The End of the Line (6 page)

“Might not be of the most solid construction,” Durrant mumbled.

Charlie shook his head in response, and after wedging the door shut behind him, knelt before the stove and piled thin strips of wood into its belly, blowing on them to ignite the tinder.

“Fire go out in the night?” Durant asked. Charlie nodded. “But you got some embers going?”

Again, the boy nodded, blowing. Durrant could see a glow emerge from the door of the small stove and light up the lad's soft features.

“We're going to need to work shifts,” Durrant said from beneath the blankets. “Keep that fire going all the time. If we don't want to end up a frozen slab like Mr. Deek Penner, we're going to need to get into a routine. I can get the wood into the stove alright, so long as it's split. That's going to be your job, Charlie.”

Durrant manoeuvred himself onto the side of the bed, finally placing the Bulldog on the small table next beside him where the Enfield service revolver rested. The locket that he prized above all else in the material world rested at the base of the oil lamp. He reached for his prosthetic, buried under the blankets with him to keep it warm, and affixed it, with a grimace, to the stub on this left leg. He sat a moment and contemplated his new surroundings.

The
NWMP
barracks had been hastily constructed the previous summer as the
CPR
mainline advanced toward Holt City and Kicking Horse Pass. It measured fifteen feet by twelve, and was made of rough-hewn lodgepole pine logs, chinked with clay. Along one of the narrow walls was a heavy door, bolted now against unwanted visitors, including the biting cold of the Rocky Mountains. On the row of pegs behind the door the two constables who had policed this post would have hung their red serges and riding hats. To the left of the door as one entered was a small desk with a glass lamp atop it where he could do paperwork or prepare a wire for dispatch. Two beds flanked the walls, and between them was the table now supporting Durrant's armament. A tiny window marked the wall above the table, but it was heavily shuttered against the cold. The potbellied stove sat in the corner to the right of the door. It now rattled as it threw off a pleasing heat. The only thing not in the room that had been there the night before was the corpse of Deek Penner.

•  •  •

The previous night, weary from travel, Durrant had responded to the discovery of Deek Penner's cadaver with indignation. “You didn't have no other place to put him?” he asked as they stood by the open door. The body was wrapped in heavy blankets, but Durrant could see the red stain at the head, and knew that what was beneath the shroud was not for men with weak stomachs.

“Blue Jesus,” said Bob Pen. “I didn't know that they put the body in 'ere.”

“Well, he can't stay,” said Durrant.

Pen considered this. “I reckon we can put him in one of the storerooms at the station.”

“Let's get it done,” said Durrant. He turned to look at Charlie. “That's you, son.”

So the body had been moved. Frozen solid, it was heavy, and Pen had to call on two other men to help with the task. They struggled, side by side, through the deep snow, to manage the two hundred yards from the
NWMP
barracks to Holt City Station. Charlie's diminutive form seemed unfit to bear such a weight as Deek Penner's frozen remains.

When the cadaver was finally laid to rest in a small storage room at the back of the station, Durrant turned to Charlie. “Can you get back to the barracks and see about building a fire?” The boy nodded and disappeared into the night. Durrant watched him go, his slight frame walking easily now along the snowy trenches.

He turned to Pen. “Did Hep Wilcox say if he'd be in the station in the morning?”

Pen nodded, wiping his gloved hands on some snow as if that might clean away any memory of the stiff corpse he had just helped transport. “I believe Mr. Wilcox is anxious to see this matter put to rest.”

Durrant contemplated this choice of words. “As anxious as I am to see the killer brought to justice,” he said. Pen just nodded. “I understand there is a doctor who serves this location?”

“That's right. He works the line up and down from Padmore to Holt City and on up the Kicking Horse Pass when there's need. He's a
CPR
man. Named Armatage.”

Durrant looked up and smiled. “Saul Armatage?”

“You know him?”

“You might say that we are acquainted.”

“Well, he's in Holt City. I can have him come by to see you if you've need.”

“I've no need at present, but in the morning I'll want to do an examination of Mr. Penner.”

“I'll see about arranging for him to find you. Breakfast is served for the men at 7:00
AM
. You and your boy there are welcome to join in with the meals of course.” He tapped out the contents of his pipe on the rough wall of the station. No sooner was it empty than he packed it again with tobacco he found loose in his jacket pocket.

“We appreciate that,” said Durrant, and he turned to make his way through the dark tunnel of snow to the barracks.

•  •  •

Morning found them in their cabin, minus the frozen corpse of Deek Penner.

“What's the time?” Durrant asked as he pulled on his coat. Charlie fumbled in his coat and found his pocket watch. He held up seven fingers. “Hungry?” asked Durrant. Charlie nodded. “Alright, son, then let's go see what Holt City has to offer.”

Charlie checked the stove and added another wedge of pine, while Durrant made preparations to depart the cabin. He tucked the Bulldog into his left coat pocket and the Webley into the holster Durrant wore over his trousers but concealed beneath the bulk of his greatcoat.

“You know how to shoot?” Durrant asked when he saw Charlie eyeing the revolvers. Charlie nodded. “Your old man teach you?” Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “You got a shooting iron in that little sack of yours?” Charlie looked down and shook his head.

“This not speaking thing is going to get pretty old, soon, son. You and me might want to address that at some point.”

Charlie grabbed the slate that he used to write messages on. He drew the chalk from his pocket and wrote in short, staccato strokes. He held it so that Durrant could read it. “We're quite the pair.” The Mountie looked at the boy who had returned to preparing to leave the cabin. “We'll see about that,” Durrant said. “We'll see.”

Charlie pushed open the door with his shoulder and stepped into the morning's cold. He and Durrant walked from the cabin into the new day, just set to dawn.

Durrant looked around. The foreground was dominated by mounds of snow and the ramshackle affair optimistically called Holt City, but beyond that tiny enclave in the wilderness the pale white faces of the mountains loomed. The men faced west as they emerged from their shack, and Charlie pointed to the implacable wall of a sheer mountain above the valley floor, its broad vertical flank plastered with wind-whipped fresh snow. The peak's long, jagged summit was capped with a glacier whose thickness Durrant could scarcely speculate at. The entire range was tipped with light the colour of faded roses, as the sky above slowly progressed from indigo to pink to blue.

“Lord Almighty,” Durrant finally said, after they had stood for a full minute absorbing the grandeur of the sight before them. “That is the most beautiful thing I believe I've ever seen.” As they stood in the arctic cold, looking west at the Continental Divide, the sun broke over the rounded peaks behind them, and the rose-colored light crept down the face of the peaks high above the valley floor.

With Charlie in the lead the two made their way towards the confluence of the two rivers. The company mess wasn't difficult to find: a long, narrow log building, its boards chinked and cracking in the bitter cold, two chimney's belching thick smoke into the blushing morning air. It sat on the south side of the Pipestone River tucked up against another spread of tumbledown cabins and a massive staging yard where fuel wood was piled thirty feet high and dwarfed by rafts of sleepers, the heavy cross-ties used in railway construction. Stacked in steps that reached up more than fifty feet, the sleepers were each more than eight feet long and weighed as much as one hundred and forty pounds. The cross-ties extended for several hundred yards beyond the barns and stables.

Durrant stepped to the door of the mess hall and pulled it open. The room was dark and warm in contrast to the bright, frigid morning. As the two men stepped inside the clatter of forks on tin plates and the rattle of conversation slowly ebbed, so that when they had closed the door behind them, it was nearly silent.

“Looks like you're not the only one whose tongue the cat got,” muttered Durrant to Charlie, whose bright blue eyes smiled as they made their way along the outside wall to the far end of the room where breakfast was served. At a long, low window that separated the mess hall from the kitchen, Charlie took up a plate and filled it with eggs, bacon, and biscuits, and then a mug with steaming dark coffee. The three men working in the kitchen stopped to regard the newcomers. The word that a one-legged Mountie was coming to Holt City to investigate the murder had preceded Durrant's arrival. It seemed that nearly everybody wanted to get a look at this curiosity.

Charlie put a set of utensils in his pocket and pointed his way to a table on the far side of the room that seemed to have space. Durrant followed him, trying to keep the humiliation born from his dependence on the boy at bay, while meeting the gaze of the rough men in the room with his own trail-hardened eyes.

Charlie put Durrant's food on the table. Durrant propped his crutch against the wall-boards of the mess hall behind him while he pivoted into the bench. Charlie went to fetch a plate of food for himself. When he returned, Durrant greeted the man next to him and nodded to those across the table from him. The conversation in the room slowly returned to its normal din. Durrant drank his hot coffee, which warmed him, and ate his breakfast. Charlie sipped at the coffee and took small bites from his plate. Durrant regarded him but said nothing.

“You that Mountie?” the man next to him finally spoke directly to Durrant after a few moments of stoney silence.

“That's right,” Durrant said, swallowing a forkful of eggs.

“Here to look into that business with Deek.”

“That's right. Don't happen to know who killed the man, do you? Get me back to Fort Calgary that much faster.”

The man smelled of wood smoke and sweat. His eyes were barely visible beneath a thick cap pulled tightly over his brow, and his face was masked by a thick black beard that was discolored at the corners of his mouth by tobacco juice. He regarded Durrant coldly. Finally the brown corners of the man's mouth curled a little and he shook his head, seeing the humour in the Mountie's question. “I don't. If I did, though, could I hitch back to Fort Calgary with you? I hear they got running water there now.”

“If they do, I ain't never seen it,” Durrant said, grinning and shoveling another fork full of breakfast into his mouth.

“Any of you other boys want to talk, you come find me at the Mountie barracks. Young Charlie here'll make sure there's always a pot of coffee on the stove for you, right, Charlie?” Charlie nodded.

A lumbering man passed behind them, plate in hand, heading toward the serving board for another helping. As he did, he tripped over Durrant's crutch, which spanned the distance between the wall-boards and the bench, sending it clattering to the floor. Durrant could smell alcohol on the man, as if he'd bathed in it the night before. Even in the cold of the mess hall, the man seemed to be sweating moonshine.

The men at Durrant's table all stopped eating. The big man behind Durrant just stood there, frozen. Durrant slowly turned to regard him. It felt as though the table drew a deep breath.

“Blue Jesus, pick up the man's crutch, you bloody idiot!” barked the bearded man next to Durrant. The big man balanced his plate and stopped to retrieve the crutch. He righted it against the wall and was rewarded with a sharp slap on the back by the bearded man. He shuffled on to fill his plate with more food.

It came as no surprise that there was whiskey in the camp. He knew that five hundred men laboring through a winter as cold as it was in Holt City would turn to drink for warmth and to alleviate the paralytic ennui brought on with the isolation. There would be time enough to chase down the source of the moonshine; for now, Durrant decided that making peace was more important, so he smiled and the men at the table broke into laughter.

•  •  •

After breakfast Durrant and Charlie made their way across the Pipestone, Durrant catching himself on the slippery Tote Road that dropped down the bank of the river and climbed back up on the far side. As they approached the station they could see where a few dozen men were already hard at work hefting supplies that the previous evening's freight had delivered. Others would spend their day maintaining the Tote Road that snaked through the valley's deep snow to the summit of the Kicking Horse Pass. Each morning they drew water from the Bow River, accessible through a deep hole in the snow and ice, and filled a massive iron cauldron that was mounted on a buckboard sled. The sled was then driven along the Tote Road to the Kicking Horse Pass, its contents dripping from the cauldron into the ruts of the road. This allowed the buckboards to glide over the tracks despite their heavy loads.

“I'm going to speak with Hep Wilcox,” Durrant said to Charlie. “Head back to our bunks and see what you can do to make it feel like a
NWMP
detachment.” Charlie regarded him a moment. “I'll be fine. I can get around fine. Go,” he said. Charlie headed back along the path through the snow.

Durrant turned and made his way towards the station where the camp's general manager kept his office. The Mountie hadn't gotten a good look at the building in the darkness when they arrived, but he did now. Like most of the other structures in the town, it had been hastily constructed the previous fall, and Durrant suspected that it, too, wouldn't last out the following summer's construction season. Durrant stepped up from the snowy path onto the broad station platform. The freight that he and Charlie had ridden in from Calgary was still being unloaded. Durrant watched as the men ferried supplies from the boxcars to the landing north of the station.