The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

  He continued, “So if you got it all figured out, why not throw the shackles on me now and put me on the next freight that heads for Fort Calgary? Why not haul me down to the station and send word to your man Steele that once again the Red Coats got their man?”

  “Why not indeed?” asked Durrant.

  “You can’t and you won’t. Cause you got no proof of anything. You got no proof of this notion that I’m behind Deek’s murder, and you got no proof that I’m making whiskey in this camp. You got nothing.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a fair sight more than nothing.”

  Dodds grinned again and put down the saw, wiping his hands on the oily rag. He shook his head. “Maybe you do, but it ain’t enough to convict anybody of anything, especially me.”

  “What did Paine say to you that night that made you lay into him so hard?”

  “Paine and I didn’t get mixed up.”

  “That’s not what Ralph Mahoney tells me.”

  “Ralph?”

  Durrant nodded.

  Dodds snorted, and picked up a two-sided axe and began to file one of its broad blades. “Ralph, eh? It was just a harmless row, that’s all. I don’t see what it had to do with Deek Penner, no how.”

  “Deek got between you.”

  “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Deek got between lots of things here at Holt City, Sergeant.”

  “Did he get between you and the profit you hope to reap from making moonshine and selling it to the navvies come the spring?”

  Dodds laughed. “You almost tripped me up there, Sergeant, with your clever talk. You came pretty close.”

  “Did he threaten you, Dodds? Is that it? Did he threaten to upend the applecart?”

  Dodds shook his head. “You got a one-track mind, Sergeant Wallace.”

  Durrant’s voice was low and flat, “Let me tell you something, Mr. Dodds . . .” But Dodds interrupted him.

  “No, let me tell you something, Wallace,” he said, his head snapping up, his grip tightening around the handle of the axe. “Let me tell you something. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. There might be moonshine in this camp, but it ain’t moonshine that got Deek Penner killed, and that’s for damned sure.” It was Durrant’s turn to shake his head. “Scoff if you like, Wallace, but it will be your fault when you get yourself banged on the head like our boy Deek Penner. At least as I hear it he saw it coming.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “No, I ain’t threatening you. Jesus Christ, man, you been here what, two days, and you already figure you can finger me for killing Deek, making whiskey, and wanting to ruin the whole goddamned CPR operation. Well, let me tell you, you don’t know the half of it.”

  Durrant drew a deep breath. “Half of what?” he said.

  Dodds laughed again. “You ain’t going to hear it from me.”

  “As I see it, you got a choice to make, Mr. Dodds. You can keep your mouth shut and wait for me to finish my case against you, or you can tell me what you know and see if maybe I believe you.”

  “Why the hell should I help you?”

  “’Cause right now, I got you figured for the death of Mr. Penner and for making whiskey, and their ain’t no law in these parts but what I bring with me, so it will be my word against yours.”

  Dodds looked up at him. “We got courts in this country. Don’t try to fool me that there’s goin’ to be some kind of rail-side justice served up.”

  “Nearest courthouse is in Regina. If you’re lucky you’d get a magistrate in Fort Calgary. It would be awful if you tried to escape custody, is all I’m saying.”

  “Pretty tough talk for a one-legged man in a camp full of axes, dynamite, and pistols, Sergeant Wallace.”

  Durrant felt his left hand itch to hold the butt of this revolver; he feigned indifference to the threat instead. Dodds grinned and looked back down at this work.

  “There’s a spy here in this camp,” he finally said.

  “So you say. That rumour is all over camp.”

  “There’s a spy. It ain’t no rumour. We all knew it. All of us foremen and the contractors. We all knew it. Deek did too. We just didn’t know who.”

  “Spy for who?”

  “Grand Trunk Railway.”

  “What would they be spying for?”

  “Get an edge on the CPR, maybe . . .”

  “Edge on the CPR? The Grand Trunk is an eastern operation.”

  “They are trying to push their operation across the Great Plains. Hook up Toronto and Montreal with the Midwest and then maybe even the port of Seattle. Yup, they are buying up a bunch of the lines through the Missouri country. Rumour is that they want to piece together a line before CPR President George Stephen and his men could complete this one, and put them out of business.”

  Durrant was silent a moment. “So you think there’s a spy here, but you don’t know who he might be, or what he’s up to?”

  “Deek did.”

  “Deek Penner was onto this so-called spy?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And did he tell you or Wilcox what was going on?”

  “No sir.”

  Wallace shook his head. “I think you’re playing me, Dodds. I think you believe me to be a ten-karat fool.”

  Dodds didn’t smile this time. “Sergeant, you can believe me or not. I don’t give a damn. I’m telling you for certain: somewhere in this camp is a man who works for the rival railway. Some say that it was going beyond spying, that the Grand Trunk was planning on pulling something. What do you call it?”

  “Sabotage?”

  “That’s it. Deek Penner was in charge of munitions. What do you think the best way would be to slow down the work of the CPR down the Big Hill, with all its blasting and tunnels? That’s right. Deek Penner was onto this Grand Trunk spy alright. I think it might have gotten him killed.”

  • • •

  It was midnight before Durrant found his way through the canyons of snow to his bunk. After he had left Dodds he had gone to find Thompson Griffin, Frank Dodds’ number two man. He had been missing from the card game on the night that Penner was killed. Despite questioning the man’s bunkmates in their crowded and reeking hovel, Durrant could not ascertain the man’s whereabouts. According to the cluster of men he found there, Thompson Griffin was often absent until late in the evening, out making the rounds of the camp, looking for card games and entertainment.

  Durrant then knocked on the door of the half dozen cabins that were clustered near where Deek had been killed. He questioned the occupants about any noise they might have heard, or if anybody had seen the man Christianson had reported running from the scene of the crime, but the men he spoke with were all insistent that they had heard nothing that evening.

  Weary, Durrant turned towards the NWMP bunk. Durrant was deep in thought when he pushed open the door to the two-bunk cabin. He snapped from his reverie when he entered the room. In sharp contrast to the huts reeking of oil and sweat he had been in that evening, his was scented with pine smoke and fresh baking. He looked up to see Charlie sitting before him on his tick, deep furrows of concern cutting across the boy’s forehead.

  “You been waiting up on me, son?” said Durrant, closing the heavy door behind himself.

  Charlie nodded, the worry still slicing across his face.

  “You needn’t have,” Durrant said. “I can take care of myself.” Durrant walked across the room, fatigue visible in his awkward gait and grey expression. He sat down heavily on the bed and pulled off his heavy coat.

  Charlie stood up and went to the rumbling stove that occupied one corner of the hut. Then he stopped and turned and picked up the tablet from the desk next to the door and wrote something. He handed the tablet to Durrant.

  Durrant breathed out heavily. “Yeah, I could use a little something,” he conceded. The aroma of food began to make him feel light-headed.

  Charlie went back to the stove and using a rag as an oven mitt took a plate from the top of the heating rack and put it
on the desk. He then opened a tin on the rack and piled hot biscuits onto the plate. The boy found cutlery and set a place for Durrant to eat.

  “You fixed me a plate at the mess?” The boy nodded. Durrant hefted himself from the bunk and hobbled, without his crutch, to the table and sat down. “My God, this smells good.” He picked up the fork and began to shovel food into his mouth. “The camp cook make all this?” Charlie shrugged. “Cause these don’t taste like the cow patties that he’s been passing off as biscuits the last few days, is all. The only thing that cook’s got going for him is that there’s pie every night. It’s not good pie, mind, but it’s pie just the same. That’s about the only thing keeping these men from a riot.” Durrant finished his plate and sat back. “How did you make out today?”

  Charlie took up the tablet and scribbled something. He handed it to Durrant. “Nothing yet, but you ain’t done either.” Durrant looked at the boy. “Okay, well, keep at it if you’re able. I imagine it’s not easy going, what with this snow turning soft as it has.”

  Durrant hopped back to his bed and sat down there again, blowing a long, low whistle through his teeth as he did. Charlie saw to the dishes as Durrant pulled at his prosthetic leg, releasing the suction valve and removing the limb. He rolled up his heavy wool pant leg to reveal the gnarled stump just below his knee. It was wrapped in a heavy bandage, which the Mountie removed and placed carefully on the stand next to his bed.

  Durrant let his mind range over all the interrogations of the day. Amid all of the stories, he knew that there were fragments of truth. One thing was for sure: three different men had threatened his life that day, all of whom had something to hide, all of whom were among the half dozen to last see Penner alive. These three men were quickly becoming the focus of Durrant’s inquiries at the end of steel.

  TEN

  200,000 POUNDS OF NITROGLYCERINE

  WHEN DURRANT WOKE, HE FELT less confident than he had the night before. It was possible that he had Dodds exactly where he wanted him, but it was also possible that Dodds had him in the same place. That he woke feeling some doubt was a sign that Dodds’ strategy to infuse uncertainty into the Mountie’s mind was having its desired effect: to throw Durrant off his trail.

  Still lying in bed, Durrant considered his conversations with the Mahoney brothers, and then with Dodds himself. He knew it was possible that the three men had conspired with one another around the theory that there was “more going on” at Holt City than met the eye. Ralph Mahoney seemed every bit capable of constructing a theory in coordination with his boss to lead Durrant astray. All Ralph would have to do was be obstreperous for the theory to bear fruit; Dodds could plant the seed and let it fester.

  Durrant pulled himself from bed and discovered that he’d fallen asleep in yesterday’s clothing. He decided to leave well enough alone and stayed in his smoky trousers and waistcoat. He attached his prosthetic leg, feeling it pinch on the raw nub of skin below his knee. There was some blood on the white bandage that he wrapped his leg with before he attached the prosthetic. He would have to relent and see Doc Armatage that day; if he didn’t, he knew he risked infection.

  Durrant strapped on his pistol. The day was perceptively warmer, so he pulled on his canvas coat and stuffed the British Bulldog in his left pocket and stepped to the door.

  Charlie almost ran him over coming in. “Easy there, son,” said Durrant. Charlie gave him a bashful smile as he pushed past him into the cabin. The lad turned and regarded him, one eye slightly cocked. “What is it?” Durrant asked. Charlie turned around to find the writing tablet and scratched out a line of text. Durrant took it and read it. “No, I do not want a bath!” he said. Charlie kept looking at him. “What are you, my goddamned mother?”

  Durrant changed the subject and asked, “You find that club yet?” Charlie shook his head. Durrant noticed that he was quite wet. “You’ve already been out looking, haven’t you?” Charlie nodded. “You should take my chaps, they’ll keep you dry. They’re in the trunk there. Don’t fall through the ice. I got enough with one dead body in this camp,” and then he stomped out into the day.

  • • •

  Durrant made his way over the icy trails through the camp to the station. As he did, he could see just beyond the tracks, where Charlie had been methodically searching the banks of snow that extended out onto the frozen Bow River for the murder weapon. He knew that others in the camp could see the search grid too, and that whoever had killed Penner would certainly be paying attention to the lad’s quest.

  When he reached the platform he heard the sharp whistle of a train arriving from the east. Bob Pen was standing on the platform, his pipe clenched in his teeth. Durrant approached and the man nodded at the Mountie but kept his gaze eastward.

  “Do you have a moment for a word?” Durrant asked.

  Pipe bouncing, Pen nodded again and said, “Of course, Sergeant, but that’s about all I’ve got. Two minutes out, at that bend, she is . . .”

  Durrant heard the train whistle again. “You sometimes play cards with Frank Dodds and the Mahoney brothers?”

  “I do at that,” said Pen.

  “But you didn’t sit in the night Deek Penner was killed?”

  “No sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Besides the fact that I can’t stomach Frank Dodds?”

  Durrant smiled. “Is there another reason?”

  “None better, but indeed there is another. You see, I like to visit a number of different games. I’m an egalitarian. I like to take my winnings in as many different cabins as I can. That way, these fellas never grow tired of me and when I need them to haul in the morning, I can call them out and not have to watch my back, if you take my meaning.”

  Durrant was nodding. He could see the billowing smoke through the trees. Pen was still watching the tracks. “So you play at different games so that despite winning many hands, you don’t have to worry that you’ll not have men willing to work for you?” Pen nodded. “That makes sense. What game were you at on the eve Mr. Penner was killed?”

  “I was with the Slovaks.”

  “How’d you do?”

  Pen looked at the Sergeant.” Marvellously, thank you.” His pipe leaped up and down as he spoke.

  “Your train’s almost here,” said Durrant. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Keep up your search, Sergeant. I can tell by the general state of agitation in the camp that you’re making headway.”

  Durrant regarded him a moment and then turned his attention to the tracks. He watched through the trees as the tell tale plume of oily smoke emerged from the bend where the track bridged the Pipestone River. A moment later the locomotive arrived at the station and Pen greeted several dozen men who disembarked from the first boxcar. To Durrant they looked like hobos, but this was the first wave of navvies arriving from eastern locations, seeking work at the tail end of the winter camp.

  Durrant watched the lads as Bob Pen brought order to their arrival at the end of steel. Pen pointed with his pipe to direct the men to the far end of the station platform where a buckboard sleigh hitched to a team of Devon Paine’s draft horses was waiting.

  Durrant leaned against the wall of the station and observed. Pen talked with the men, and before long his two assistants dropped from the seat of the sleigh and loaded baggage onto the sled. They drove the team back onto the icy Tote Road that followed the Bow River north and west. The men, dazzled by the brilliant light of the morning and the spectacular scenery all around them, blinked as they formed a rough line marching along the road too. Durrant guessed there would be no easy ride for these lads; they would walk along the ice road to the summit of the Pass where they would immediately be put to work.

  Durrant watched them file past, his expression solemn and serious. Several of the men glanced at him, eyeing his crutch and his dour expression. Durrant let his coat fall open, the holster for the Enfield plainly resting on his left hip, so that they could see that the law did in fact reach all the way to Hol
t City. Some of the older men nodded to him; the young men simply cast their eyes down and marched on.

  “First wave,” Durrant heard a voice behind him. He started and turned. It was Hep Wilcox.

  “Navvies,” Durrant said.

  “Two dozen down, twelve thousand to go.”

  Durrant shook his head. “Where are those men off to?”

  “Kicking Horse Lake. We sent some men up there yesterday to start on the carpentry work for the camp. There are a few tents, a cook, a teamster, and a pile of lumber as tall as a building. Not much else. There’s been a survey team there on and off for most of the winter. Fellow named Garnet Moberly, a limey, is leading it. He’s been proving the survey down along the length of the Kicking Horse as far west as the Columbia River. Major Rogers is a great man, and a brilliant surveyor, but his line still needs to be established more clearly. That’s now up to Moberly and his team.”

  Durrant nodded to the men marching along behind the sled on the ice road. “What will those men be doing?”

  “We’ll put them to work on the munitions plant, and building other camp structures. We have a foreman on site who will direct the construction.”

  Durrant watched the last of the men disappear into the woods on the icy Tote Road. The forest seemed to close in after them, enveloping them. Durrant turned and looked back at the munitions warehouse behind to the south, tucked close to the bridge that spanned the Pipestone River.

  “I’d like to visit the Kicking Horse Pass in the next day or so. If Penner was to lead the blasting down Big Hill, then I need to see it.”

  Wilcox nodded. “I’m sure we can arrange passage for you. There are sleds heading out every few hours right now. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Durrant said, “Tell me more about the munitions plant.”

  “The contract to build it was won by the Canada Explosives Company of Mount Saint-Hilaire. Frankly, I don’t know much about them. The contracts are won or lost in Ottawa. I don’t pretend to know what gets into a Parliamentarian’s head when it comes to this sort of thing.”