It was not necessary. There was a dull explosion and a violent flare of light as the paraffin around the drum caught fire. O’Hara, breathing heavily, moved to another place where he could see what was happening. It would have been very foolish to pop his head up in the same place from which he had fired his bolt.
It was with dejection that he saw a raging fire arising from a great pool of paraffin just short of the bridge. The drum had stopped too soon and although the fire was spectacular it would do the bridge no damage at all. He watched for a long time, hoping the drum would explode and scatter burning paraffin on the bridge, but nothing happened and slowly the fire went out.
He dropped back to join the others. ‘Well, we messed that one up,’ he said bitterly.
‘I should have pushed it harder,’ Armstrong said.
O’Hara flared up in anger. ‘You damned fool, if you hadn’t run out and given it another shove it wouldn’t have gone as far as it did. Don’t do an idiotic thing like that again – you nearly got killed!’
Armstrong said quietly, ‘We’re all of us on the verge of getting killed. Someone has to risk something besides you.’
‘I should have surveyed the ground more carefully,’ said O’Hara self-accusingly.
Benedetta put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Tim; you did the best you could.’
‘Sure you did,’ said Miss Ponsky militantly. ‘And we’ve shown them we’re still here and fighting. I bet they’re scared to come across now for fear of being burned alive.’
‘Come,’ said Benedetta. ‘Come and eat.’ There was a flash of humour in her voice. ‘I didn’t bring the travois all the way down, so it will be stew again.’
Wearily O’Hara turned his back on the bridge. It was the third night since the plane crash – and six more to go!
Forester attacked his baked beans with gusto. The dawn light was breaking, dimming the bright glare of the Coleman lamp and smoothing out the harsh shadows on his face. He said, ‘One day at the mine – two days crossing the pass – another two days getting help. We must cut that down somehow. When we get to the other side we’ll have to act quickly.’
Peabody looked at the table morosely, ignoring Forester. He was wondering if he had made the right decision, done the right thing by Joe Peabody. The way these guys talked, crossing the mountains wasn’t going to be so easy. Aw, to hell with it – he could do anything any other guy could do – especially any spic.
Rohde said, ‘I thought I heard rifle-fire last night – just at sunset.’ His face was haunted by the knowledge of his helplessness.
‘They should be all right. I don’t see how the commies could have repaired the bridge and got across so quickly,’ said Forester reasonably. ‘That O’Hara’s a smart cookie. He must have been doing something with that drum of kerosene he took down the hill yesterday. He’s probably cooked the bridge to a turn.’
Rohde’s face cracked into a faint smile. ‘I hope so.’
Forester finished his beans. ‘Okay, let’s get the show on the road.’ He turned round in his chair and looked at the huddle of blankets on the bunk. ‘What about Willis?’
‘Let him sleep,’ said Rohde. ‘He worked harder and longer than any of us.’
Forester got up and examined the packs they had made up the previous night. Their equipment was pitifully inadequate for the job they had to do. He remembered the books he had read about mountaineering expeditions – the special rations they had, the lightweight nylon ropes and tents, the wind-proof clothing and the specialized gear – climbing-boots, ice-axes, pitons. He smiled grimly – yes, and porters to help hump it.
There was none of that here. Their packs were roughly cobbled together from blankets; they had an ice-axe which Willis had made – a roughly shaped metal blade mounted on the end of an old broom handle; their ropes were rotten and none too plentiful, scavenged from the rubbish heap of the camp and with too many knots and splices for safety; their climbing-boots were clumsy miners’ boots made of thick, unpliant leather, heavy and graceless. Willis had discovered the boots and Rohde had practically gone into raptures over them.
He lifted his pack and wished it was heavier – heavier with the equipment they needed. They had worked far into the night improvising, with Willis and Rohde being the most inventive. Rohde had torn blankets into long strips to make puttees, and Willis had practically torn down one of the huts single-handed in his search for extra long nails to use as pitons. Rohde shook his head wryly when he saw them. ‘The metal is too soft, but they will have to do.’
Forester heaved the pack on to his back and fastened the crude electric wiring fastenings. Perhaps it’s as well we’re staying a day at the mine, he thought; maybe we can do better than this. There are suitcases up there with proper straps, there is the plane – surely we can find something in there we can use. He zipped up the front of the leather jacket and was grateful to O’Hara for the loan of it. He suspected it would be windy higher up, and the jacket was windproof.
As he stepped out of the hut he heard Peabody cursing at the weight of his pack. He took no notice but strode on through the camp, past the trebuchet which crouched like a prehistoric monster, and so to the road which led up the mountain. In two strides Rohde caught up and came abreast of him. He indicated Peabody trailing behind. ‘This one will make trouble,’ he said.
Forester’s face was suddenly bleak. ‘I meant what I said, Miguel. If he makes trouble, we get rid of him.’
It took them a long time to get up to the mine. The air became very thin and Forester could feel that his heartbeat had accelerated and his heart thumped in his chest like a swinging stone. He breathed faster and was cautioned by Rohde against forced breathing. My God, he thought; what is it going to be like in the pass?
They reached the airstrip and the mine at midday. Forester felt dizzy and a little nauseated and was glad to reach the first of the deserted huts and to collapse on the floor. Peabody had been left behind long ago; they had ignored his pleas for them to stop and he had straggled farther and farther behind on the trail until he had disappeared from sight. ‘He’ll catch up,’ Forester said. ‘He’s more scared of the commies than he is of me.’ He grinned with savage satisfaction. ‘But I’ll change that before we’re through.’
Rohde was in nearly as bad shape as Forester, although he was more used to the mountains. He sat on the floor of the hut, gasping for breath, too weary to shrug off his pack. They both relaxed for over half an hour before Rohde made any constructive move. At last he fumbled with numb fingers at the fastenings of his pack, and said, ‘We must have warmth; get out the kerosene.’
As Forester undid his pack Rohde took the small axe which had been brought from the Dakota and left the hut. Presently Forester heard him chopping at something in one of the other huts and guessed he had gone for the makings of a fire. He got out the bottle of kerosene and put it aside, ready for when Rohde came back.
An hour later they had a small fire going in the middle of the hut. Rohde had used the minimum of kerosene to start it and small chips of wood built up in a pyramid. Forester chuckled. ‘You must have been a boy scout.’
‘I was,’ said Rohde seriously. ‘That is a fine organization.’ He stretched. ‘Now we must eat.’
‘I don’t feel hungry,’ objected Forester.
‘I know – neither do I. Nevertheless, we must eat.’ Rohde looked out of the window towards the pass. ‘We must fuel ourselves for tomorrow.’
They