I've been a big fan of Alistair MacLean's ever since I read all of his earlier, i.e., "good" books (that is, everything from 1955's HMS Ulysses through 1968's Force 10 From Navarone), but for some reason this one has sat unread on my bookshelf for years - probably in a stash of paperbacks I salvaged when my mom passed away - until I suddenly had the urge to see just how bad MacLean's sole Western could really be.
Well, the short answer is really frickin' horrible; although if that's not enough, the somewhat longer answer follows:
PLOT: The whole book reads like a cross between bad Agatha Christie (Murder on the Oregon Express?) and a mediocre episode of "Wild Wild West," (which had gone off the air four years before this was published). For the first half of the book I honestly couldn't recall if I'd read it before - despite the Western setting, the characters and predictable plot twists were so familiar from MacLean's earlier stories that it almost read as a parody of his own work.
NARRATIVE: MacLean was always at his best writing in the first person, but this third-person narrative is particularly grating. Much of that is probably due to his patented British suave-cum-flippant tone sounding wildly off key in this setting and historical period; but I suspect a lot was also due to what is generally seen as his overall mid-career slump into sloppiness. Consider the following random samples:
...he had about him the look of a divine on the qui vive for a pair of horns and forked tail.
Pearce wasn't demonstrably happy, but he certainly couldn't have been described as ebullient.
For every man aboard those coaches, death must have supervened instantaneously.
Claremont manfully quelled what was clearly an incipient attack of apoplexy.
Deakin staggered and sat down heavily then, after a few seconds during which the other men averted their faces in shame for lost manhood, dabbed some blood from a split lip.
Fairchild spoke weightily in his impressively gubernatorial manner.
...because of his rapidly increasing tiredness which was not but one step removed from exhaustion.
He ignited the tube of blasting powder, judged his moment to what he regarded as a nicety, then tossed it out the opening.
And MacLean's DIALOGUE isn't much better. Good guys, bad guys, Indians - all sound similar and generally British, ("We don't want any of those nasty ricochets flying about inside the cab,") or in the case of the really bad Indian, positively Confucian ("in weather such as this, the wise man does not linger"). We also get exchanges like this:
"By God, Deakin, you'll pay for that insinuation!"
Deakin said wearily: "Hark at who's talking about insinuations."
And a final quote, which I liked for just a whole bunch of reasons (including three "that"s in the course of just ten words):
"Not that there's any reason to assume that they think that there is anything wrong in Fort Humboldt. But chances we cannot take."
Considering my long relationship with MacLean, I'd really hate to say good-bye to him with Breakheart Pass (which btw is a cool sounding title - although the pass only plays a minor role in the story for about 10 pages near the end). Luckily, I don't think I've reread The Guns of Navarone since the 60's - and so will add that to my to-read list, just so that I can end my half century relationship on an up note. Because quite frankly, other than that, further chances I cannot take.