The End of the Line (10 page)

“When you saw this man running from the scene, Mr. Christianson, had he already left the body?”

Christianson seemed to think about this for some time. “I believe so, Sergeant Wallace.”

“Did you actually see him in the deep snow?”

Again, the man ruminated on the question. “No, sir. I believe he was on the path when I first saw him.”

“You believe?”

“It was night. It was dark. I could only see so much.”

“Fine,” said Durrant, awkwardly bending down to brush at the fresh ice crystals forming where the frigid air met the dry, cold snow. He pushed snow away with his gloved left hand, his other pressing on his crutch for balance. “Mr. Christianson, would you please point out exactly where you were standing when you first saw the man running.”

Christianson nodded and walked back along the path. When he was about fifty feet back, he stopped and turned. “I was about here.”

“And,” said Durrant, pushing himself upright, “where was the man you saw running when you first laid eyes on him?”

Christianson waved with his arms. “Walk a ways towards that bunk yonder.” Durrant did so.

“Keep going. Okay, okay, now stop.”

“Right here?”

“Well, like I said, it's hard to tell. Everything looks so different at night, but right around there.”

“Some eighty feet. Maybe twenty-five yards.”

“I reckon. Thereabouts.”

Durrant turned and surveyed the surroundings. It was a desolate stretch of low forest through which the pathway crossed between the main station, and a cluster of squat cabins and shacks built along the banks of the Bow River. The woods were tight except right in the vicinity of where Deek Penner had been killed. There the close forest opened onto the banks of the river itself. Durrant stood there a long minute examining where the body had been recovered. Of course, the scene had been greatly disturbed by the recovery itself, but he wanted to freeze the scene in his mind as he first found it.

“Mr. Christianson,” he said, turning back, “would you please walk back towards where you found the corpse, and then show me how far off the trail you had to go in order to discover Mr. Penner's body.”

“The snow is mighty deep,” the man protested.

“You can return to your quarters afterwards, sir.”

“Very well,” he sighed, a plume of vapour gathering around his face. He trudged back to the depression in the snow, and then, hesitating, took two or three steps off the path. He sank up to his hips in the snow. “It's deeper than I recall,” he said.

“Was Penner buried?”

“No, he was face down. I suppose 'cause he was laid out as he was, he didn't sink into the snow.”

Durrant made his way back to where Christianson was chest deep in the banks of snow. “Did you move the body other than to turn it over?”

“No. I couldn't get no grip on him. I tried, but the snow was so deep, it took four of us just to get him moved ten feet.”

“Mr. Christianson, once you'd discovered the body, and determined that is was Deek Penner and that he was dead, what did you do?”

“Well, I ran back to see if Mr. Holt was awake, but forgot that he was down at Banff Station securing provisions, so I went to wake up Mr. Wilcox.”

“Was he awake when you got to his bunk?”

“No sir, he was asleep.”

“How do you know?”

Christianson closed his eyes in thought. “I had to knock pretty loudly on his door. I could hear him snoring.”

“And then what happened?”

Christianson seemed to be growing impatient with the questions. “I brought 'im back here. He then sent for some men to recover the body. As the Doc was down in Banff too, we couldn't call on him, though it wouldn't have done any good anyway . . . We got some men together and carried the body yonder to the Mountie's cabin. I suppose where you're staying now with your boy.”

“When did you alert the North West Mounted Police?”

“We sent a cable first thing in the morning.”

“You waited till then?”

“Well, it was near morning when we finally got old Deek into your cabin. It couldn't have been but a few hours.”

“You sent the cable to Regina?”

“Yes sir.”

“Who told you to do that?”

“Mr. Wilcox did.”

“Did he write the cable?”

“I did. I wrote it. He told me what to tell.”

“And what was that?”

“That a man had been killed and that it looked like murder and could the Mounties come and have a look.”

Durrant thought about this.

“Why Regina?”

“Well, that's headquarters, ain't it?”

“It is, but Fort Calgary is much closer.”

“You'd have to ask Mr. Wilcox. He's the one who told me where to send it.”

Durrant looked down again where Christianson was standing in the snow. “You can come out of there now.”

Christianson nodded and seemed to swim through the deep drifts until he reached the path. He patted all his clothing to knock the snow off of himself, and then, he looked up at Durrant. “Are you making me out to be a suspect in this killing?” he asked quietly.

Durrant looked at him. The bright sun shining above the rugged peaks to the west, and the intense glare off the snow made his eyes water, the tears pooling and freezing on his skin the moment the air touched them. “It's too early for that.”

Christianson exhaled again. “That's good. 'Cause I liked old Deek, and would never have done him harm. That, sir, is a fact.” Christianson stood up straight and looked up at the mountains. He seemed to breathe easier after his speech.

“Don't get too comfortable, Mr. Christianson,” Durrant said, blinking into the harsh glare of the noonday sun. Its reflection off the bright snow was dazzling. “As far as I'm concerned, there ain't a man in this camp who isn't a suspect right now.”

Christianson nodded and pushed more snow from his coat.

“After you found him, Mr. Christianson, did you happen to handle the body?”

“How do you mean like?”

“Did you try to move him?”

“Deek was a big lad. And in this deep snow . . .”

“Is that a no?”

“Well, I tired to be of help to those that carried his body to . . . the Mountie cabin.”

“Did you happen to get any of Mr. Penner's blood on you?”

John seemed to shudder and looked down at himself, as if half expecting to see blood there now. “I don't know. I don't believe so.”

“Have you been to the laundry since Mr. Penner's death?”

“No. No, I've not been there in a week or so.”

“And have you requisitioned any garments from Mr. Holt's store?”

“Not a one.”

“There's one more thing, sir,” said Durrant, regarding the man brushing more dry snow from his coat. “The wire. This all started with you bringing a wire to Penner. But you never reached him. He was dead. What became of it?”

“Oh my,” said Christianson, his eyes searching, “I have no idea. In all the confusion I plain forgot about it!”

“Would it be among your papers at the telegraph office?”

“I don't know. I have to check. I may have stuffed it in my pants pocket,” he started patting himself down again, looking for the paper.

“It may be important, Mr. Christianson. Please bring it to me directly when you have located it.” said Durrant. “You say that I can return to the
NWMP
cabin this way?” He pointed towards Penner's cabin. Christianson nodded. “Alright then.” Durrant turned and made his way along the new trail towards the barracks.

Christianson stood watching Durrant go until he disappeared from sight, and he continued to stand for some time after.

•  •  •

Durrant used the keys he had obtained from Hep Wilcox to open the door to Penner's cabin. His was set amid a cluster of shacks and tents huddled in a thick stand of trees opposite the
CPR
right-of-way from the
NWMP
cabin, and nestled close to the Bow River.

It was a tiny space, with a low narrow cot pressed up against the boards. A small but solid Ransom 1850 stove sat opposite, its stovepipe running up through an opening in the boards of the roof. Bailing wire had been used to secure it, and in places it was patched with tin.

There was a trunk next to the door, its lid closed. There was no lock on it, and Durrant opened it, the aroma of cedar chips, used to stave off garment-eating moths, filling the room. It was of crude construction, and had leather for hinges. Inside were a few pairs of heavy wool trousers, several thick shirts and a jacket worn and frayed at the elbows. A pair of boots sat next to the trunk. There were no papers of any sort to be found there, or anywhere else in the quarters. He opened the stove to inspect the contents. The fire had burned down to almost nothing and he could find no shreds of paper among the pale ashes.

Durrant turned his attention to the bed: it was carefully made, but sparse. The blankets on it were faded and frayed, but not moth-eaten. Next to it was a small oil lamp on an upended crate that had once contained tinned peaches. The lamp was dark and stained with oil. A small tin-type sat in a homemade frame next to the lamp. Durrant picked it up with his left hand. The photograph was of a family; a man and wife, dressed in formal wear, and six children. Durrant assumed that that one of the two strapping lads in the photo was Deek, as the others were school-aged girls. He wondered if they had been notified of his passing.

The Mountie completed his search of the austere quarters. The photograph still in his hands, it struck Durrant that the outcome of his investigation would affect people he had never met, but who would be counting on him to succeed in his undertaking. He put the tin-type back by the lamp and left the tiny cabin to its ghosts.

“I'M GOING TO WANT TO
see the men Deek Penner was playing cards with the night he was killed,” Durrant said as he stepped into Wilcox's office. He held in his left hand the script that Wilcox had furnished with the list of men who had participated in the card game the night Deek Penner was killed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wallace.”

“It's Sergeant Wallace, Mr. Wilcox. I'll need you to arrange for me to see all the men, together, tonight please. In Frank Dodds' cabin.”

Wilcox closed the ledger he had been making notes in and twisted in his chair to look at the Mountie. “Okay, well, yes, that can be arranged. I will check with Mr. Dodds.”

“This isn't a request, Mr. Wilcox.”

Wilcox regarded him a moment. “Frank Dodds doesn't take orders well. He's an independent man.”

“I'm certain you will find a way to convince him so that
I
don't have to.”

Wilcox drew a slow, laboured breath. “I'll ask the men to gather around eight, after the evening meal.”

Durrant opened the door and left without another word.

•  •  •

Three men were milling around the counter in the area outside Wilcox's office. Behind the counter that served as the general store, post office, and cable office, Christianson was passing a packet of mail to a man. The four men all turned to look at Durrant as he emerged from Wilcox's office. Their conversation died, and a silence filled the space. Christianson had been leaning on the counter with one elbow, but straightened up as Durrant made his way across the floor to the counter. One of the men made room for him. Durrant could smell the powerful combination of body odour and wood smoke on the men.

“You here to find out who killed Penner?” one of the men asked.

“I am,” said Durrant, leaning on the counter, doing his best to appear authoritative, the crutch pushed behind him. “You got something to tell me?”

“I don't,” said the man. “But my guess is that Frank Dodds got something he could sure tell.”

“Shut up, Ted, you aiming to get your teeth broke?” the man next to him urged.

“Well, everybody in camp knows them two had a hate on for each other,” said Ted, looking sharply at his friend. “Don't take no detective to figure that out.”

“Why did they hate one another?”

“Penner was always sticking his nose in Frank Dodds' business, accusing him of running moonshine.”

“Is he?”

“How should I know? I don't touch the stuff,” said Ted, and his two friends burst out laughing and then he joined them.

“Good luck, Red Coat,” said Ted.

“Yeah, good luck,” said the third man.

“You're going to need it in Holt City,” Ted said, moving toward the door.

“And why's that?” Durrant said.

The man called Ted turned and looked at him. His two friends bunched up next to the door, pulling their wool caps down over greasy hair. “This ain't Fort Calgary. You're all alone here. People here liked Deek fine, but there ain't nobody here who is going to say a word against Frank Dodds, even if they seen him crack Deek Penner's skull with their own eyes. That's a fact.” Ted pushed open the door and the cold air filled the room as the three men left.

“You think Frank Dodds killed Deek Penner, Mr. Christianson?” said Durrant, still watching the door.

“I don't know, Sergeant Wallace.”

“You think it was Dodds you saw running away that night?”

“I can't say . . .”

“Can't, or won't.”

“Can't say, sir. Can't say,” Christianson was shaking his head, not making eye contact.

“I need to use your telegraph, Mr. Christianson.”

“You want for me to send a wire for you, Sergeant?” Christianson looked up at him, smiling weakly.

“No, I'll send it myself. I know the machine. And the North West Mounted Police have their own code.”

“Very well,” said Christianson, “sit yourself down, Sergeant, make yourself at home.” Christianson seemed genuinely happy not to be under the spotlight any longer.