The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

  “You’ve changed, you know.”

  He looked at her. “How so?”

  She was silent a moment. Her eyes were so very kind. “When I first met you, there in the stables, and on the train up to Holt City, and in the first few days in that place, you seemed so very sad and angry. In time, it was as if . . . Have you ever watched a snake shed its skin?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s the same snake,” she said. She held out the fingers of her left and with her right hand illustrated how the snake wiggled and twisted its body to lose its old casing. “It just grows out of its skin. It leaves the old skin behind. It doesn’t need it anymore. It’s the same snake, but it’s completely new. You became new,” she said.

  “I became who I was before,” he said.

  There was a long pause. “There’s something else,” she said.

  He wouldn’t look at her. He stared at the foothills as they rose and fell on the horizon.

  “Durrant, I saw the locket. The woman, the baby. I saw it on your nightstand.”

  “I’m not going to talk about it . . .” His voice was sharp.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I just want you to know that I know. And I understand. We’ve all suffered loss that we can’t confer.”

  He said quickly, “It was just that you . . . you could have been that boy. I joined the March West to escape that loss, and now I feel like I’ve lost that again.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  A long moment passed and they heard the train whistle. He knew that they were approaching Fort Calgary and the outskirts of the town.

  “Durrant,” she said.

  He kept his gaze down. She reached across and put her soft fingers on his game right hand. He looked up at her. She was looking straight into his eyes. Her eyes were so very blue, and so very kind. “Durrant, I don’t think you’ve lost anything.”

  EPILOGUE

  CRAIGELLACHIE

  THE NO. 28 LOCOMOTIVE BEGAN to slow for the first switch. Two blasts of its horn let the switchman know that all was well.

  Durrant watched from the window of the coach. The panorama of peaks and forests sped past. He held his breath a beat too long and found himself gasping for air. He had heard that the very first train to descend the Big Hill had derailed, and many others afterward had too, even though safety switches and runaway lanes were in place to keep trains from plunging over the side into the valley of the Kicking Horse. Talk now was that when the CPR and the Dominion recovered from the initial cost of the mainline, they would attempt some marvel of engineering by constructing a series of spiral tunnels through the sides of the mountains to lessen the grade of the descent on the Big Hill.

  A lot of good that did Durrant on November 4, 1885. Durrant pressed his face to the window and peered back in the direction they had travelled, toward the receding summit of the Pass. He thought of the day a year and a half earlier when an innocent life had been lost on that crest; when Devon Paine had been gunned down in his naive attempt to save Durrant’s own life. He thought, too, of the moment on the shore of the Lake of Little Fishes, or as it was now called, Lake Louise, when he came to see Charlene for who she really was.

  Tom Wilson, the old rascal, had renamed that sapphire blue lake after his most recent sweetheart. Tom had told Durrant in Fort Calgary recently that while guiding a party from the Association of the British Advancement of Science, he had shown the now famous lake to Sir Richard Temple and his daughter, Louise. Louise had demonstrated a preference for the sparkling lake, and Wilson for Louise, and so it was that Tom renamed it right then and there. If the monarchists wanted to believe the gem of water was named for Princess Louise Caroline Alberta, let them.

  So much had happened. He stretched out his right leg. After the debacle at Holt City, Durrant had returned to Regina and received medical treatment for his game leg. Armatage had bandaged him up but there was little more that could be done at the end of steel, and the only prosthetics specialist in the North West Territories was at the fort in Regina. Despite all that had happened in the ensuing eighteen months since he left Holt City, it felt as good as a prosthetic could: so good that except for the harshest conditions of winter, he no longer felt the need for the crutch. He tapped the silver-handled cane on the ground. It had been a gift, albeit indirectly, from another man whose life the Kicking Horse had almost stolen.

  “I’ve no bloody need for a cane,” Moberly had told him after the Honorable Member for Northumberland had given him the relic for saving his hide there in the snowy woods. “You might take note of the handle, old chap,” said Moberly with a wink, when they had met in the barracks in Fort Calgary early in April. Indeed, the cane’s secret had come in handy in a tight spot recently.

  Durrant tapped it on the floor of the coach again. They had passed the final switch and were levelling out towards the siding of Field.

  The Canadian Pacific Railway had at last earned the support of Parliament, but it wasn’t because of its merits as a unifier of the fledging nation. The rail held strategic importance for transporting troops and military cargo in combatting what everybody now called the North West Rebellion, or simply the Métis War, but what Durrant had learned to think of as the Riel Resistance.

  Durrant closed his eyes. He had come close to losing his life on the frozen earth of the Cypress Hills, and again on the summit of Kicking Horse Pass. At Batoshe, in the aftermath of that bloody battle at the end of May in that very year, Durrant had almost lost his soul. He closed his eyes and pushed that shadow from his memory. He would not dwell on that now. That was a story for another time.

  The coach Durrant travelled in was at the back of a six-car train that had left Calgary that morning, and had been steaming west from Montreal for nearly a week. Along the way it had picked up a number of prominent passengers.

  Durrant became aware that a man was standing before him. He cleared his throat and looked up.

  “Sergeant Wallace?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Sir, Superintendant Steele would like a moment of your time, please.”

  “Of course.” Durrant pushed himself up with the help of the fine silver-handled cane.

  “Follow me, sir.”

  Durrant put his bowler hat upon his head and straightened his wool dresscoat. He followed the man to the end of the coach, through the crowded smoke filled dining lounge, and then into the car named “Metapedia,” an exclusive coach reserved for the CPR brass. Durrant had never been inside.

  It was plush and warm and had low lights affixed to the wall with ornate brass fixtures. Chairs were arranged as if in a parlor and men sat about in expensive suits, drinking glasses of brandy and smoking cigars. Durrant ignored the violation of the temperance laws. He wasn’t a Mountie today, he was a guest of the CPR, though several men took note as he passed, eyeing the holster that supported his Enfield hanging below his coat. Several of the men nodded to him and one said his name and he nodded in return and tipped his hat.

  “This way, sir,” the man said, and led Durrant to the far end of the car. The man slid a door marked Private and ushered Durrant inside.

  There was no one in the room. Four chairs were arranged next to a stately desk. Windows on both sides of the private office gave spectacular views of the passing scenery.

  “Please have a seat. Superintendent Steele will be in shortly. Do you require anything, sir?”

  Durrant shook his head and sat down in one of the leather chairs. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had spent the better part of his convalescence since the North West Rebellion in Saskatchewan. He had even made a return trip to Fort Walsh and the Cypress Hills. He had intended to resume an old inquiry there, one that had never been solved: one that involved the shooting of a NWMP officer. He had new leads and Durrant had learned a thing or two about tracking down those who hid in plain sight.

  The door that connected the private room to the adjacent car slid open and Steele stood before him. Durrant rose and removed his hat
. Steele stepped in. He was a broad man, straight in the spine and upright in every way. Steele reached out his left hand and Durrant shook it.

  “It’s good to see you again, Sergeant.”

  “And you, sir.”

  “Please sit a moment so we can talk in private.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Each man took a seat in one of the armchairs.

  “I’m glad to have you along on this sojourn, Wallace.”

  “I was glad for the invitation.”

  “I’m sorry we could not extend it to others in your party.” Durrant shrugged. “Believe it or not, resources for the CPR are tight.” They sat in silence a moment, Steele regarding the Sergeant.

  “You’ll recall, Sergeant, that after Batoshe I put in a request to Parliament to create an investigations unit within the North West Mounted Police.” Durrant nodded. “They have turned me down. There will be no such unit. There’s no money for it, and the politicians claim that there’s no need.”

  “I understand, sir. It was a good idea, but I understand.”

  “You’re more indulgent than I am, Wallace,” said Steele, his face red. “Nevertheless, Sergeant, I am of the conviction that there is a need. Kicking Horse and Batoshe have proven that and the need is growing. Policing is changing in the North West Territories. With the railway all but complete, and towns and settlement taking their place here in the West, the need for the sort of skills you have developed will increase.”

  Durrant sat quietly while his superior regarded him. After a moment, Durrant asked, “What do you propose, sir?”

  “I’m going to continue to call upon you to serve under my command, Wallace. It can’t be official, you understand, but you’re going to head a unit for special investigations. You’ll report directly to me. It’s going to have to be done quietly, Sergeant. I understand that might go against the grain of your natural disposition . . .” Steele regarded the man a moment, and then smiled. “Can you do that, Durrant?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe I can.”

  “Good, then,” said Steele. He stood. Durrant pushed himself to standing.

  “Congratulations then, Inspector Wallace.” Steele saluted the man, and Durrant did the same.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now then, Inspector, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Steele moved to the door that separated the cars and drew it open. He said a few words and stepped aside. A broad, powerfully built man entered next. He wore a heavy beard and his eyes burned with an intense fire that Durrant had rarely seen. He was smoking a fragrant cigar. The man manoeuvred his bulk into the room and reached out his left hand.

  “I’m William Cornelius Van Horne,” the man said.

  “Durrant Wallace, sir.”

  “I know who you are. Superintendant Steele has told me all about you.”

  Durrant looked at Steele who motioned for Durrant to sit.

  “How can I be of service to you, sir?” Durrant asked when they were all seated.

  “You know what I do for the railway, son?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re the general superintendant of the CPR.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You built this railway.”

  Van Horne laughed. “Me and twelve thousand others.”

  Durrant smiled. “Yes sir.”

  “I need a favour from you, Inspector Wallace.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Van Horne puffed on his cigar, filling the room with blue smoke. “It’s more what I don’t want you to do.”

  “And what’s that, sir?”

  “Tell your story.”

  Durrant watched the man. Van Horne regarded him as he drew on his cigar. Durrant could see Steele look from himself to Van Horne and back.

  “I want you to keep quiet about what happened at Lake Louise and up on the Kicking Horse Pass and at Batoshe.”

  Durrant regarded the man thoughtfully.

  “We’re going to build a hotel on the shore of Tom’s Lake Louise. And we’re going to make a National Park around the hot springs at Banff. It’s going to help us recoup the coffers of the treasury. The CPR has been a tremendous expense. We’d like, for the time being, the focus of the tourists to be on the scenery, on the mountains, on the glaciers, and such. We’re fearful of what the eastern press might do to the tourist trade if they got hold of your tale. Inspector, you did one hell of a job for us at Kicking Horse Pass and up at Lake Louise. One hell of a job . . . but it’s not the story that we want tourists and the damned Ontario press getting hold of right now.”

  Durrant nodded. He cleared his throat. After a long uncomfortable moment, he said, “Of course,” and watched as Van Horne breathed out, his shouldered relaxing. Durrant continued, “Superintendant Steele has already spoken with me about Batoshe. It was a most . . . unfortunate turn of events. No need to sully both the CPR and the North West Mounted Police. If you feel that the story of the Kicking Horse and Lake Louise is best untold, then I will respect that.”

  “For the time being,” said Van Horne. “Who knows, in time, these stories might only increase the demand to see the sights, but now, with things so fragile, and Macdonald facing an election and all, well . . .” Van Horne’s voice trailed off and he puffed on his cigar.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Durrant turned to Steele.

  “Thank you, Inspector Wallace, that’s all for now.”

  “We’re glad that you could make it to Craigellachie with us, Inspector,” said Van Horne, rising. Durrant pushed himself up on his cane. “It’s going to be a great day. You’ll be in the tin-type we make of that event, mark my words. There might not have been a railway if it wasn’t for what you did on the Kicking Horse Pass. This will be a great event! The last spike! The end of the line!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Durrant, propping his bowler on top of his head, and shaking hands with Van Horne and then Steele. “The end of the line, at last.”

  WITH GRATITUDE

  Writing a novel is all encompassing. The novelist is often distant, distracted, sneaking away to pen a bit of dialogue or prose when he should be attending to the dishes. For her undying support I offer my deepest gratitude to Jenn, my wife, without whom none of this would be possible.

  I am not a historian, so I turned to those with expertise for help: E.J. (Ted) Hart and Lena Goon from the Whyte Museum of the Canadian Rockies, Dianne Precosky from Fort Calgary, and Jo-Anne Colby of the Canadian Pacific Achieves were all generous and helpful. Graeme Pole, author of The Spiral Tunnels and The Big Hill, answered many of my questions about the history of the CPR at the Kicking Horse Pass.

  During several stages of the research and writing of this book, it was necessary to take up residence in the Canadian Rockies. Friends Wendy Frances of Banff and Joel Hagen and Nadine Fletcher opened their homes to Jenn and me for that purpose.

  The original notion for this series of novels came in 2006 when I was working with my friend and business coach Dan Spinner. I am grateful for his encouragement at that delicate time.

  Ruth Linka, of TouchWood Editions, is a fabulous publisher to work with. I’m indebted to her for her support and enthusiasm. I can’t wait to continue our partnership.

  Frances Thorsen, who edits the Durrant Wallace series for TouchWood, and who from behind the counter at Chronicles of Crime books in Victoria, BC, dispenses unparalleled advice on the world of crime and mystery writing, deserves much of the credit for any success The End of the Line enjoys. Working with her on the publication of this novel has been one of the best editorial experiences I’ve had in my twenty years of writing.

  And to all the booksellers who help their customers and readers find The End of the Line, I extend my appreciation and gratitude.

  THE THIRD RIEL CONSPIRACY

  Durrant Wallace will return in 2013 in The Third Riel Conspiracy. It is the spring of 1885 and rebellion has broken out in Canada’s North West Territories. Amid the chao
s and strife of the Battle of Batoche, Reuben Wake is recuperating in the Zereba—a defensive structure built near the battlefield—after suffering a gunshot wound the previous day. As the final day of the conflict reaches its crescendo, Wake is murdered: shot at point-blank range. Hours later, Terrance Le Biche, a Métis man, is arrested for the crime: Wake’s own pistol is found in his coat. Le Biche protests his innocence but he admits he had every intention of killing Wake, except someone beat him to the foul deed.

  Durrant Wallace, of the North West Mounted Police, is requested by Superintendant Sam Steele to travel with haste into the fray to assist with peacemaking. Arriving at Batoche, Durrant is perplexed by the strange circumstances surrounding Reuben Wake’s demise. When the Mountie begins his own investigation into what motive Le Biche might have had for the assignation, he learns that there are many who wanted Wake dead, and had the opportunity to commit the crime during the chaos of Batoche. Their grievances with Wake mirror the varied causes of the North West Rebellion itself.

  What Durrant Wallace uncovers during his two-month odyssey into the origins of the discontent in the Canadian West is a series of covert conspiracies surrounding the life and death of Métis leader and prophet Louis Riel himself. Was Reuben Wake’s death related to his involvement in one of these conspiracies? Or did his trickery and evil temperament simply catch up with him on the banks of the Saskatchewan River?

  Durrant Wallace and his colleagues Garnet Moberly and Dr. Saul Armatage must reconstruct the four days of the Battle of Batoche, and delve deeply into the motivations of the suspects, the Métis, and their followers, among them the tribes of the Cree and Sioux Indians, in order to evaluate who among them actually killed Reuben Wake.

  Visit www.DurrantWallace.com for updates, maps, and interactive features!

  Stephen Legault is an author, consultant, conservationist, and photographer who lives in Canmore, Alberta. Stephen is the author of three other books, including the environmentally themed Cole Blackwater Mystery series, which includes the titles The Cardinal Divide and The Darkening Archipelago. Please visit Stephen online at stephenlegault.com or follow him on Twitter at @stephenlegault.