The End of the Line (4 page)

He walked until he passed the last of the tents and mud huts and turned west, standing with his face up to the clear night sky, the stars a broad smear across the blackness of space. In the distance he could hear coyotes yelping as they made their way along the banks of the Bow River. Far off, out on the low, rolling foothills, he made out the melancholy howl of a wolf. He knew that far beyond, across the swells of frozen earth, the Rocky Mountains broke against the foothills in nearly impenetrable sheets of limestone. A thin thread of steel snaked its way into the mouth of those mountains, passed the sidings of Padmore and Banff, and wove westward, following the river beside which he stood, until it reached the end of track near the summit of the Kicking Horse Pass, and the tiny tent town of Holt City.

The wolf called again, and this time its howl seemed farther off, as if it was moving away towards the mountains. Much of Durrant's life seemed to feel like that wolf sounded—solitary. Much of his work as a policeman had been just that—alone. Riding for days at a time along the frontier of the Dominion of Canada, intercepting the illegal trade in whiskey and in rum, talking with the great roaming bands of Indians that moved like ephemeral winds across the plains.

There had always been a pack to return to. At Forth Walsh, and latter in Regina, and down at Fort McLeod, there had always been the comfort and companionship of the North West Mounted Police. But now? They had not abandoned him after the incident in the Cypress Hills. But the duties to which he was consigned now seemed far worse than desertion. If he had died that afternoon on the frozen ground at least he would have done so with honour. Durrant was a pony soldier, but now he was treated like a man gone mad at the worst, and at best, like someone who had worn out his usefulness to society.

Durrant stood until his right leg ached where the prosthetic attached to the nub of skin and muscle and bone below his knee. He thought he might wait until the sun broke over the eastern horizon, thought that maybe the dawn of a new day might cast a fresh light on his life and his worth. But at the end of March the sun still rose late over the vast undulating plains, and the cold that bit and the burning ache in his leg that spread to his hips and back told him that the time had come to turn homeward.

Over the icy tracks of the new city, he made his way toward the barracks. The promise of a hot cup of coffee and the woodstove buoyed his spirits enough to urge him through the snow. When he reached the door that led to his hovel, he thought he heard the familiar buzzing from the telegraph machine mounted on a long plank table in the mess of the main barracks. Since being sidelined from active duty, Durrant had taken on such tasks as operating the telegraph wire that had advanced with the railway across the plains. He set aside plans to return to his bunk and instead went into the mess of the main barracks. The hall was a forty-five-by-thirty-foot room that housed the cookstove and main common room for the Fort's constables. At present there were only eight such men residing in rooms that adjoined the mess, but the building could accommodate as many as fifty. The new room already smelled of pipe tobacco and stewed bison meat. The wire machine was in a corner next to the door.

Feeling worn thin, he headed for the stool next to the telegraph table and sat down. He removed his hat and fixed the thick headphones over his head. He took pen and ink and a fresh sheet of paper from the pegboard on the wall and prepared to write. The message was coming from the
NWMP
headquarters in Regina. He tapped out the ready to receive message and then listened to the Morse code coming over the wire. He decoded the message as it arrived:

To Sergeant Durrant Wallace.

From Sam Steele, Commanding.

News late yesterday. Man found murdered at Holt City,
CPR
mainline. Forces too thin to send Dewalt's constables. Proceed on next freight to end of track. Uncover identity of assailant and arrest. Report direct to Steele. Confirm.

Durrant felt his pulse quicken in the darkness as he read over the words again. When he was able to slow his breathing and steady his hand, he tapped out a response.

Wallace to Steele. Confirmed. Will proceed at once.

Durrant listened for a further message. It came after a moment.

Welcome back, Durrant. Steele.

Having been shot and left for dead once already in his short life, Durrant wasn't the kind of man who blanched when he faced peril. Even if he had known the difficulty that lay ahead, he would gladly have rushed to face it.

“CONGRATULATIONS, SERGEANT.” RAYMOND DEWALT
was sitting behind his desk. The pale late-winter light seeped through the small window, its shutters propped open, the pebbled glass frosty and opaque. Despite the biting cold out of doors, he wore the pillbox cap on his head and his formal scarlet surge.

“Thank you, sir,” said Durrant, trying to stand straight while leaning on his crutch. He had turned out as neatly as he could that morning, in his full scarlet patrol jacket with the three golden chevrons marking his rank set high up on his arm. He wore his forage cap set rakishly at an angle atop his head. His pistol was secured in its leather holster, custom-made for him in Regina because the force had no such accommodation for a southpaw.

Sub-Inspector Dewalt looked him up and down. Durrant hadn't worn his full patrol uniform since arriving at Fort Calgary. “You look sharp, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Durrant, his eyes forward.

“Will you be wearing the serge at the end of the line?”

“I thought better of it, sir.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dewalt.

“Might not be as practical as civilian attire.”

Dewalt nodded. “But you thought to make a show of it?”

Durrant paused a long moment. “Out of respect for the Force, sir.”

Again Dewalt nodded. “When do you aim to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, sir. There's a freight that's heading to Holt City, making some stops along the way in Padmore and in Banff. It will arrive in Holt City tomorrow evening, if there's not too much snow over the tracks.”

“It's still pretty wild country.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did Steele say?”

“That a man's been killed. He explained that the expeditionary force has higher priorities: keeping tabs on the Blackfoot, watching for unrest with the Cree, intercepting whiskey and rum along the Bow and the Elbow Rivers.”

“That makes good sense to me.”

“To me as well.”

“What else?”

“Sir?”

“What else did Steele say?”

“He said to provision myself for the investigation.”

“What will you need?”

“Nothing much, I should think, sir. I may requisition additional warm clothing . . .”

“I expect the Quartermaster will have whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” Durrant prepared to turn on his crutch and leave the room.

“Sergeant,” Dewalt said, standing. He pulled the front of his scarlet tunic down and straightened his heavy leather belt.

“Sir?”

“Holt City is the end of the line. It's March. The snow is ten feet on the ground.”

“What's your point, sir?”

“It's going to be hard getting around there.”

“You mean hard for
me
?”

“I mean hard for you; hard for anybody.”

Durrant gripped his crutch more tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“My point, Sergeant, is why don't you enlist some help? You know: someone who can tote your kit, help you with chores around the bunk.” Durrant was silent. “Sergeant, there is no shame in asking for help. You've suffered a terrible loss . . .”

“I can manage.”

“Fine!” said Dewalt sharply, then more calmly, “fine, fine. You're a stubborn Scotsman, Wallace. That's fine. You can manage. You go to the end of track and find yourself facing an angry mob of men, or loose your temper because you can't make your way to the pisser in the snow, and you're going to blow your one last chance, Wallace. So get your head out of your arse and think about your future service to the Mounted Police instead of being so goddamned bullish all the time!”

Durrant pivoted on his crutch and made for the door. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Dismissed, Sergeant.”

Durrant opened the door and stepped through it. Dewalt blew out a stream of breath through his lips and sat back down. He thought that the end of the line wasn't nearly far enough away for Durrant Wallace to go.

•  •  •

Durrant looked at the trunk of his possessions next to the bench that held his prosthetic: his long bison coat, a change of civilian clothes, a thick sealskin hat, and his riding gauntlets. He hadn't sat a horse since that day in the Cypress Hills, but the gloves were still the warmest he owned. His serge, a bedroll, and inside it an oilcloth wrapped around a Winchester Deluxe 73 short-barrelled lever-action repeating rifle. He had adopted and then taught himself to fire that weapon too, shooting left- and single-handed. He inspected the rest of his armament: the Enfield Mk II, cumbersome to reload but accurate and deadly, and of course the snub-nosed British Bulldog, which felt reassuring in his left hand. He put the Bulldog down on his bedstand. It sat next to the golden locket; the same locket that had remained unopened for ten years now but was never far from sight.

He reached for his leg and affixed the suction cup over his stump. He stood and limped to the chest, bent down and grabbed the leather handle and tried to haul the chest to the door, but his leg buckled. Durrant had to catch himself on the wall to keep from falling to the floor. He leaned against the wall, his stomach in a painful knot, his stump aching.

If he was in deep snow at the end of track, with men around whom he was investigating for murder, a fall in the snow would be humiliating at best, and more than likely the end of his time as a Mountie. Some things a North West Mounted Police officer could survive and some he could not. Weakness would not be tolerated by men who had spent a long, bitter winter struggling in the mountains. If the killer was still in that icy camp and was anything but a half-crazed drunk, he would no doubt seize upon the Mountie's weakness and exploit it to his own advantage. It brought a bitter taste to his mouth to consider it, but he knew Dewalt was right.

•  •  •

The North West Mounted Police stables were divided into two buildings, each measuring ninety-five feet long and thirty feet wide, and were situated on the north side of the main parade ground. The structures, built late in 1883, were so new that their pine boards were still seeping sap when the frozen winter descended on the prairie, so now they were beaded with sticky balls of pine resin. During the summer months the horses were turned out to graze on the broad plains that swept along the banks of the Elbow and Bow Rivers, but during the winter storms and spring gales, they boarded inside.

Durrant made his way across the parade ground, skirting the largest patches of ice and finding better footing where the quarter horses had trampled the ground into frozen ridges and valleys of mud. As hard going as these ice-covered quagmires were to navigate for him, they were easier than the sheets of glass that formed in the broad craters between them.

He reached the stables and steadied himself there a moment. The wind had come up that morning, blowing hard from the west. It was a warming wind, what the Blackfoot called a “snow eater,” and the temperature had risen nearly ten degrees in the last hour. By mid-afternoon Durrant expected that the ice he had just navigated would be open water and the frozen mud a thick gumbo that would suck at horse hooves and threaten to detain any wagon or Red River cart that passed through the town's earthen streets.

Durrant made his way along the side of the stables towards the broad double doors. He headed toward the rear of the building where another set of doors opened into a field and where a set of corrals were laid out for finishing the stock. A stout man in shirtsleeves was circling a quarter horse around the yard, holding in one hand the lead rope, and in the other a long heavy rattle that the Mounties nicknamed an “ukulele” and used to condition a horse to noise.

“She's nearly ready for the likes of you lot,” said the man, not looking at Durrant. “Just needs a little more spook trainin' so she won't buck you off at the first sign of trouble.”

Durrant stood and watched. Paddy Malloy was ten years Durrant's senior, a compact, red-haired Irishman. He was first assigned to manage the ranch at Pincher Creek, just west of Fort McLeod, which bred horses for the Force. When demand outstripped the ranch's ability to produce enough stock, the big bellies shut the operation down. Now the Mounties sourced their horses from all over the Territories. It was Paddy's job to finish the stock at Fort Calgary.

“What do you think, Wallace, want to give her a go?”

Durrant looked down at the frozen ground.

“You're going to have to get back on a horse sooner or later.”

Durrant spat into the icy earth. “What's her name?” he asked.

“Belle.”

“As in Hell's Bell?”

“No,” spat the teamster, knowing that Durrant was talking about the hard-driving Major Rogers. “No, just this girl is a real Belle. A real Belle,” he said, looking into the horses liquid eyes. “Aren't you, girl?”

Durrant made his way into the half-frozen corral, minding his footing, and stood next to Paddy and Belle.

“So if it's not a mount you want, then what can I do you for?” asked Paddy.

Durrant looked to the far side of the corrals and seemed to notice for the first time a young boy breaking up a bale of hay for two other horses. “I came about the boy. Charlie.”

“What about the lad? He in some trouble?” Durrant smiled at Paddy's paternalism.