The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

  “No, it ain’t. Let’s ride,” said Durrant, and he urged his horse into a light gallop over the snowy road.

  • • •

  Within an hour they reached Kicking Horse Lake. Smoke rose from the recently completed sawmill there and from the cook shack that was likely serving the mid-day meal. Even at noontime the summit of the pass was much busier than it had been just a week before. Already there were three or four hundred men amassed on the shore of the lake, working on the munitions factory, labouring in the sawmill, or working to clear the Tote Road and rail line right-of-way. As they rode into the camp Paine swung from his horse and threw the reins over a hitching post in front of the camp’s general office.

  “Let me see if Wilcox has passed this way,” he said, not waiting for an answer from Durrant.

  Durrant turned his horse and scanned the camp for any sign of his quarry. He asked the foreman supervising the work on the adjacent munitions plant if he’d seen Wilcox.

  “Yeah, I seen him,” the man said. “Not but thirty minutes ago he and some fella in a top hat rode through. Said he had a shipment of dynamite for the Big Hill. I told him I hadn’t heard of such a thing, and he just went on down the Tote Road like he owned it.”

  Durrant looked towards the snow-covered Tote Road. “Down towards the Big Hill?”

  “That’s right,” said the foreman, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the snow at his feet.

  Durrant thought a moment. “You seen Garnet Moberly up here?”

  “Yeah, he came through this morning, just before Mr. Wilcox.”

  “How much before?”

  The man thought. “Maybe an hour.”

  “Could he get down the Big Hill in snow like this?”

  “Well, I know I sure as hell wouldn’t try, but that Moberly has some pluck to ’im. I’d say he’d be down on the Kicking Horse by now.”

  Durrant nodded his thanks. He stepped his horse close to the tent and yelled to Paine, “Let’s go, I’ve got a line on him!”

  Paine emerged and swung into his saddle. “Fella said there’s a storehouse about five hundred yards up the Tote.”

  “I know the place. It’s where Hep is heading.”

  “What’s he aiming to do there? I thought he was going to engineer some kind of accident with the munitions plant.”

  “I think his plans have changed.” Durrant told him about the scrap of paper found in Christianson’s stove. “I think he’s just trying to erase any remaining evidence.”

  “You mean O’Brian?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you.”

  “That too,” said Durrant, but he grinned widely when he said it.

  “Alright, let’s go,” said Paine.

  They rode on at a trot, both men scanning the woods for the explosives-laden buckboard. The tracks continued between the trees. In places the Tote Road became soft, as the day had warmed, and the horses punched through. Now that he was in the saddle Durrant was reluctant to get out again, but after a couple hundred yards the horses could go no further.

  “They haven’t iced the road this morning,” said Paine. He stepped off his horse and patted her withers. She trembled a little, her front legs up to her forelocks in the deep snow. “It’s okay, girl, you’re okay.” He gently pulled on her reins and the horse stepped out of the snow onto the path, knees close together. “This is as far as we can ride, Sergeant Wallace. Wilcox drove the buckboard out this way this morning, but I’d say by now he’s mired in the soft snow too.”

  Durrant looked down at the road. The sled had gone through with its heavy load of explosives, pulled by two stout horses, but that was hours ago, when the snow was still frozen hard. Now that thick crust was melting and even their single horses were punching through. Durrant pulled his game right leg from the stirrup, being careful not to snag it and fall face down from the top of his mount. He got his left leg over the rump of the horse and dropped to the ground. It was only then that he realized that he hadn’t brought his crutch. He stood there a moment, the horse breathing hard beside him, its heat rising in sheets of steam in the cool mid-day air. Durrant pressed his ruined right hand against Princess for support.

  “You okay?” asked Paine, looping the reins of his horse over the branch of a spruce tree. He pulled the Remington side-by-side shotgun from its scabbard.

  “Yeah, fine,” said Durrant.

  “Let me catch up your horse there,” said Paine and he came and took Durrant’s horse by the reins. Durrant slowly pulled back his hand as Paine led the horse to the tree and threw the reins next to his own mount’s.

  Durrant waivered a moment and then stood up straight.

  “You ready?” said Paine, not noticing Durrant’s hesitation.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The first five or six steps felt just like the first five or six strides on the back of Princess. He didn’t fall. The snow was deep and he pushed forward carefully, focusing on each step, looking up to scan the woods every few feet. Paine looked over at him and may have realized, too late, the challenge facing Durrant. If he did, he had the good sense not to say anything.

  “Another hundred yards,” whispered Paine.

  Durrant drew the Enfield from its holster and held it carefully in front of him.

  The woods were dense along the trail toward the tiny clearing where he and Charlie had stood and marvelled at the magnificence of the Big Hill and Kicking Horse Valley. Clad in dense snow, the forest obscured their view beyond the immediate surroundings. There were no sounds from the thick woods save the occasional thump of snow falling from an overburdened pine to land in a heap at its base.

  As Durrant stepped through the heavy snow, he scanned the woods, swinging the Enfield from one side of the trail to the next. Paine walked a few feet behind and to the side of the Mountie, his shotgun aimed straight ahead. They proceeded slowly. A whiskey jack flew in an arc across the path and both men stopped, startled. Paine muttered, “Goddamned bird . . .”

  Another twenty yards and the Tote Road entered the small clearing. Durrant could see the buckboard wagon, outfitted with skis, and its hitch of two horses at rest. The buckboard appeared to still be loaded; its skis sunk deep in the snow. Nobody had reported an explosion while they made their inquiries at the camp. Maybe they had arrived in time. Durrant could hear the ruckus of the creek plunging out of the mountains to the north and raging down the steep drop towards the Kicking Horse Valley a thousand feet below. The sound grew louder as they reached the edge of the clearing.

  Durrant held up his hand and Paine stopped. He pointed to the far side of the clearing. Paine nodded. Crossing behind Durrant, he made his way low and slow along the edge of the trees. Durrant surveyed the clearing. In the distance, he could see the soaring space that opened beyond the cluster of trees at the steep banks of the creek. He looked hard for any sign of movement. There was none. Had Wilcox led O’Brian away on foot from this point? If so, to what fate?

  Durrant looked over at Paine, who was hunched at the edge of the trees like a hunter stalking his prey. He was glad to have Paine with him.

  Paine motioned to the Mountie, pointing to something behind the buckboard.

  Durrant, pistol held in front of him, made his way stiff-legged through the deep snow of the clearing, taking a wide circle around the wagon. He stopped when he saw what Paine was pointing to. Tied to a spindly aspen was Blake O’Brian. His silver-handled cane and his smart black top hat were at his feet in the snow. He was gagged, and had a heavy hemp rope wrapped around him at least a dozen times. His hair was wild and fluttering in the light breeze, and there was a heavy gash on the side of his face. His head lolled forward as though he were unconscious. Durrant looked back toward Paine, but the wagon had come between them. He stepped toward O’Brian. O’Brian moved his head but didn’t look up. Durrant tried to see Paine but he still could not. He took one more step.

  At that moment Durrant was struck from behind with such force that he blacked out m
omentarily, falling face forward into the snow, his arms sprawling, the Enfield flying from his grip. The snow was supple and he regained consciousness when he hit the ground, but with his game hand and leg, and his eyes filled with stars, he couldn’t get any purchase on his surroundings to right himself.

  As he flailed, the snow and dizziness clouding his eyes, he heard Paine shout and then Durrant heard the deep roar of a double-barrelled shotgun blast. Durrant managed to roll over so he was facing the sky as this happened, only to see Hep Wilcox bending down toward him.

  “Drop the shotgun, Paine,” Wilcox said, gritting his teeth. He grabbed Durrant by the collar with his left hand. In his right he held a heavy dark object. “Drop it or I’ll turn his head to pulp,” Wilcox hissed.

  From his position Durrant could make out the shadowy outline of the forest’s edge and see the shape of Paine there, the shotgun smoking and levelled at Wilcox. “Shoot him,” he managed to whisper, but Wilcox shook him violently and raised the heavy object to strike.

  Paine threw the shotgun down in the snow. Wilcox grinned. “Good riddance, Durrant Wallace,” he said, and the world went dark.

  TWENTY

  KICKING HORSE

  THE DREAM HAD ALWAYS BEEN the same: the earth frozen, the snow falling, the horse dead on the ground at his side. He had been left to die. But he had not. For more than a day and a night he lay on the stony back of the Cypress Hills. He had lived. Many a night thereafter he wished he had not. Now the dream was different. Now he wanted to live. He climbed through the darkness back to the daylight. Hand over ruined hand, he pulled himself back from the dream into world of the living.

  Durrant came around. He blinked into the white earth and the world wheeled into focus. The first thing he saw was Wilcox cracking the breech on the double-barrelled shotgun and loading another shell in the firing chamber. He then flipped the breech shut and turned, smiling at Durrant.

  The Mountie was sitting in the snow next to the buckboard wagon, leaning against one of its runners. His prosthetic leg was missing. His hands were roughly bound in his lap with some bailing twine. A trickle of blood worried his left eye. Durrant looked around him. O’Brian was conscious and staring glassy-eyed at him. His face was as pale as the snow; his hair fell in tattered strands into his eyes. He hung against the heavy ropes that secured him to the tree. Lying in the snow at the far side of the clearing was the body of Devon Paine.

  “What have you done?” Durrant said to Wilcox. Wilcox said nothing but turned his attention to O’Brian.

  “What have you done?” Durrant roared.

  “Please, Mr. Wallace, I’m working here,” said Wilcox, the shotgun held lightly in his right hand. He stepped towards the MP and pulled the man’s chin up so he could look into his face.

  “Nobody,” he hissed, “backs out of a deal with me.” He spat into the MP’s face. The man closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Nothing to say for yourself, O’Brian?”

  “Not to the likes of you.”

  Wilcox puckered his lips and nodded. “Very well then.” He strode back to the wagon and pulled back the tarp. “Have you ever primed a cartridge of dynamite, Mr. Wallace? Oh, pardon me, Sergeant Wallace?”

  “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done here, Wilcox.”

  “It’s rather a simple operation, really. The whole thing, however, is very volatile. Not so much as nitroglycerine, mind you. But then, you’ve already discovered that, haven’t you?” The man laughed, “That’s why Mr. Nobel patented this less temperamental form of explosive.”

  Durrant now realized it had been Wilcox and not Dodds who had set the explosives next to his and Charlie’s cabin.

  “Ah, the penny drops,” said Wilcox, smiled as he removed three sticks of dynamite from a box on the back of the wagon. “How perfect that you should have had that boy of yours carry that pail of explosives so far into the woods and destroy Dodds’ whiskey operation. How perfect!”

  He hunched down by Durrant. The Mountie looked him in the eye. The man seemed to have completely lost control of his faculties. His eyes seemed both vacant and wild at the same time.

  “So here’s how this works. First, we secure the charges together like this,” he said, wrapping the explosives with a thick adhesive paper. “Next, we set the fuse. You need to use a tool that won’t create a spark when you do this, or you’ll blow yourself to Kingdom Come. It happens. Not as much as with the liquid form, but it happens.” He removed a long, narrow tool from his pocket and pressed it carefully into the centre of one of the sticks of dynamite.

  “There,” he said, putting the tool back into his pocket. “Next, the fuse itself.” He inserted a long black piece of cable into the opening of the cartridge of dynamite. “Now, we’re all set.” He said, smiling and standing up.

  Durrant pulled at his hands as Wilcox walked to O’Brian’s side. The MP watched him the whole way.

  “Mr. O’Brian,” said Wilcox. “It was such a good plan, wasn’t it? Engineer a catastrophe here at Kicking Horse Pass. The first train to pull into the siding here would be loaded with raw materials for the munitions factory. There would be a terrible accident. The Canada Company’s plant would be destroyed and its defective explosives would be to blame. The Northumberland company would then get its due. So much money at stake,” said Wilcox, turning to Durrant, who had stopped pulling at his hands. “So much money, maybe as much as a million and a half dollars’ worth of work. Do you have any idea how much money that is, Sergeant?”

  Durrant sat motionless, his hands crossed.

  “It’s more than you or I could ever dream of. Mr. O’Brian here got careless. His aide in Ottawa intercepted a wire, one not sent in code. This fool here ruined everything,” said Wilcox, suddenly surging with anger. He pointed the shotgun into O’Brian’s face. He pressed the barrel into the man’s eye; Durrant watched the MP wince in pain.

  “So now . . . now we’ve got to clean up the mess here,” he said, lowering the shot gun. He tucked the weapon under his arm and then pulled at the ropes that bound O’Brian. He tucked the three sticks of dynamite into the ropes and let the long fuse trail down the man’s chest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of safety matches.

  “How long would you say this fuse is, O’Brian?” O’Brian looked down. “Not long enough?” Wilcox said.

  He struck a match on his thumb and lit the fuse. It sparked to life and immediately the tail of long black cord began to burn away.

  “Two feet,” Wilcox said. “I’d say . . .” and he stopped and looked pensive, “about a minute.”

  Wilcox turned away from O’Brian, the shotgun tucked under his arm, and began to walk across the clearing to where Paine’s body lay face down. Durrant detected motion out of his peripheral vision. He turned and through the blood in his left eye could make out a dark shadow in the trees. Though the scene was nearly black and white, the motion seemed to blaze with color. It was a man, moving fast and low through the trees, a long wool coat trailing out behind him. Durrant struggled with the twine of his wrists.

  Wilcox detected the motion too, and wheeled, the shotgun dropping from under his arms into his waiting hands. His right finger found the trigger guard and slid into place.

  The man in the trees suddenly had two pistols in his hands. He seemed to float across the top of the heavy snow.

  The fuse burned down.

  The shotgun exploded and a heavy round of buckshot burst into the trees where the man dodged through the woods. Snow fell to the ground and the green spruce boughs were shredded by a thousand razor-like ball bearings.

  Durrant wrestled awkwardly with the twine, pulling with all his might.

  Wilcox stepped back and as he did his finger found the second trigger and the shotgun blazed again. The man in the trees raised both pistols, and still running in the deep snow, fired both at the same time. Durrant looked to see the shoulder of Wilcox’s coat suddenly dance with frayed fabric. The general manager, his face awash in panic,
stopped and dropped to one knee. The man in the trees fired again, and Wilcox’s hat flew off his head. His face registered terror. The breech of the shotgun snapped open; Durrant watched as the man in the trees ran into the clearing, both pistols still held straight out in front of him.

  The fuse burned down. Less than a foot remained.

  It was Garnet Moberly who had appeared from the darkness of the woods. His coat flew out behind him like a cape; his face bore a look of resolute determination. He closed the distance to O’Brian and fired both pistols again, the shots missing their mark but forcing Wilcox to stumble back in the deep snow.

  Wilcox chambered two rounds and snapped the shotgun closed. With Wilcox only forty feet away, the shotgun reloaded and pointed at him, Moberly stopped shooting. He looked away from Wilcox, took both pistols in his left hand, and grabbed the clutch of dynamite from O’Brian’s chest. Durrant’s left hand, now free, found the British Bulldog. Durrant and Wilcox raised their weapons at the same time, but Durrant fired first—two rounds as quickly as his thumb could work the double-action hammer—and the left shoulder and arm of Wilcox’s coat bloomed with bright red blood. At the same time, Moberly freed the dynamite from its ropes around O’Brian’s body.

  Wilcox staggered back, the shotgun still in his hands, and Durrant fired a third time, hitting the man in the right shoulder. The third shot took him off his feet and he landed, eyes open, in the snow.

  Moberly threw the dynamite as hard as he could; the charge exploded fifty feet from him still high in the air, out over the raging Sherbrook Creek. The concussion from the explosion knocked the man to the ground. He shook his head, took the pistol from his left hand, and with both revolvers now held before him advanced on Wilcox. For the first time Durrant could see that the man wore babiche sticks on his feet—the webbed snowshoes so widely used by the Cree and other northern Indians.

  “This one’s still alive, Sergeant,” he said, looking down on Wilcox, his three bullet wounds coloring the snow beneath him. Moberly raised both pistols and took aim at Hep Wilcox’s head.