The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

  “What happens when one horse meets another on the trail?” asked Durrant.

  The men looked at one another. “Well, we try not to let that happen. But let’s just say there are a few poor beasts at the bottom of the drop off that didn’t go of their free will.”

  Durrant looked around and saw that none of the men smiled; none were pleased with this prospect.

  “You going to arrest Mr. Dodds, Sergeant?” asked the first logger, spitting another stream of tobacco juice.

  “You fellas work for Dodds?” asked Durrant.

  “No sir, we’re under a different contract. We’re following up on Mr. Moberly’s team. They prove out the line and we come behind and cut it.”

  “Did Mr. Moberly pass this way this morning?”

  “I think it was morning, in a technical sense,” said the first logger. “Mr. Moberly and that Indian fella he travels with, Mr. Jimmy, don’t seem to need any sleep. They came through around four this morning. The rest of Moberly’s men followed him down after a proper breakfast. We’re working to clear the route and catch up with ’em, though it’ll be tough going on the Stairs with the snow and the avalanches.”

  Durrant returned his attention to the matter of Frank Dodds. “So,” he said, “any of you fellas buying whiskey from Mr. Dodds? Or from anybody else, for that matter.”

  There was a moment’s discomfort. Charlie looked from one man to the other. They were all a good foot taller than the lad, and had they wanted to, it would have been easy for the team of sawyers to overpower Durrant and the boy with their axes and nobody would have been the wiser.

  “Sir, we all take a drink every now and again, but no, we ain’t buying from Mr. Dodds, or anybody else for that matter.”

  Durrant thought better of pursuing it. “That’s good, boys. You and me aren’t going to have any trouble at all. Any of you got anything to tell me about the night Deek Penner was killed?”

  “Most of these lads just got here, Sergeant,” said the tobacco man. “I think Timmy and me is the only ones that have been here more than a week.” The man named Timmy nodded. “We’ve both been here on the Big Hill all that time.”

  “Alright then,” said Durrant. “What say Charlie and me let you get back to work, and we’ll walk back to the Lake. I appreciate you showing us the sights.”

  The men nodded and began to make their way back to the survey line they were cutting. Charlie and Durrant began to follow, but not before casting one last glance over the breathless expanse of snow swept earth that was the Kicking Horse Valley. Durrant alone would see it again, though the circumstances would be much different when he did.

  FOURTEEN

  A SHADOW IN THE NIGHT

  CHARLIE’S SCRAWLED NOTE ON THE writing tablet said, “Found the still, maybe . . .” They had arrived home at supper from the Big Hill and now Durrant was sitting at the desk in the NWMP cabin, a candle burning on its plate, puzzling through the question of motive. Durrant looked up at Charlie standing in the doorway, his face expectant. The boy looked down at Durrant, nodding.

  “Where?”

  “Up the Pipestone,” he wrote. “Heard some men talking at dinner; one was Pete Mahoney. He goes there at night.”

  “I knew that lad was up to no good,” said Durrant. “I read him like a book,” he said, satisfied. Durrant started to pull his coat on. He holstered the Enfield and tucked the Bulldog into his coat pocket.

  Charlie scribbled. Durrant read his question. “Now we track the rabbit back to his hole,” said Durrant sounding energized despite the long day. He buttoned up his bison coat and leaning on his crutch, walked out the door. Charlie followed after him.

  The man and the boy made their way through the camp to a set of cabins set along the main Tote Road where the Mahoney brothers lived. The night was very cold; the moon, now half full, wore a dense halo, portending an early spring storm.

  Charlie pointed to indicate the Mahoney brothers’ hovel. Durrant could see no lights, but a thick plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Together they sought the cover of a thick stand of trees just off the main road and waited.

  “You think he’s in there, Charlie?” Durrant whispered. Charlie nodded, not taking his eyes off the cabin. “You followed him back here, didn’t you?”Again the nod. “You’re getting to be pretty damn good at this, son.”

  Fifteen minutes passed. Durrant could feel the dull ache in his right leg turn to a searing pain. He rubbed the leg gently, drawing a look of concern from Charlie. Durrant raised a finger to his lips, as if the boy might choose that moment to learn the trick of speech.

  “It’s okay, lad,” whispered Durrant.

  Another fifteen minutes passed, and Durrant was considering giving up. The mercury hung just above zero, and he had lost much of the sensation in his right leg and his right hand. As he was preparing to say so, Charlie flinched and Durrant saw a lantern come to life in the Mahoney cabin. A moment later the flap of the canvas door was pulled back and a dark figure appeared, a lamp held before the spectral shape. The figure turned about, regarding the sleeping camp, and then made haste along the Tote Road.

  Charlie and Durrant watched the man, the golden light casting a long, sinuous shadow across the snowy forest. He passed not thirty feet from where they were cloaked by darkness and carried on up towards the Pipestone. Wordlessly, both men rose from their crouch and began to follow at a safe distance. Durrant found the going very difficult; every step sent a spasm of sharp pain up his right leg, and he was having difficulty holding the crutch with his numb right hand. He pressed on, at times closing his eyes against the ache.

  The lantern glow before them was like a will-o’-the-wisp drawing them across the Pipestone River and deep into the forest. Walking without a lamp, and without any sound beyond the crunch of snow beneath their feet, Durrant and Charlie found themselves in a tunnel of sensory deprivation. Along a network of circuitous paths that snaked through the camp, the ghostly form ahead of them led them eastward toward the mouth of the Pipestone canyon. Here the river was constricted by angular walls of limestone that in the summer would bunch the river up into small rapids. Now, with the first day of spring just past, ice and heavy snow still blanketed the ground. Above them the sky was reduced by half, the canopy of stars hemmed in by the dark shape of the canyon walls. The trail took to the river itself, weaving up over the ice-covered water.

  Durrant became conscious of open water here and there. The snow and ice were beginning to melt, despite this evening’s bitter temperatures. With only the feeble light of the stars to illuminate their path, the fear of plunging into the Pipestone River pulled at his mind.

  But the cold water beneath them wasn’t the only dread that plagued the Mountie. Durrant knew that if Pete Mahoney, or whomever it was they followed, suddenly turned around to return to the camp, there would be little place for the duo to hide. Here in the canyon they were without cover. Even as they passed the constriction and made their way back into the woods, hiding places were few and far between. Durrant and Charlie would simply have to throw themselves into the trees and hope the man was so distracted by his nocturnal journey that he would not see the tracks leading away from the trail.

  What seemed like an eternity passed in this fashion; the sound of each other’s breathing—and for Durrant, the searing pain of his leg—the only distraction from the suspense-filled trek. Despite these discomforts, Durrant grinned in the darkness. Fifteen minutes hard walking and Durrant saw the light slip from sight.

  “That’s got to be it,” he said in a whisper. They had passed the constriction in the gorge and the canyon had opened a little. The sky was wide again, the trees rose in a swell that crested away from the river, and the veiled moon cast an eerie, ethereal light on the midnight snow. Durrant believed that just to the south was the area on the white-horned mountain where Frank Dodds’ team was now logging.

  “A little farther,” said Durrant. “I want to get a good look at this place.”

  The men proceeded
a few hundred more feet along the trail and then they hunkered down. In the pallid light Durrant could see a cabin. Twenty or more feet in length and half as many wide, it was well built of timber that had been planed straight and lightly sanded. A tin chimney rose from one end of the structure, a thin thread of smoke seeping from the stovepipe. Maybe Pete’s job is to keep the midnight fires burning, Durrant thought. Keep the still churning away through the night; keep the prohibited perfumes from freezing up.

  Through seams around the door they could see the lantern’s light. Durrant wished he could see what secrets the shack concealed. If it was like most other moonshine operations he’d disrupted over his years as a policeman, the building housed a number of barrels where Dodds and his boys would ferment corn mash in water, adding scoops of raw sugar to the barrels to get it working. A couple of days into the operation, the fermented mash would be dumped into a large copper cauldron to boil. The fumes from the boiling mash then entered a long, twisted copper tube called a worm that was submerged in cold water. As the fumes condensed, the gas became liquid once more, and a thin drip would be caught in fruit jars, gallon jugs, or barrels, whatever Dodds could get his hands on. In the frigid temperatures the still had to be kept above freezing during the operation lest the cooling water crack the copper worm.

  It was a simple procedure, and cheap. The corn and sugar could easily be obtained in Fort Calgary; maybe Dodds or Pete Mahoney was stealing it from the camp stores. Given the volume of food that the men at Holt City consumed, a few bushel bags of corn and sugar might not even be missed.

  Durrant watched the cabin a while longer. “Alright,” he finally said to Charlie, whom he felt shivering beside him, “I’ve seen enough.”

  The two stood and turned to leave, Durrant casting a last look over his shoulder to fix the place in his memory. They made their way down the narrow canyon of the Pipestone, doing their best not to step off into the sugary snow next to the narrow track. It occurred to Durrant that come the spring this path would be impassable. As the river rose, the narrow track along the banks of the Pipestone would disappear. Dodds likely had at least one other building on site where he was putting up his stores for summer distribution. Durrant would have to seek it out.

  The men had walked another hundred yards to where the canyon was most confined when Durrant happened to look back along the path towards the cabin. What he saw horrified him: the ghostly light they had followed up the river to the still house was now behind them, and moving down the path toward Holt City.

  “Charlie, we’ve got to get a move on!” Durrant said between gritted teeth, and the two picked up the pace. But the going was hard for the one-legged Mountie, and in a few minutes the lampbearer would certainly overtake them.

  “Come here, boy!” Durrant hissed, and they quickly ducked off the trail and into the deep snow. The trees were closely set and concealed from the moon’s glow by the rising cliffs and clouds. With luck, Pete Mahoney would be more concerned with turning into his bunk and would not notice their tracks, or maybe he would consider them the tracks of mule deer common to these woods.

  They crouched behind the trees and waited. A moment passed, their bodies growing colder, the snow finding ways into the folds and tucks of their clothing. Then the light appeared around the bend in the canyon, and the trees on both banks of the Pipestone took on a celestial flush. Durrant held his breath. He rested his hand on the Bulldog. Charlie clutched Durrant’s coat, crouching into the snow, his eyes wide.

  The light grew closer. Not ten feet away the bulky silhouette of a man wrapped in a heavy blanket with a beaverskin cap pulled low over his ears and brow passed without stopping. Durrant believed the face to be that of Pete Mahoney, but he could not swear to it. The light faded into the distance. Durrant watched its progress. He waited another five minutes before he and Charlie clambered awkwardly out of the drift, the young boy helping Durrant to find his footing in the soft snow.

  “Well, son,” said Durrant, staring down the path. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for bed.”

  • • •

  The dream was always the same. Durrant woke with a start from his nightmare, the Enfield pistol already in his hand. He lay silently in his bunk. There was no noise save that of the delicate breathing of the boy in the bed five feet from his own. Beyond that the world was devoid of sound. But something had woken him from the dream. Something out of the ordinary.

  Durrant forced himself to listen beyond the soft sounds of Charlie’s breathing, past the squared-off logs and burlap of this crude cabin. Involuntarily his left hand slowly brought the pistol level with his searching eyes in the utter darkness of the night. Then he heard it, so faint that the sound might be mistaken for snow falling from a pine bough, but it was there just the same. Something or someone was on the other side of the thin, canvas-covered walls of the shack.

  Durrant slowly pulled back the covers with his twisted right hand and gingerly swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. He would have to put the pistol down to affix his prosthetic; it was a risk he had to take. His ears reached into the night, alert to any sound beyond the walls of the small room. When his leg was in place, he took up the pistol again and pulled himself up, finding his crutch. The motion, or the faint sound of the nails from his crutch on the floor, woke Charlie. The boy sat up, his wool cap, which never left his head, pulled down over his ears, close to his eyes. Durrant put the barrel of the pistol to his lips as if to say hush, and then motioned for the lad to stay very still.

  Charlie’s eyes moved around the room, looking to see what had woken the Mountie. There was nothing to see in the dimness of the room. Durrant moved as easily as he could to the door of the cabin, and took up a place by the latch. Leaning on the wall, he pointed the pistol towards the door and with his crutch slowly opened it. Charlie crept from the bed, fully clothed, and found the Winchester in its place on the footlocker. Durrant looked at the boy and nodded.

  The barrel of the Enfield preceding him, Durrant stepped into the doorway and swung the pistol back and forth. There were no signs of life outside the cabin door. He listened and heard, very faintly, the sound that an animal makes when it vanishes into the woods. A mule deer? He and Charlie had seen more than one since arriving at the end of steel. Durrant pressed forward, the Enfield extended before him, the moon high overhead reflecting off the blue-grey sheen of the weapon.

  Durrant stepped around the cabin on the side where his bunk lay. His eyes scanned the silent woods. There was nothing; no one was there. Again, he inched his way forward, aware that Charlie was behind him now, the butt of the rifle held pressed into his shoulder. Silently the two reached the corner of the cabin and paused. Durrant drew a quiet breath, then pistol first, peered around the edge of the little house.

  There was nobody there. The woods were dark and calm. He stepped forward. Charlie came around the corner too, his eyes searching the trees. The boy stepped up to Durrant and pointed at the snow. It had been recently disturbed, the deep tracks disappearing into the pines that bordered the railway and fringed the banks of the Bow River.

  Charlie made to follow them, but Durrant reached out and barred his progress with his left hand, the pistol still clutched tightly in it. The boy stopped. They both looked down. Six inches from Charlie’s foot sat a pail of dark, dense liquid. A long cord was tangled around the handle of the pail and extended into the snow. Charlie looked up at Durrant, his eyes filled with terror. Durrant cracked a grin.

  “Guess we’re onto something,” he said, pulling the boy back from the bucket of nitroglycerine.

  • • •

  They crouched in the snow, Durrant instructing Charlie on how to dismantle the bomb that had been placed a few inches from their cabin. The boy gingerly unwound the fuse that had been wrapped around the handle of the bucket of highly volatile explosives. He then carefully removed the cord from the pail and placed it in the snow. He pointed and then held something up for Durrant to see—two matches that had refused
to light. Durrant had once again been very lucky.

  The Mountie turned and looked into the darkness. Unless a heavy snow came that night, he could follow the trail at sunup. His blood was boiling. He would not simply sit back while someone in this camp tried to take his life, and the life of this innocent young lad! Trying to kill a Mounted Police officer could land a man in the gallows. The act of placing the pail of explosives there was an offence punishable by hanging, but assailant would have to be caught first, and then guilt might be difficult to prove beyond a doubt.

  “Come on, Charlie, we’re going for a walk.”

  • • •

  It was nearly sunup when the two men arrived at the whiskey cabin for the second time in just a few hours. With Durrant walking out front, the Winchester held by the stock in his left hand, Charlie brought up the rear, toting the bucket of explosives. It was a delicate undertaking. The path, narrow and slippery when walking unencumbered, was made perilous by carrying pure nitroglycerine. What had taken them half an hour to traverse earlier in the evening—and would have taken Pete Mahoney just fifteen minutes to cover—took them nearly an hour. The lad dared not stop or ease the ache in his arms by resting the load in the snow, lest the jostle blow both men to pieces.

  When they made the cabin, Durrant motioned for Charlie to wait back in the trees. He then walked straight up to the door and stepped to the side, then placed the muzzle of the Winchester on the heavy heart lock and fired. The lock, with a neat .44 calibre hole in it, held the door fast. The Mountie flipped the rifle forward, his left hand inside the finger lever, the weight of the weapon chambering the next round. Durrant fired again and the lock dropped from its clasp. He pushed the door open with its barrel and peered into the cabin. He hoped that he would find Dodds roused from sleep and grabbing for his own arms so Durrant would have the excuse to cut the man down. Instead, the cabin was devoid of life.