The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

  Durrant sat silently. The smoke from the fire swirled around his head and drifted through the snow covered pines. After a moment he said quietly, “I never said it was Mr. Paine who told me that something transpired that night, Pete.”

  The man returned his gaze to his hands. “I got nothing more to say to you.”

  “I don’t suppose you do.” Durrant sat a moment looking into the fire. “Where are you from, Mr. Mahoney?”

  The man spat on the ground. “My folks got a place just south of Brandon. That’s where I was raised,” Pete Mahoney said, his voice shaking.

  “A farm?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Not much of a going concern?”

  “It’s hard country.”

  “What did you sign on to do for the CPR?”

  “We were laying ties.”

  “That’s heavy work.” Again, the man nodded. “Why didn’t you go home in December? You could have ridden a freight the whole way.”

  Mahoney shrugged. “Better money working here than freezing through a Manitoba winter.”

  “Freeze here, freeze there.”

  Mahoney looked at him. “What are you getting at?”

  “Just wondering, is all, why a couple of Manitoba farm boys would want to stay in a camp such as this rather than go home and help with the home place. I think Frank Dodds made you an offer.”

  “To cut timber. Of course,” said Mahoney.

  “No, more than that. More than that. I think you signed on to help with his whiskey operation.”

  Mahoney started to stand up. “I don’t . . .”

  Durrant put his left hand on the man’s leg, and with more strength than the younger man would give him credit for, pushed him back down. Mahoney looked at the Mountie askance. “You can go when I say so, Mr. Mahoney.” In his peripheral vision Durrant could see Ralph Mahoney tense. “I think you stayed on in Holt City to make whiskey for Frank Dodds instead of going home to help your mam and your pap with the pigs and cows. Isn’t that right?”

  Pete just glared at the man.

  “And now things have gotten out of hand, which is why your brother over there is wondering just what you’re telling me in this long chat we’re having here by the fire. I think things got out of hand and your boss Frank Dodds either killed that man Deek Penner or had you boys do it, and now you know that you ain’t going back to your family place ever again.”

  “I got nothing more to say to you.”

  Durrant took up his crutch in his right hand and pushed himself up from the log on which he was seated. He looked down at Pete Mahoney. “Son,” he said so quietly that Mahoney had to look up at him. “In time you’re going to see that telling me is a whole lot easier than not telling me what you know. We’re stuck here together and I’m not leaving Holt City until I have someone in shackles for the death of Mr. Penner. Am I understood?”

  Pete let his gaze slide from the Mountie to his brother who was now standing on the sled road a hundred yards away.

  “I’m going to go and talk with your brother now; see if he has any more sense than you do.”

  Durrant turned to walk away. He took two careful steps, using his crutch to feel along the snow for soft spots that would trip him up and leave him in a heap on the ground when he heard Pete Mahoney clear his throat. “Mr. Wallace.”

  Durrant turned. “It’s Sergeant Wallace.”

  “Sergeant, this isn’t Fort Calgary. Or Fort Garry. This is Holt City. You’re alone here. I don’t know who killed Deek Penner, but whoever did won’t want to get caught, is all I’m saying. There’s a lot more going on here than you think. A little whiskey is just the half of it.”

  Durrant looked at the man a long moment and then turned and walked toward his brother.

  NINE

  TURNING THE SCREW

  DURRANT WAS A MAN STEEPED in the legends of the North West Mounted Police. The Mounties had a reputation that they always got their man and they did it without having to resort to violence. Their motto was “maintain the right” which often translated to “keep the peace.”

  While most of the work that the NWMP did was accomplished peacefully, the myth was overstated by the Toronto media. Newspaper accounts of Mounties riding into distilling operations, being surrounded by rifle-totting moonshiners, and talking their way to an arrest often left out the seminal point: that the Mounties themselves had fashioned a reputation of sorts for the swift and effective use of force. While diplomacy was their carrot, the Enfield Mk II and Winchester repeating rifle were their sticks.

  Durrant stood a moment on the road considering Ralph Mahoney.

  “You been standing there watching me awhile . . .” Ralph said when Durrant stepped up to him. His voice was deeper than his younger brother’s, his tone more self-assured. He drew on the cigarette after he spoke, the frail, dry paper crumbling a little between his fingers.

  “I’m just trying to figure out which one of the two of you is more stupid,” said Durrant.

  “You got a big mouth, Mister . . .”

  Durrant slapped the man across the face. Ralph Mahoney made as if to step into Durrant. Durrant grabbed him by the coat and pulled him towards him and looked the man in the eye. “You know the British Bulldog, Mr. Mahoney?”

  Mahoney blinked. “I do. Snub-nosed little gun . . .”

  “That’s right. Same folks as make the Enfield that us Red Coats wear. I pack one in my coat pocket at all times. I lost my leg in a gunfight up on the Cypress Hills when I got caught reloading and it almost cost me my life. I don’t aim for that ever to happen again.”

  Mahoney’s face changed. “I was just . . .”

  “I load mine with .442 Webley rounds. They’re easier to come by out here, being made by the same folks that load the Enfield.”

  Mahoney broke Durrant’s iron gaze. “I didn’t mean no dis . . .”

  Durrant interrupted him again. “My British Bulldog’s aimed at your guts right now, Mr. Mahoney, and I’m not so steady on my feet. If I were to slip on this here road, I’d blow a hole in you big enough for a man to put his arm through.” The two men stood in the fading light. So much for diplomacy, thought Durrant.

  “Now, shall we answer a few questions instead of acting like a horse’s ass?” Ralph Mahoney just nodded. Durrant let go of the man and stepped back from him. “I just got through with your little brother. He lied to me, Mr. Mahoney, and I don’t like to be lied to, so I’m hoping it ain’t a family trait.”

  “Pete must just be nervous; he ain’t no liar.”

  Durrant, his voice icy, said, “He told me that during the card game on the night that Deek Penner was killed there was no toss-up between your boss and Deek, or with Devon Paine.”

  “It’s been a long winter, Mister. Men get on each other’s nerves.”

  “Men sometimes kill one another when they get on each other’s nerves, Mr. Mahoney.”

  Ralph crushed out his cigarette with his fingers, the embers dying on his callused finger tips.

  “So you admit that there was a row?”

  “Tempers flared over a hand of cards is all. There was nothing to it.”

  “Sometime after the game ended, Deek Penner had his head crushed. The six of you were the last to see him alive, except maybe the killer himself.”

  “That’s right, there was the killer who must have seen ol’ Deek.”

  “He may have been one of the same men at the card game. Until I hear something that convinces me otherwise, that’s the assumption I’m making.”

  “It weren’t me, and it certainly weren’t my little brother. Hell, we pulled Frank off of Paine.”

  “So it was Frank Dodds laid into Devon Paine. Man must be six inches smaller than Dodds. Not much of a fair fight.”

  “Mr. Dodds ain’t known for being the fairest man at Holt City . . .”

  “As I understand it, Deek Penner pulled all three of you off the man,” said Durrant.

  “Deek was a solid lad.”

  “Not soli
d enough. What did you think of him?” said Durrant, his tone softening.

  Ralph Mahoney’s eyes shifted through the woods. Durrant thought that he must be looking to see if he was being observed.

  “He was a good man,” Mahoney finally said. “Didn’t deserve to die’s for certain. But he was poking his nose into another man’s business, and no good’s ever going to come from that. He shouldn’t have been nosing around. That’s all.”

  “You think that got him killed?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing. I’m not saying nothing.”

  “You’re afraid of Frank Dodds.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re afraid of something, Ralph. I can see it.”

  Mahoney stood up straight. He was six foot three, and must have weighted two hundred and forty pounds, thought Durrant. But he suspected that under the layers of grey, ragged clothing he must be somewhat diminished after a winter in this hard, unforgiving country.

  “Let’s talk about Pete,” said Durrant, looking around to where the younger brother sat waiting.

  “He’s a good lad, Petie,” said his brother.

  “So why did he lie?”

  “Boy is just worried. He don’t want to cross Frank. Frank’s got a temper, everybody knows it. You seen it, didn’t you? You saw Devon Paine’s face.”

  “At least we’ve come clean about that part of the night.”

  “It ain’t too hard to figure, is it?”

  “No, Ralph, it isn’t that hard. But Paine told me it was a horse.”

  Mahoney laughed. “What the hell would he be doing with his face down by a horse’s foot!”

  It was Durrant’s turn to shrug.

  “So of course Pete is scared. He don’t want to lose his job, for one thing,” said Mahoney.

  “Wouldn’t be too hard to find work come the spring.”

  “We got responsibilities. We send money home when we can.”

  “So you can’t afford to lose your work for Dodds? Bob Pen would likely put you to work straight off if Dodds fired you.”

  “But that’s come spring. That’s still some time off, given the amount of snow we got this winter. They say there’s still ten feet or more on the Kicking Horse Pass. It’s going to be June before we start down the other side at this rate. What’s the boy going to do till then? Walk back to Fort Calgary? He’d catch almighty hell . . .”

  Durrant watched the man. “Who would he catch hell from?” Mahoney turned away from the Mountie a moment. “Look at me when I’m talking to you! Who would he catch hell from?” demanded Durrant.

  “Nobody.”

  “From your old man, is that it?”

  “They need the money. They can’t keep up with the farm. It ain’t nothing.”

  “Deek Penner was a patriarchal figure around this camp, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “He was like a father to some. He sounded like a father to others.” Mahoney looked down at his feet. Durrant continued, “Bet for some he sounded a little too much like their own pap for his own good.”

  “Deek weren’t nothing like our old man,” said Mahoney. “Got to being a little preachy sometimes, but not much like our old man, no.”

  Durrant nodded. “Maybe he sounded a lot more like your old man than you’re letting on. I think that’s why young Pete there didn’t care too much for Deek Penner. Deek was onto the fact that you and your brother were in on Frank Dodds’ moonshining and that’s when Deek got much too preachy. Maybe you couldn’t raise a hand to your old man, but Deek Penner? That’s another thing all together.” Mahoney smiled a thin smile. He shook his head. “You don’t think so, Ralph?”

  “You got us all figured, don’t you?” said Mahoney.

  Now it was Durrant’s turn to smile. “Losing his job ain’t the only thing Pete is afraid of, though. Is it?”

  “Maybe he’s afraid of losing a few teeth if he speaks ill of ol’ Dodds,” said Mahoney.

  “My guess is that you’d back him up.”

  “Against Dodds?”

  “Against any man.”

  “Damn right.”

  “What’s he got to hide?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t give a damn!” said Mahoney, glaring at him, and the woods fell suddenly silent. From the corner of his eye Durrant could see Pete Mahoney stand up and in his mind played out the scenario of subduing both men. Mahoney must have read his face, and immediately looked down, submissively.

  “Mr. Wallace . . .”

  “Sergeant Wallace.”

  “Sergeant Wallace,” Mahoney hissed, “You seem like a pretty bright fellow. You seem like you got a good head, as our Daddy used to say. You must know what goes on when five hundred men are holed up for the winter in a God-forsaken place like this. Sometimes men get on each other’s nerves. Men is always looking for something to let off a little steam. A bit of fisticuffs, some poker, and a drink for the medicinal benefits from time to time.”

  “And a man is dead from this?”

  “Deek Penner is dead, but I don’t know why, Sergeant Wallace.”

  “Who’s making the whiskey in this camp?” asked Wallace.

  “I don’t know,” Mahoney said wearily.

  “I think you do. I think your brother knows too. I think your brother is maybe very well acquainted with who is making whiskey here at Holt City.”

  “You had best leave my little brother alone, Sergeant Wallace.” He didn’t look at Durrant when he said it.

  Durrant let his gaze slip in turn to the younger Mahoney. He could feel the tension radiating from the Mahoney next to him. He drew in a breath of the cool air and tasted the rich aroma of pine. He looked back at the man before him, his shoulders square to him, Durrant’s face coming close to his in the dim evening light.

  “Or what, Mr. Mahoney? Or what?” He let his left hand tighten around the slender handle of the Bulldog in his pocket, his thumb itching on the hammer.

  “Or that piece of iron that you got there in your pocket is going to be all that stands between you and the devil himself, Sergeant. Between you and - the - devil - his - self.” He drew out the words, each one punctuated with a jab of his finger towards the Mountie’s chest.

  For a moment Durrant imagined stepping back over the icy road and drawing the Bulldog on the man and pulling the trigger, the explosion of the powder in the compact cartridge cutting the silence of the woods like the bark of some angry cur. He drew in a breath and smiled, letting the image fade from his mind.

  “You get in my way of finding out who killed Deek Penner, Mr. Mahoney, and it will be you who will be delivering a message to that self-same devil. I’ll see to that myself.”

  • • •

  It took Durrant nearly an hour to navigate the ice road in the darkness. Several times he slipped, and once his crutch broke through the thin crust of ice and wood chips and he toppled forward, the crutch catching him in the chin, nearly knocking him senseless. The long walk gave him time to consider his interrogation of the Mahoney brothers. Durrant mused that while both men wore soiled and tattered overcoats that clearly hadn’t been to the laundry all winter, neither of them had any evidence of blood on them.

  Hungry as Durrant was, when he arrived back in camp he went directly to Dodds’ cabin. The trail to the shack was well packed and a thick plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Even if he didn’t relish the company, Durrant looked forward to being warm.

  He knew that he could not intimidate the belligerent Dodds and would need to try a different tact. He stepped up to the cabin, and before allowing a second thought to enter his head, pounded on the door. A chair scraped against the floor and heavy, booted feet plodded across the crudely planed floorboards.

  “What is it?” he heard Dodds bark.

  “It’s Sergeant Wallace, Mr. Dodds. I’ll have a word with you.”<
br />
  “Blue Jesus, man, don’t you ever rest?” The door was opened and Dodds stood before him in a grey undershirt and waistcoat. His hair was mussed and he looked as if he’d been sleeping. The odour of whiskey and oil hung heavy in the warm air that emanated from the cabin.

  “I have some questions for you, please.”

  Dodds stood and regarded the Mountie a moment. Without a word, he stepped away from the door and walked back to the round table that filled much of the room.

  “I hear you were putting it to a couple of my boys today,” he said, taking his seat. Laid out on the table were an assortment of tools—peevies and axes, a few short-handled saws—along with a sharpening stone and a can of oil. Dodds took up one of the saws and began to carefully sharpen its serrated teeth with the rounded edge of a file.

  Durrant stood by the door watching the man. The room was warm, the broad stove in the corner rattled a little, and the scent of body odour was infused with the oil and the tipple.

  “That’s what I want to talk with you about,” he said. Dodds didn’t look up. He made no response at all. “Pete Mahoney seems a good lad, but he’s scared and I believe that he’s covering for you.” Dodds continued to file the saw. “He lied to me today, and if it wasn’t about the killing of Deek Penner, then it was certainly to cover up your moonshine operation.” Dodds picked up an oily cloth and rubbed it across the blade of the saw. “He might be a good lad, but he’s a bad liar and if I have to break him to get to you, it won’t keep me up at night.”

  Dodds grinned. “Just wondering what would keep a man like you up, is all?”

  “Things you couldn’t even imagine, Mr. Dodds.”

  “I bet I could,” Dodds said, looking at Durrant for the first time since the man stepped foot in his cabin.

  “Nevertheless, I aim to take you down, and if I have to take the Mahoney boys with me when I do, that will suit me just fine.”

  “You got this all figured out already, do you, Mr. Wallace? Pardon me, Sergeant Wallace.” he corrected himself with a toothy grin, regarding the Mountie coolly. “Oh, I already heard you don’t take too kindly to being referred to with the familiar. Sit if you like; I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to be on that thing all day long,” said Dodds, nodding at Durrant’s prosthetic. Durrant remained standing.