The End of the Line (36 page)

Durrant felt as he had not for many years; a man complete, a man who was competent to carry out the task the world had asked of him. He snapped the reins and his horse stepped up the pace, her heavy shoes cutting into the ice beneath the deep snow, each stride sounding like the clack of a small-calibre pistol in the crisp morning air. Durrant caught up to Paine's horse and the two men rode hard and fast over the ice road, the parallel tracks of Hep Wilcox's sleigh converging at a point in the far distance.

“So,” called Paine, as their horses fell into a rhythm beside one another, “care to tell me what we're getting into here?”

Durrant thought about it. “I'm not entirely sure myself,” he finally called back, breathing hard.

“Wilcox killed Deek Penner?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“John Christianson.”

“Why?”

“Fealty,” said Durrant.

“Speak plain, man.”

“He was what we Red Coats would call vapid. He killed Deek Penner because Hep Wilcox told him to. Wilcox could see John's mania, and took advantage of it to suit his own needs. John was no pawn. He could think for his own self, but he also was beholden to Wilcox for his position, and Wilcox played the man like a fiddle.

“I think Hep Wilcox and Blake O'Brian are in cahoots with each other. I found out this morning that O'Brian's father-in-law is majority owner of The Northumberland Glycerol Company. O'Brian represents the constituency where the company employs hundreds of men. The Northumberland company lost the contract to the Canada Explosives Company. Wilcox and O'Brian figured that if the Mount Saint-Hilaire explosives were proven unreliable, then the
CPR
would have to award the contract to the number two bidder.”

“O'Brian's father-in-law,” said Paine.

“That's right.”

“How?”

“I think they were going to engineer an accident. Something big.”

“Like blowing up the plant at Kicking Horse?”

“Christ, I hadn't even thought something that big. I imagined an accident while blasting on the Tote Road, or the first tunnel.”

“That sort of accident happens all the time. It might kill some men, but it would be business as usual. It would have to be way bigger, like a train blowing up, or worse.”

Durrant shook his head. It was a dark business.

“Deek found out. How?”

“O'Brian has an assistant in Ottawa. A man named William Kauffman. He must have uncovered things on his end. It wouldn't be too hard if he was paying attention.”

“He wired Penner,” said Paine.

“John intercepted a wire,” said Durrant. “He as much as admitted it. Told me he was delivering a wire to Deek and that's why he was out looking for him that night. He could never produce it. Truth wasn't far off; it's just that the wire would never get to Deek at all. John was onto Deek and this Kauffman from the start. He was informing Wilcox and O'Brian instead. John knew the code that is used by Parliament, and instead of bringing Deek the missing wire, he gave it to Wilcox and Wilcox instructed John to kill the man. He and Wilcox must have decided the time was right, what with your row with Dodds and all.”

“But I saw. I was a witness.”

“That's right,” said Durrant.

“They didn't really count on you showing up here at the end of the line. They figured it's too far from Fort Calgary. The Mounties won't care. Men get killed along the line all the time.”

“That's right. Hep Wilcox could have wired that he had the man responsible in custody.”

“Who?” asked Paine.

“At first I figured that they were aiming to pin this on Frank Dodds. But I think maybe they were aiming to hang the accident with the explosives on Patrick Carriere.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Worked for Deek. Turns out he was spying for the Grand Trunk. Hep knew about it, but didn't turn him in.”

“Then you show up.”

“Well, I give credit to Sam Steele. He saw the importance of solving this, though I think he'll be as surprised as everyone that this ain't just about whiskey or espionage.”

“Dodds is innocent?”

Durrant laughed.“No goddamned way. He just didn't kill Deek Penner. He's up to something, though.”

Paine looked at him, his face red from the wind, and said, “So it ain't over yet.”

“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 momentarily, 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.

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.