The End of the Line (35 page)

“No, sir.”

“If someone gets into this room, I'm holding you responsible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Armatage had pulled the bloody blanket back over Christianson's head and left the room. Durrant affixed the new lock to the door.

Durrant suddenly felt that there was a lot to do and very little time to do it. His first responsibility was to his prisoner, Patrick Carriere. He went as quickly as the heavy snow and his game leg would allow to Deek Penner's cabin. He made note that there were no tracks in or out in the heavy snow. He unlocked the man's door and Carriere stood up.

Durrant said, “You're still alive, I see.”

“What's the shooting all about?”

“There's been another murder.”

“Shot?”

“Bludgeoned.”

“Who?”

“John Christianson.”

“Well, I've been here all night.”

“You're not a suspect.”

“Who is?”

“None of your concern,” said Durrant. “Saul Armatage will be looking in on you, making sure you've got food and enough wood to keep warm. If you do anything to try and escape I will hunt you down. Is that understood?” Carriere nodded. Durrant closed the door and locked it.

Next he had to locate the man he suspected of killing John Christianson. Durrant made his way back to the station. Several men were trying to peer into Christianson's tiny room through the oily glass window.

“Get the hell away from there,” he bellowed as he limped past, and the men dispersed again. Durrant entered the station like a cyclone and went to Wilcox's door. The postal clerk and several other men watched him with concern. Durrant pounded on Wilcox's office door.

“He ain't in there,” said the clerk.

“You have a key?”

“No, sir.”

“You,” said Durrant, pointing at a strapping young man who was hefting a load from behind the counter.

“Yes, sir?”

“Come here, lad.” The boy hesitated. “I ain't going to bite.”

“That ain't what I'm afraid of, sir.”

“Come here!” Durrant bellowed and the boy did as he was told. He was six feet tall and broad in the shoulders and legs. Durrant sized him up. “Kick in this door!”

“Sir?”

“Kick it in. Now!”

“Yes, sir!” The boy stepped back and then kicked in the door. A single effort was all that was needed and the flimsy door shattered, the door frame splintered into a dozen pieces.

“Obliged,” said Durrant, walking past the lad and into the cramped office. The boy smiled and stepped back.

The room was empty. Durrant ransacked the desk, uncertain of what he was searching for. It seemed as though nothing in the cramped room could explain the man's whereabouts or how Wilcox or O'Brian might be involved. Durrant leaned on the general manager's desk a moment and looked out the window. At first he focused on the world beyond the glass: the mainline and the sidings, all running parallel to one another, and beyond them, the river and the forested hills rising up to the mountains. Durrant stood there a long time and eventually his eyes began to blur. As he tried to refocus on the outside world again, he caught a strange reflection in the bevelled glass.

He concentrated on it and realized that he was seeing a sheath of papers reflected in the window, but they were not
on
the desk. Durrant pulled the small table toward him and the papers fell to the floor. They had been lodged between the desk and the wall. At some point Wilcox had toppled some of his own materials and forgotten to tidy them up. Durrant bent to collect them.

Most were waybills and correspondence concerning rudimentary operations at the tiny station at the end of track. Durrant quickly scanned through them. He felt a rush of warmth as he recognized the fine paper that John Christianson used for transcribing wire correspondence. The transcription contained two paragraphs: the top paragraph was in the same code that Durrant and Charlie had been cracking. This was a piece of correspondence from the mysterious William Kauffman! Durrant felt his heart beat faster as he scrolled down the page quickly. The second paragraph was also in John's hand, but this was written out in plain English. Durrant quickly read it:

To Deek Penner. Confidential.

From William Kauffman. Office of Vice-Chair, Transportation Committee, House of Commons.

MP
O'Brian meeting with Northumberland Glycerol Company once more. On good authority O'Brian and Mr. Wilcox taking drastic measures to interrupt contract owned by Canada Explosives Company. Northumberland Company's majority shareholder Douglas Klein, O'Brian's father-in-law! Advise you forward your information to
NWMP
. O'Brian to arrive within week at end of line.

The final piece of the puzzle seemed to click into place for Durrant. Bill Kauffman was the
MP
O'Brian's assistant in Ottawa! He and Deek Penner had been working together to discover the
MP
's and Wilcox's undertakings. Before Deek could report his findings to the North West Mounted Police, he had been killed. Christianson had intercepted the wire, cracked the code, and delivered the message to Wilcox. Wilcox had instructed Christianson to seize the first opportunity to kill Penner. Christianson had chosen a moment when all of the suspicions would be focused on Frank Dodds and his moonshining operations. As a fallback, Hep Wilcox had allowed the spy for the Grand Trunk railway to continue to operate at the end of steel, so that when he and O'Brian did engineer an accident on the Tote Road, or while teams of men were hauling explosives up the line to the Kicking Horse Pass, the rogue would take the blame.

Durrant shook his head and put the wire correspondence into his breast pocket. He looked up from his distraction to see Bob Pen looking in the window. Durrant wheeled and limped back out of the room, through the main doors and onto the platform. “Mr. Pen,” he said, “I wonder if you would tell me where Mr. Wilcox has gone off to this morning?”

Pen looked him over. “I made him out this morning. He was in an odd way. I noted that he was headed up to Kicking Horse Pass. Left before first light. He's taken a buckboard up the Tote Road with a load of dynamite. Him and Mr. O'Brian. I believe they've gone out to test the potency of the latest shipment.”

“Was anybody else with them?”

“I don't believe so.”

“You've been a big help, sir.”

Durrant would now have to return to the Kicking Horse Pass. Another man's life was at stake.

THERE WAS LITTLE TIME TO
think. Durrant made his way across the tent city toward the barn and stables where he had been less than twelve hours ago. He drew his pistol as he came near. He cracked the gate on the Enfield's awkward self-extracting system and ejected the spent cartridge. Reaching into his pocket, he slipped a live round into the cylinder. He latched the gate and pulled back the hammer on the revolver before stepping into the barn.

“Mr. Paine?” he called. The barn was quiet. There were just four horses in their stables, and they looked up at him when he called. “Mr. Paine,” he called again, “it's Durrant Wallace.” Nothing.

Then he heard, “Step forward, Sergeant.”

He looked up and could see Devon Paine's face looking down at him through a trap door in the ceiling. “If you've got that shotgun up there with you, you had best keep your hands off it, Mr. Paine.”

“I got it, but it's not in my hands,” Paine said.

“Come down here,” Durrant demanded.

“Is Hep Wilcox about?”

“No. Come down.”

Paine disappeared from the window and Durrant raised the Enfield for action. A long rope ladder dropped from the hole and hit the floor of the barn. Several of the horses started. Durrant saw Paine's riding boots emerge from the trap door. He lowered the pistol. In a moment Paine was before him.

“Was Wilcox here?”

“Yes, sir, he was. With that
MP
, O'Brian.”

“When was this?”

“Almost two hours ago now.”

“Christ Almighty,” said Durrant, looking around in disgust. “You speak with him?”

“No, sir.”

“What about last night? After we talked? Did you go to him and tell him about what we discussed?”

“No, sir.”

Durrant told Paine what had transpired in the night.

“Wilcox and O'Brian came in just about sunup and called for me. After your visit last night, I didn't say a word. I didn't let on I was here. I don't think Hep knows about my spot up top. I just sat tight. He took two horses for the buckboard and went out.”

Durrant said, “They went up Kicking Horse Pass way. Loaded with dynamite.”

“What the hell for?”

“I don't know,” said Durrant, but he had his suspicions.

“Is there another buckboard you could set up for me to take to the Pass?”

“Sure, of course.”

“Could I catch them on their way?”

“Not with two hours' lead time. They'd be beyond the heavy grade by the Kicking Horse Lake by now.”

Durrant looked at the horses in the stables.

“Saddle two horses, Mr. Paine. I need to chase down my lad Charlie and fetch something from my cabin, and when I return I want those horses ready to go.”

•  •  •

When Durrant reached his cabin and opened the door he was surprised that Charlie wasn't there. Blue Jesus, he thought, when I need the lad the most he's gone off on me. The Winchester was gone, meaning at least the lad wasn't unarmed. In a sort of blind frenzy, Durrant quickly took an extra box of cartridges for the Enfield and his heavy mittens from the trunk and stuffed them in his right pocket. He feared his right hand freezing again and losing the ability to manage the crutch. There was no time to wait for the lad. Durrant was on his own now. He locked the trunk and left the cabin. He made haste back to the barn through the overcast morning.

•  •  •

“You can ride with your leg like that?” asked Paine. Less than ten minutes had passed and they were standing next to a pair of saddle horses.

“I don't know,” said Durrant, regarding the beast next to him.

“Have you?”

“No.”

Paine looked concerned. “Do you need a hand up?”

Durrant shot him a look, then he relented. “It would help.”

Paine came over and laced his fingers together and Durrant allowed himself to be hoisted into the saddle.

The feeling was dizzying. It had been nearly four years since he'd sat a horse. He felt the animal move beneath him and instinctively pressed his legs into the animal's flanks. He slipped his left foot easily into the broad winter stirrup, but he couldn't control his right foot and it flailed against the horses flank, causing it to whinny and step to the left. Durrant closed his eyes and concentrated on moving the prosthetic into place. He missed again and the toe of his boot connected with the horse's ribs, causing it to tremble.

“I'll give you a hand,” said Paine. Durrant spat and cursed. “Look, Sergeant,” said Paine. “This will take you some time, but I've seen it done. Down south, lots of fellas ride with one leg, one arm. Hell, I've seen it all. It will take time, though.”

“We ain't got time right now.”

“Which is why you should shut up and let me help,” said Paine, not too gently.

The remark struck Durrant like a cold hand. He looked down and nodded. Paine guided the prosthetic into his stirrup.

“Where's your lad Charlie?” Paine asked.

“Don't know. I don't have time to chase him down.”

“You're not going up to the Pass alone are you?”

“You see any likely reinforcements?”

“Me.”

Durrant regarded the man. Paine stood at the ready, his shotgun resting on his shoulder.

“You sure you're up to this? Last I saw, you was hiding out in your attic.”

Paine smiled. “I don't mind a stand-up fight,” he said. “I just don't want nobody sneaking up on me.”

“Saddle up,” said Durrant.

Paine tucked his shotgun into the saddle scabbard and stepped up onto his own mount. He looked at Durrant and grinned. “That there's Princess. She's
real
gentle,” he winked and kicked his horse into motion.

Durrant spat again and did the same.

The Tote Road ran west out of the camp. The heavy snow made the going hard. It also made it clear that a single buckboard had passed that way, its twin runners gliding over the icy ruts of the road, ploughing through the deep snow that covered them. It will slow them down, thought Durrant, guiding the horse into the ruts. The beasts were shod with heavy winter shoes that had spikes in them like the hobnailed bottom of Durrant's own crutch. It gave the animals purchase on the icy road.

For the first few moments of the ride Durrant kept the horse at a canter. The sensation of not being able to press the horse's flanks with his right foot felt disquieting. Soon the discomfort was overtaken by another emotion: elation.

Durrant had learned to ride on his family's farm on the outskirts of the burgeoning city of Toronto and had been sitting a horse since he was four years old. While others in his company had complained of saddle sores, he had risen to the rank of Sergeant based on his leadership from behind the pommel. Steele had seen to that, promoting the man to lead his detachment in part because of the way the young Durrant handled horses. Two of Durrant's mounts had died from starvation while on the now famous March West, but that was far fewer than what most men lost, and Durrant had treated those two as if they were fallen comrades.

Now back in the saddle, riding wracked—tight to the saddle and with full-length stirrups—Durrant knew that this was the final piece of what had been missing in his life since he had been zipped, sidelined to casual duty while awaiting a medical discharge. Durrant had been a Mountie, a pony soldier, and that had been taken from him that afternoon in the Cypress Hills.