Not for him the gradual release of or sublimation for the rapid and rapidly increasing frustration-based anger that simmered just below boiling point and did all sorts of bad things to his blood pressure. In geological terms, he neither vented volcanic gases nor released surplus superheated energy in the form of spouts and geysers: like Krakatoa, he just blew his top, and the results, at least for those in his immediate vicinity, were, more often than not, only a slight degree less devastating.
The Colonel had an audience of eight. A rather apprehensive Governor, Marica, chaplain and doctor stood just outside the main entrance to the Imperial: some little way along the boardwalk O’Brien, Pearce and Deakin were also watching the Colonel in full cry, although it was noticeable that Pearce had an even closer eye for Deakin than he did for the Colonel. The eighth member was the unfortunate Sergeant Bellew. He was rigidly at attention, or as rigid as one can be when seated on a highly restive horse, with his gaze studiously fixed on a point about a couple of light years beyond the Colonel’s left shoulder. The afternoon had turned cold but Bellew was sweating profusely.
‘Everywhere?’ Claremont’s disbelief was total and he made no attempt to hide it. ‘You’ve searched everywhere?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Officers of the United States Cavalry can hardly be a common sight hereabouts. Someone’s bound to have seen them.’
‘No one we talked to, sir. And we talked to everyone we saw.’
‘Impossible, man, impossible!’
‘Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.’ Bellew abandoned his rapt contemplation of infinity, focused his eyes on the Colonel’s face and said, almost in quiet desperation: ‘We can’t find them, sir.’
The colour of the Colonel’s complexion deepened to a dangerous hue. It required no great feat of the imagination to see that the lava of his fury was about to erupt. Pearce took a couple of hasty steps forward and said: ‘Maybe I can. Colonel. I can pick twenty, thirty men who know every hole and corner in this town - and heaven knows there are not a great number of those. Twenty minutes and we’ll find them, if they’re here to be found.’
‘What the devil do you mean - if?’
‘What I say.’ It was obvious that Pearce was in no placatory mood. ‘I’m offering to be of assistance - and I don’t have to offer. I don’t expect a “thank you”, I don’t even expect an acceptance. A little courtesy would help, though. Yes or no.’
Claremont hesitated, his blood pressure fractionally easing. He’d been brought up short by Pearce’s curt tone and had to remind himself, painfully and almost forcibly, that he was dealing with a civilian, one of that unfortunate majority over whom he had neither control nor authority. Claremont kept his contact with civilians to a basic minimum, with the result that he had almost forgotten how to talk to them. But the root cause of his temporary indecision was the galling and humiliating prospect that those unwashed and undisciplined derelicts of Reese City might succeed where his own beloved troops had failed. When he did reply it cost him a very considerable effort to speak as he did.
‘Very well. Marshal. Please do that. And thank you. Departure time, then, twenty minutes. We’ll wait down at the depot.’
‘I’ll be there. A favour in return. Colonel. Could you detail two or three of your men to escort the prisoner to the train?’
‘An escort?’ Claremont was openly contemptuous. ‘Hardly, I would have thought, СКАЧАТЬ