As Durrant stumped his way back along the icy path to the NWMP cabin he drew near to the place where Penner had been killed, and he spotted Charlie far out on the frozen Bow River. The boy was trudging back and forth in the deep snow that had fallen over the ice, his head down, eyes scouring the drifts for the discarded murder weapon. Durrant watched his faithful companion plod through the snow, when suddenly the boy disappeared. His first reaction was to reach for his pistol, but inside of a split second, he knew this was futile.
“Charlie!” Durrant yelled towards the snow heaped river. There was no answer; no sign of the vanished boy. “Charlie!” he yelled again in futility.
Durrant looked around him. He was alone on the trail. The sounds of the camp surrounded him, but he stood apart from its goings-on. He started out toward the river, yelling as he plunged into the deep ice-encrusted snow. His crutch could offer him no support, and within two steps he had fallen on his side, the snow up around his ears.
“Sweet Jesus,” he cursed, and then yelled again, “Charlie!”
Lying on his side, Durrant reached into his pocket and struggled with the pistol. The Bulldog came out, choked with snow, and he held it aloft, cocked the hammer with his left thumb, and fired, and then cocked and fired again. The retort of the pistol echoed off the face of the adjacent mountains. Durrant fired a third time, and then struggled through the snow toward the river.
Soon Durrant heard voices, and a moment later he looked up to see Grant McPherson plunging into the snow after him, followed by half a dozen other men.
“It’s Charlie!” Durrant cried.
“Are you okay, Sergeant?” McPherson asked, trying to pull the Mountie up.
“It’s Charlie, he’s gone through!” Durrant cried in a panic-striken tone.
“Where?”
“There!” Durrant pointed from his prone position towards where Charlie had vanished into the frozen river.
“Cut some poles,” McPherson called to the men who had gathered round. “Hurry now!”
McPherson let go of Durrant and high-stepped toward the river, his arms flailing to keep himself upright in the deep snow. A thick crust had formed on the surface, but beneath it the snow had the consistency of sifted sugar, and the man plunged up to his waist with every step. More men came from the camp, one bearing a length of rope.
“Careful, for Christ’s sake!” one of the men yelled to McPherson, who was nearing the place where Charlie had vanished.
Durrant tried to crawl, but ended up face down in the snow again. Two of the men emerged from the woods with a sapling stripped of its branches and went to the aid of McPherson. Two more men helped the struggling Durrant to his feet, his left hand still tightly clutching his pistol.
McPherson turned to see the men holding out the sapling, while another man tossed him a rope. He quickly tied the rope around his waist, took the sapling, and advanced on the area in the middle of the river where Charlie had vanished. The three men took hold of the rope and held it fast as McPherson stepped to the very edge of the darkened spot. He slipped and the men holding the rope all strained at the hemp line.
McPherson disappeared up to his shoulders in the snow and seemed to dive into the unknown depths. The sun sank behind the ramparts to the west and as it did, the entire valley seemed to shudder with the coming darkness.
“He’s got him!” a man called from the rope line. “Bring blankets!”
Durrant, wide-eyed, watched as the three men on the rope heaved and the form of McPherson slowly emerged from the depression in the snow, his right hand around the collar of young Charlie.
“He’s got him,” the man called again, as several others advanced on the site with heavy wool blankets. By this time, there were fifty or more men on the shore, watching the undertaking. The men on the rope gave a mighty heave, and then McPherson found his feet, stood up, hefting the boy up onto the snow. The men grabbed at him and swaddled him in blankets.
“He’s okay! He’s okay!” one of them called.
“Blue as the Major’s tongue, but he’s okay,” the navvie cracked.
“Let’s get him inside!” yelled another.
“Take him to my cabin,” said Durrant, awash with emotion. “Call for Doc Armatage.”
“Get the fire stoked,” said another man.
“Go and do it,” said Durrant. “We’ll meet you there.”
McPherson had swept Charlie up in his arms and carried him quickly through the snow. The man was soaked himself, and the snow clung to him so he looked like an apparition ploughing through the deep drifts along the river’s bank.
“Help me, please,” said Durrant to the men next to him.
“Mind putting the pistol away, Sergeant?” said one of the men from the munitions warehouse.
Durrant, with shaking hands, put the Bulldog in his coat pocket, and with the help of the two men, met McPherson on the trail. Charlie was indeed blue in the face, his eyes closed, and his teeth chattering. He held his body tightly with his own arms, his over-sized coat drawn around him, dripping with icy water.
“Let me get this lad inside,” said McPherson. The procession made its way along the trail to the NWMP cabin, where the volunteer had run ahead to stoke the fire. “Blue Jesus,” said McPherson halfway along the path. “This lad looks light but carries heavy.”
“Put him there on his bunk,” Durrant said when they entered the barracks, pointing. McPherson put the boy down and Durrant managed to squeeze past. Sitting heavily on his own bunk, he reached over to pull the blankets over the boy.
“He didn’t go through the ice,” said McPherson.
“What happened?” said Durrant, his face ashen.
“There was melt water under the snow, but above the river ice proper, two, maybe three feet of it. As cold as the river, mind you. Happens when it warms up in these parts, snow on the river melts from underneath first. Your boy here broke through the crust of snow and into that icy stew. He’s a lucky one, that’s for certain.”
“We owe you a debt of thanks,” said Durrant, turning from Charlie to look at McPherson.
There was a commotion at the door and Saul Armatage appeared in his shirtsleeves, his black bag in hand. He pushed past a couple of the men who were milling at the door and said, “Durrant, you okay?”
“I’m fine; it’s Charlie. He went into the melt water atop the ice on the river.”
Armatage entered the room and pushed the door closed in the face of the men clustered there. “Let’s have a look.” He went to the bedside and looked at Charlie, hunched and shivering in a ball. “Charlie, I’m Doctor Armatage. How are you?”
“Lad don’t speak, Saul,” stammered Durrant.
The doctor nodded. He put his fingers to Charlie’s carotid artery and felt for his pulse.
McPherson stood in front of the stove, looking down at the boy. “I don’t think a frail lad like this ought to be in the mountains, if you don’t mind me saying, Sergeant.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, and I’ve no mind to argue with you, given what you just done. This lad’s been a big help to me, though. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” replied Durrant.
McPherson just nodded. “I best be changing into warm skivvies myself.”
Durrant expended his left hand. “Thank you.”
McPherson shook it awkwardly, as he wasn’t accustomed to shaking southpaw. “Remember this the next time you come round with your inquisition.”
“I’ll broker no favours in my investigation, mind,” said Durrant.
“I don’t expect you will,” laughed McPherson.
He stepped to the door, but stopped and turned to look at Durrant and at Armatage. Charlie seemed to have drifted off to sleep. The doctor was trying to strip the boy’s jacket from him without any luck.
“Sergeant,” McPherson said. “I might as well tell you, as I’m certain you’ll find out anyway. Hep Wilcox asked me to take over Deek Penner’s duties. I’ll be running the blasting contract on th
e Tote Road and on the first tunnel come the spring. I just thought I should ’fess up, what with your . . . inquiries.”
Durrant just nodded at him.
“Alright then, goodnight.” McPherson closed the door behind himself.
Durrant and Charlie were alone in the cabin with Armatage. The stove rattled as it heated up. Durrant watched Charlie. “How is he?” Durrant asked the doctor.
Armatage smiled. “He’ll be fine. But we’ve got to get him out of these wet things and under the blankets. He’s knotted up pretty tight.”
Charlie opened his eyes, a faint smile across his soft face.
“I’ve already lost one,” said Durrant, his face white as ash, “I dare say I don’t want to lose you.”
Saul looked over his shoulder at Durrant. Durrant was shaken from his musing when Charlie coughed. “What is it?” Durrant asked the boy.
Charlie struggled to free himself from the blankets. With his left hand he pushed the doctor’s hands away from his coat.
“Easy, son, easy now. You’ve got to keep warm. In fact, we ought to get you out of those frozen clothes.”
Charlie shook his head. He pushed the blankets off with his shoulders. As Armatage tried to pull them back up, Charlie none too gently grabbed his left hand, forcing the doctor to stop.
“Charlie!” scolded Durrant, but Armatage stepped back from the boy.
Charlie shook his head. He took off his covers, exposing his sodden jacket and the Mountie’s leather chaps, crisp with ice. A wide grin came over the boy’s lips.
Charlie pulled back the coat with his left hand and with his right revealed a two-and-a-half-foot long iron star drill.
• • •
“He’s foolhardy,” said Armatage in a hushed voice. The two men sat by the door of the cabin, Durrant with his prosthetic off. The doctor unwrapped the man’s stump. The doctor finished removing the bandage and was now examining the raw end of Durrant’s leg. He frowned.
“I don’t like the look of this, Durrant. This prosthetic is never going to be like a real leg. You’ve got to take it easy on it. You can’t go hiking up into the mountains as if it were real live flesh and bone. It’s just not made for that. I know it’s difficult,” he said, still whispering. “I know how hard this is for you. I know. We marched west together, remember?”
“I can’t forget.”
“Good, then you know I understand. I saw what you could do as a man with two good legs. You were the best rider in your company. If you don’t take care of this,” the doctor said, patting the man’s leg paternally, “you’re not going to be able to walk at all. You and I both know what that will do to you.”
Durrant looked down where the doctor’s hand still rested on his bare skin. He could not feel the man’s fingers there, just the burning of the wound that would never heal.
“Alright then,” the doctor said. “Let’s get this fixed up for you.” Armatage reached into his black satchel and took out a glass jar of ointment. As soon as he opened it, the room was filled with a powerful medicinal smell that made Durrant wince. Armatage ignored him and applied the thick ointment to the Mountie’s leg. As he did, he spoke. “You haven’t been by to see Evelyn as yet. She’s taken offence, you know.”
“I don’t mean any.”
“Oh, I tried to explain that to her, but you know how women can be. She expects a visit at some point, Durrant.”
Durrant stared blankly at his ruined leg.
“She doesn’t know about your past, Durrant. Nothing before Regina, at least. She doesn’t know about what happened in Toronto. She won’t ask. It’s just between you and me. I’ve never discussed it with her.” Durrant showed no sign of acknowledgement. “And she can cook, Durrant. You should bring the lad Charlie by and let Evelyn cook you a meal. It’s bound to be better than the mashed turnips and flat steak you get from the camp cook most nights.”
The doctor had finished dressing the Mountie’s leg. “If you can, leave the prosthetic off for the night and then put more of this on in the morning,” he said, handing the glass jar to Durrant. “You’ll have to take it easy on the leg. No more mountaineering adventures. Catch a ride if you need to go somewhere.”
Durrant nodded. He knew from experience that agreeing was easier than arguing with Armatage.
“What about the boy?” Durrant asked. They both turned to look at the sleeping lad.
“He’ll be fine . . . so long as he stops running fool’s errands for the likes of you.”
Durrant smiled thinly and nodded. Armatage stood and picked up his bag. He had arrived with no coat and didn’t ask for one to see him home. Durrant was lost in thought.
“Durrant,” the doctor said.
The Mountie turned and looked at him.
“Charlie isn’t . . .”
Durrant held up his hand so quickly that Armatage stopped speaking. “Don’t,” he said. “I’ll mind your advice for my leg, Saul, but enough with the sermons.”
The doctor broke into a wide smile, his dark, narrow face a mass of lines. “Very well, Durrant. You shall keep your own counsel, as you always have. Good night.” With that the man stepped into the darkness beyond the cabin’s door leaving Durrant in the darkness contained by the four walls.
ELEVEN
THE HONORABLE MEMBER FOR NORTHUMBERLAND
TWO MORNINGS AFTER CHARLIE WAS plucked from the frozen clutches of the Bow River, Durrant awoke to the whistle of a train approaching Holt City. The chinook that had blown for the last four days had come to an end, and the Bow Valley was once again gripped in winter’s clutches.
Charlie was already up and out. He had heard the boy leave almost an hour before. The lad was a miracle to Durrant. That the boy had not frozen to death in the Bow River was one thing; that he had the presence of mind to grasp the object of his search as it was sliding into possible oblivion was another. Durrant had told him so. Charlie had seemed pleased. Now the boy was off having breakfast. Since being snatched from the waters by Grant McPherson, the speechless lad had become something of a celebrity around the camp, and Durrant could not have been more pleased.
Durrant had been out late the night before, talking with the men of the camp, verifying alibis and discussing Deek Penner’s friends and enemies, and hadn’t gotten in until well after midnight. Though most men in the camp regarded him with suspicion, some with outright hostility, he managed to find his way to more than a few card tables and conversations crowded around a leaking woodstove. He had even enjoyed a meal of Bryndzové HaluŠky, a traditional Slovakian meal of dumplings served with cheese and bacon. When Durrant had stepped into a crowded boxcar dormitory he had interrupted a card game and a meal cooked on the top of the potbellied stove. After the men had confirmed Bob Pen’s alibi as rock solid for the night of Penner’s death, they had dealt him into the game and fed him a helping of the hearty food. Next to Charlie’s stovetop fare, it was the best meal he’d had in months.
Durrant heard the second whistle of the locomotive as it approached the platform of Holt City. He pulled on his prosthetic and dressed quickly, wanting to see who disembarked from the train, and who might stow away on it for the return trip to Fort Calgary. Dressed, he stepped out of the cabin into the morning.
He arrived at the same time as the train and joined half a dozen others on the platform. Most of these men were now familiar to Durrant. After a week in their midst he was coming to know them, and to know the camp’s habits. At the last minute—the train squealing as it came to rest—Wilcox appeared on the platform from his office, pulling on his coat and gloves and donning a sharp bowler cap.
Durrant stood back and watched as the doors to the first two boxcars slid back and about a hundred men disembarked onto the platform. They milled about in a sort of orderly chaos as Pen, McPherson, Dodds, and several other foremen called to them, finding those who had been promised work and snatching up the most favorable among them that hadn’t, but who looked as if they might fit their bill. As this happened, half a dozen o
ther boxcars were being unloaded of their freight.
As the men filtered off, their baggage loaded onto sleds and their new employers extolling the virtues of work along the mainline of the CPR, a solitary figure stepped from the caboose of the train. This was a different sort of fellow for Holt City. The man was dressed in a full-length black coat, and as he paused on the snowy platform, he placed a beaver-felt top hat onto his neatly parted hair. He wore a long white beard thick through the chops, and his eyebrows shone above green eyes like icebergs. He adjusted his black leather gloves and took up a silver-handled cane to make his way down the platform. Durrant watched Wilcox move forward to greet the man, and the two of them shook hands and conversed on the platform amid the shuffle of freight and the sorting of labourers. The steam from the locomotive’s brakes drifted like cotton threads across the sun-decked platform.
Durrant stood at the far end of the clearing, away from the tumult, and observed the goings on. Shortly, Wilcox turned in his direction and raised a hand, pointing directly at him. Durrant felt a hot wave wash up his body and colour his face. Wilcox leaned towards the man and Durrant could see that he spoke a few words into the man’s ear before leading him Durrant’s way.
This new top-hatted man was no man of hard labour. He looked familiar to Durrant, and as the stranger and Wilcox strode forward, Durrant searched his memory for how he might know the face.
“Sergeant Wallace,” said Wilcox as the two stopped before him.
Durrant remained silent.
“Sergeant, this is Mr. Blake O’Brian . . .” Of course. Durrant’s mind snapped to attention. “Mr. O’Brian is the Honorable Member for Northumberland and Vice-Chair of the House of Commons Select Standing Committee on Railways, Canals, and Telegraph Lines.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” and Durrant extended his left hand.
The Member of Parliament reached out with his right and grasped it, unsurprised.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. Now, exactly what the hell is going on with our railroad here?” the man demanded.
The End of the Line Page 15
