The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

“No, sir, you are not.”

  SEVENTEEN

  EVIDENCE OF CULPABILITY

  DURRANT AND CHARLIE STEPPED FROM the barn into the thick of the spring storm. The wind pushed at the door as they squeezed through. Durrant shouldered the door aside before he scanned the howling darkness for any foe. He spoke close to Charlie’s ear. “I’m going to walk you back to the cabin, and then I need to get to the station to wire what we’ve learned to Steele,” he said. “We’d best get a move on. This snow is going to slow me down some.”

  They proceeded along the Tote Road at a snail’s pace, Charlie breaking trail and Durrant doing his best to push through the accumulating snow, walking with the Winchester at his side. They reached the NWMP cabin without incident and Durrant gave Charlie instructions: Close the door behind him, keep the Winchester close at hand, and if anybody but himself should come to the door, don’t let them in. If they try to force the door, shoot.

  Charlie’s face was ashen at the handing down of these directives. Durrant smiled again and said, “You’ll be alright son,” and with that he disappeared into the dark.

  Durrant did all he could to make haste to the station. It was already midnight, and he felt a pressing urge to report his conclusions to Steele. He felt he was reasonably certain as to who the killer was, but was less confident that this man had acted on his own behalf. Given what he suspected, he didn’t think that he could win a conviction from a magistrate without actual physical evidence. While his principal suspect had a clear opportunity to kill Deek Penner, and had sufficient access to a means, his motive was complicated at best. He simply had no obvious reason to kill Deek Penner. Durrant concluded that the murderer almost certainly had collaborators, one of whom held sufficient sway over his actions to convince him to undertake the crime in the first place. For Durrant, this left one significant problem: he didn’t know who that conspirator was, at least not with any certainty.

  By the time the Mountie reached the station, he had begun to devise a strategy to entrap the conspirator for the egregious crime and put an end to the investigation once and for all. What he saw there changed that completely and gave him the final piece of physical evidence that he needed to win a conviction.

  He stepped onto the snow-covered platform in front of the station and made his way to the doors of the building. At first all appeared quiet, but he took pains to proceed with caution, knowing that at least two of the men he suspected as conspirators were unaccounted for at present. When he reached the doors, he put a hand on the handle and was about to pull when, through the frosted glass, he saw a light flicker. There was someone in the station. Durrant paused and looked around in the darkness to ensure he was alone. The wind and the heavy snow deadened any other noises, and Durrant feared being approached unbidden as Deek Penner had been. Confident that he was alone in the gloom, he pressed closer to the door to try and see who was burning the midnight oil.

  His own breath and the snow obscured his vision through the bevelled window, but in a moment he could see who it was that haunted the station so late at night. John Christianson himself was at the wire station, his head down, unaware of Durrant’s surreptitious undertakings. “What are you up to?” Durrant whispered under his breath. He watched for five minutes, the faint light in the room just enough to make out Christianson’s concentrated effort to send and then receive a wire in return. Durrant could make out his arm moving, obviously tapping out a code, and then transcribing the return message.

  Durrant watched for signs of Christianson’s other persona, the one that he so rarely displayed to the outside world, but that at least one man in this camp had come to know and use to his advantage. He didn’t have to wait long, and then, even the trail-hardened, “moccasin-footed” Mountie was shocked by what he saw.

  His face pressed close to the window, Durrant watched as Christianson finished transcribing a short message. He took the headset from his capped head and placed it carefully on the orderly desk and then removed his spectacles and pressed his fists into his eyes, as if exasperated by the news he had just received. He sat that way for a full minute, and Durrant was about to relieve the pressure on his own aching leg when suddenly Christianson jumped to his feet, and grabbing the Phelps Model 1880 from its place on the desk, ripped it from its adjoining wires and hurled it across the room. The machine collided with the opposite wall and Durrant saw a flash of light as the telegraph machine exploded into a thousand pieces. The shrapnel careened across the station and clattered across the floor.

  Durrant stepped back from the window but continued to watch the scene through the frosted glass. Christianson pounded his fists against the table; the entire desk and cabinet of pigeonholes shuddered as he hammered at them again and again. He sat down and, fists balled once more, pressed them into his face. That was when Durrant’s crutch slipped on the icy snow and sliding from under his game right hand, rapped against the door. With a quick breath the Mountie stepped back from the window, and as deftly as he was able hid from view, pressing up against the wall next to the door. He drew a breath and held it, tasting as he did the adrenaline that suddenly surged through his system.

  Christianson’s face appeared in the glass of the door a moment later. His visage was dark, his eyes shadowed in the dimness of the night. In his peripheral vision Durrant could see the man scan to and fro, his face twisted with rage. If the man opened the door at that moment, Durrant would have no choice than to bear down on him with his pistol in hand.

  The snow swirled and the door creaked and rattled in the wind. Durrant could feel Christianson’s presence just feet from where he stood with his gloved left hand awkwardly on the hilt of the Enfield. Then, Christianson was gone. Durrant carefully stepped back and moved towards the door. Once more Christianson was at the table that had once held the telegraph machine, but now was largely bare. He had his fists balled once more and sat hunched over in agonized thought.

  In that moment Durrant determined to change tack. As the events of the next twenty-four hours would unfold, the Mountie would later consider over and over again if this adjustment in his own direction might have set events in motion that slowly spiralled beyond his control.

  Durrant decided something drastic had to be done to discover what Christianson had just learned and to find out who he was in cahoots with, so he stepped into the station.

  Christianson looked up.

  “John,” Durrant said.“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”

  Christianson didn’t have his glasses on and he appeared to look around for them, then peer in Durrant’s direction.

  “Oh, it’s you, Sergeant,” he said, fumbling around. His eyes were darting back and forth across the room.

  “Are you alright, Mr. Christianson?”

  “I am not,” said the man. “Something terrible has happened.” As quick as a flash, Durrant watched Christianson concoct his story. “It’s simply terrible.”

  “What is it?” asked Durrant, crossing the room to the counter. He stood behind it, his unseen hand on the pistol.

  “Someone has destroyed the telegraph machine!”

  Durrant feigned to see the ruined machine for the first time. “Blue Jesus,” he exclaimed.

  “I was woken by the sound, you see,” Christianson stammered. “As you know, sir, my bunk adjoins this wall here. I heard a terrible crash, and when I came just now to see what had happened, I found the Phelps ruined! Smashed to pieces!” He pressed his fists into his eyes again and shook his head.

  “Who, man?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

  “Do you have your suspicions?”

  Christianson looked at Durrant, his face shifting back and forth between rage and fear. “I can’t say for certain. My guess is that the murderer has come to destroy our only way of communicating with Fort Calgary. What with the storm, we’re cut off!”

  Indeed, thought Durrant. He stayed silent.

  “I had best report this to Mr. Wilcox, if I can find h
im, sir. He’ll need to know.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Christianson was silent a moment. “I don’t. I’ll have to undertake a search.”

  Durrant considered this. Finally, he said, “Do that, sir, and report back to me at once. Avoid Frank Dodds and his men at all cost, Mr. Christianson.” Durrant paused and watched the man begin to stand. “Where are your spectacles, Mr. Christianson? I can’t imagine you’ll get far without them.”

  John looked around him on the desk. “They were here just a minute ago. I must have dropped them.”

  Durrant stepped around the counter. The fragments of the wire machine were everywhere. Christianson was scanning the floor for his specs. The Mountie joined the search and abruptly stooped and picked up the wire-rim glasses from amid the rubbish.

  Christianson looked up at him at the same moment. Durrant leaned his crutch on the counter. Christianson straightened up in his chair. Durrant could see the man calculating, but he needed to see something for himself before he returned the eyeglasses to their owner.

  “Let me tidy these up for you, Mr. Christianson,” said Durrant. “I have a clean handkerchief right here in my pocket.” Durrant reached inside his great coat, remnants of snow falling from the cape, and pulled a cloth from the breast pocket of his waist coat. He held the glasses up to the lantern light to examine them, as he had seen his father do a thousand times.

  “My goodness, John,” he said, “I don’t know how you could see with these things on.” Christianson’s face was blank as he watched the Mountie examine the spectacles. Durrant looked through them. And as he did, he found the final piece of the puzzle that he could use to convict John Christianson of Deek Penner’s murder. There, amid the fingerprints and smudges on the lenses of the spectacles, was a fine spray of now brown droplets, clustered around the edges of the specs where the man’s careless fingers hadn’t cleaned them away. The mist of blood spatter was hard and dried and had faded from bright red to nearly black, but it was unmistakable.

  In that instant Durrant made another choice: instead of arresting the man on the spot, he would allow Christianson to lead him to his conspirators. He pretended to clean the man’s glasses with his cloth and then tucked it back in his pocket. He could see the man watching him as he fumbled a moment and then extended his game right hand, the spectacles gripped loosely. Christianson stammered out his thanks.

  “Now, sir,” Durrant said. “I am for bed. I’m sorry that I cannot send my wire as I intended. I shall have to wait for the next eastbound train to send news to Fort Calgary. In the meantime, sir, I suggest that you get yourself indoors as well. If this killer shattered our only means of communications with the outside world, then who knows what he might be willing to do next?”

  Christianson was watching Durrant very carefully. For a moment their eyes locked and Durrant saw the man as he really was. He felt a wave of revulsion pass through him, and then that too ebbed and the hex was broken.

  “I will make one effort first to find Mr. Wilcox, and then I will be for bed myself.”

  “Lock your door, John,” Durrant cautioned the man.

  “I will, Sergeant. I will.”

  • • •

  Durrant waited for John Christianson for half an hour. He stood near the corner of the munitions warehouse, where he could see the station through the snow, and watched. He was cold and his leg and hand were searing with pain, but he had to try and see if Christianson would lead him to Wilcox. The man could not have left the camp, and he had not returned to his posh quarters in the well-appointed caboose.

  When Christianson finally did leave the station after nearly an hour, he circled around behind Holt’s store and went immediately to his bunk. Puzzled, Durrant watched for another ten minutes, the snow biting his face, catching in his eyes, and accumulating on his beard. He could not wait all night. He stood for another ten minutes and when finally he saw that the light was out in John Christianson’s room behind the station, he too made his way slowly home.

  If Durrant had known that he could probably have saved not just one life but two by waiting just a few minutes more, he would have suffered all the frozen fury of hell to do so. He could not have known what fate held in store that night, nor that he could have changed the course of events with timely intervention.

  EIGHTEEN

  FLIGHT

  DURRANT AWOKE WISHING THAT GARNET Moberly had remained in Holt City—The Summit, as he called the lonely place at the end of steel—rather than vanishing down to the Columbia River Valley. What Durrant needed most right now was a partner, someone to help puzzle through what he had learned the pervious evening. Young Charlie was bright and had been helpful in all manner of ways since signing on for Holt City, but what Durrant needed was a conversation with someone who was smarter than he was. Someone to help him sort through some of the myriad of mysteries that remained surrounding the death of Penner.

  What Durrant did know for certain was that Christianson had killed Penner. The blood spatter on his glasses clearly testified to that. But why? Who had conspired with him? Durrant was certain that some combination of Hep Wilcox, the general manager for winter operations at Holt City, Blake O’Brian, the Member of Parliament for Northumberland, and Frank Dodds, the foreman in charge of the logging, were entangled in this affair. Today he would have to find out which of these men were involved and how, and what their connection was to Christianson.

  It was possible that Christianson was part of the ring of men who were involved with the brewing of illegal whiskey led by Dodds. Dodds could use a man like Christianson as a way of procuring supplies and evading detection by the CPR brass. Christianson could be cut in on the profits from the sale of the perfumes. Durrant didn’t think that Dodds was sophisticated enough, though, to have a man like Christianson on his crew, regardless of how helpful it might be. No, Durrant believed that Wilcox or O’Brian or both were entangled with Christianson somehow. All he needed to do was complete his theory about the triad’s motivation and he could arrest all three.

  There also was the matter of Devon Paine. When he had left Paine the night before the man was clearly frightened. He’d locked himself in the barn, his Remington double-barrelled shotgun near at hand. He wasn’t going to run from a fight; he just wanted to see it coming. Durrant had left a clear message with the man: do not tell another soul of his suspicions. There were too many unanswered questions yet to make an arrest, and talking about it would only flush the suspects from their holes and possibly beyond the reach of the law.

  When Durrant woke, Charlie had prepared breakfast on the small stove in their cabin. As he ate and dressed, he made his plans for the day. He would first go to the station and try to question Christianson one last time, in an effort to force him to reveal who his co-conspirators were, and what role they had played in Penner’s death. Right now, the thin mountain air was filled with lies, and he wanted to see if he could trip up the duplicitous Christianson with one last inquest. He would try to locate the errant Wilcox. And finally, he would check to see if Dodds had resurfaced. If he had, he and the moonshiner would have a heart-to-heart about his undertakings at Holt City. If Durrant played his cards right, he could return to Fort Calgary with three if not four men in his custody to await the magistrate.

  Durrant strapped on his pistol, pulled on his greatcoat and told Charlie his plans. “Stay put today, alright lad?” Charlie nodded. “This thing’s going to come to a head today one way or another. Keep the Winchester. If anybody comes through that door other than me, you let them have it.” The boy’s expression was pallid. “You might want to wait and see that it’s not me before you unload . . .” Durrant winked at the lad. He was having fun, and this day would mark what he hoped to be a triumphant return to his role as an officer of the law.

  Durrant checked the action on the Winchester and made certain that the rifle was loaded. Then he checked his own armament, pulled on his gauntlets and sealskin hat, and headed for the door.

&n
bsp; The morning was still grey and oppressive but the snow of the last twenty-four hours had come to a temporary halt. Nearly two feet had fallen, thick and heavy like a quilt across the frozen earth. It made the going tough for most people around the camp, but at least the routines of the operation were returning to normal after the blizzard. The crews that worked the slopes below the white-horned mountain would be icing the haul road used to skid the sleepers down to the railway. Durrant knew that Dodds and young Mahoney wouldn’t be on the job site that day. He was also pretty sure that Hep Wilcox, whose job it was to oversee such matters as when a foreman had skipped out on his contract, would not be looking in on Dodds that day.

  As he pushed his way through the snow, Durrant considered how he would handle Christianson’s key role in this whole affair. Though Durrant believed that Christianson was to be the least of his troubles that day, he had to approach the man carefully. If Moberly were here at that moment, he might remind Durrant that there was more than just a man’s immortal soul at stake. A country was at stake as well.

  By the time Durrant had pushed his way through the snow to the station, he had worked out a plan to get Christianson to tell him exactly what he needed to know.

  He found the station as busy as ever. Men were clearing the fresh snow from the rickety platform. Later that day, if the tracks could be cleared around Castle Mountain—the halfway point between Banff Station and Holt City, where even heavier snows had fallen—another freight loaded with supplies for Holt’s store would arrive and would need sorting before being sent on to the Kicking Horse camp. A dozen men milled about there, using push shovels and brooms to clear the way. Bob Pen nodded at Durrant as he walked past. Inside the station the postal clerk was sorting the outgoing mail.

  “Is John Christianson about?” Durrant asked the man. He noticed that the remnants of the Phelps 1880 had been cleared from the floor.

  Pen looked up from his task, his face quizzical. “I ain’t seen John all morning,” the man said.