The End of the Line (32 page)

Durrant regarded the sawed off shotgun. It was a Remington Whitmore 78, one of the most popular and effective guns of the day.

“Anyways, I'm not bragging on it. I'm just saying I can hold my own. Dodds is a big man and he really come at me. He busted my nose and knocked out two teeth!” Paine pointed at the gap in his dental work.

“Them Mahoney brothers tried to pull him off, but I don't think they was trying too hard. That's when ol' Deek just moved all three of them off me. He was a big lad, that one. He just pushed 'em all off me. I don't think even Frank or Pete would pick a fight with him. Not face to face I mean.”

“What happened next?”

“Deek and Frank got into it about moonshine. Deek said he was going to report Frank to Hep Wilcox and that would be the end of things. Hep knew all about what Frank was doing. Everybody did, but Hep knew that if Deek ratted Frank out, he'd
have
to do
something
, or lose his contract as general manager here at Holt City. Frank knew it too.”

“You think it was Dodds that killed him?”

“Well, I just don't know. I left next after Deek. I didn't want to hang around lest maybe Pete and Ralph and Frank all lay into me and then it would be just John and Grant there, and they ain't much for fighting. I think Grant could hold his own, but John is just a little mouse of a man.

“I went off to put some snow on my face, and I got to thinking I should go and tell Deek what I knew. I drove the team that dropped that milled lumber off for Frank's still up the Pipestone. I didn't know what he was building, I really didn't. I just did what he told me; I mostly work for him, see. That was in January after the Pipestone froze good and hard. Anyway, I thought I'd tell Deek what I knew so I went and knocked on his door, but he was gone. I guessed that he was going to the station to wake up Hep, or maybe to send a wire. Maybe he wanted to get the drop on Frank, right?”

“I think you guessed right.”

“So I followed along the path to the station, and that's when I saw it.”

“What did you see?”

“I was just where the path goes alongside the tracks when I saw Deek up in the distance, heading back into the trees. I was maybe a hundred yards back. It was pretty dark, but I could tell by the size of him and the way he walked—kinda like a big ol' draft horse—that it was Deek Penner. I was just going to call to him when someone came at him from behind. Just jumped out from behind one of them little pines. Deek turned around, but I don't think he saw the blow coming. I think he turned just a second before he got hit. I saw the man swing at him with something and knock him down, and then he stood over Deek and hit him again and again.”

Paine had an absent, ghostly look on his face. From the door Charlie looked toward the man and Durrant could see that the man's pain had registered with the boy. Durrant motioned for Charlie to keep his eyes on the barn door.

“I couldn't do nothing. It all happened so fast.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, I was going to run, you know? Just run. But I couldn't move a muscle. I just stood there. Whoever it was that hit Deek then grabbed him by the legs and began to pull him into the snow, toward the river.”

“The river was frozen over.”

“Oh yeah, and lots and lots of snow. Even more than now. I guess they was going to leave the body there and come the spring it would just melt through. I don't know, but the going was real tough. The snow was deep and the murderer was having a hard time. That's when I think he saw me.”

“Really? What makes you think that?”

“They just stopped pulling. He sort of looked up in my direction.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran off.” Paine looked down at his hands. The candle flickered on its plate, the dark shadows playing across the faces of the men and the tack that hung around them.

“Back the way you'd come?”

“It was the only way. The snow was too deep otherwise, and the way to the station was blocked. I circled around a few times, afraid whoever it was might be hunting me. I waited an hour before coming back to my bunk here.” Paine was silent a moment, then he added, “I'm real sorry about not talking with you before.”

Durrant looked him over. “It's alright. I have a few questions. How big was the man that you saw hit Mr. Penner?”

“It was so hard to tell. He had a heavy coat on. He was shorter than Deek, but most are. He came at him from the deep snow so he seemed a lot shorter, like he was sinking up to his knees.”

“That matches what I have seen of the wounds on Deek's head, Mr. Paine.” Durrant considered his next question. “Would you say the man was as heavy as Deek?”

“No, sir. He wasn't as big in the shoulders. I could see that much.”

“Bigger than you, though?”

“I can't say. The coats, you know . . .”

“I understand. Everybody looks the same when they've got four layers of wool on,” said Durrant. Paine nodded.

“What was the man wearing on his head?”

“A beaverskin hat.”

“You didn't see the man's face?”

“No, sir.”

Durrant drew a deep breath. “Before you ran away, did you see John Christianson come along?”

“No, sir. There was nobody else there. You don't think John could have . . .”

“At this point, Mr. Paine, I think it's best that I keep my convictions to myself. I urge you to do the same.” Paine nodded. “I'm going to take my leave now,” Durrant said.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Paine, standing up.

“Should this case ever come to a trial, you will be an important witness for the Crown, Mr. Paine. I urge you to keep quiet about what you have seen, at least until I can clear this matter up.”

“When will that be?”

“I have nearly all the pieces in place now. There is way more to this than meets the eye. I'm going to go at once to the stationhouse and wire my superiors what I know about the various nefarious undertakings here at the end of track. Come the morning, I will begin to make my arrests, with or without reinforcements. Too many of the principal players are already beginning to fly.”

Paine nodded again, looking bewildered.

“You had best stay out of sight, Mr. Paine.”

“I got a place that's safe,” he said.

“Good, then,” said Durrant.

“I figure I'm not just hiding from one man, am I?”

“No, sir, you are not.”

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.