The End of the Line

by Stephen Legault

  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 un
loaded. Durrant watched as the men ferried supplies from the boxcars to the landing north of the station.

  “That’s one train you don’t want to mess with,” a voice said behind him. Durrant turned to see a well-dressed man standing with his hands buried deep in his pockets by the station’s main doors. Durrant turned back to regard the train. “Nitroglycerine,” he heard the man say.

  The dapper man stepped forward. “You must be Durrant Wallace.” He extended a hand sheathed in a black leather glove.

  Durrant extended his left. “Sergeant Durrant Wallace.”

  “Sergeant,” said the man, taking the Mountie’s hand. “I’m Hep Wilcox. I’m the general manager here at the end of steel. I’m glad you’ve come.”

  “How much will you put aside by the spring?” Durrant inquired, watching the passage of crates of explosives with suspicion.

  “The short answer is as much as we can. The long answer is, well, a little bit more complex.”

  Wilcox was now beside him, his breath thick in the frigid air. “We have a contract with the Canada Explosives Company out of Mount Saint-Hilaire to manufacture the liquid nitroglycerine for the Upper and Lower Kicking Horse. It’s a subcontract, really, through my operation. But the vetting of the bid was done through the Parliament of Canada, as they are paying the bills. I’m not really all that happy with the terms of the deal, but what can you do? We’ve been having a lot of trouble with quantity. We’re yet to see the quality. We’ll be running some tests this spring up at the Kicking Horse Pass to assess the power and stability of the mix.”

  Durrant had lost interest in the troubles of the railroad man, and wanted to turn his attention to the death of Deek Penner. “Can we step inside and talk?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Wilcox held up a gloved hand to point to the main station door.

  The station was the first truly warm space that Durrant had been in since departing Fort Calgary, and it came as a relief. Wilcox led Durrant into the small vestibule, where a broad L-shaped counter separated the entrance way from closed doors beyond. Two small windows flanking the single door to the platform permitted the spectacular light of the day to flood into the room.

  “This here is the merchantable counter, where Tom Holt takes care of shipping and receiving for the station,” said Wilcox, taking off his glove and tapping the counter top. “Tom manages the stores here, and got the place named after him for his service. Mind, I think he did the naming himself . . .” cracked Wilcox. “Back behind is the telegraph office. John Christianson tends to the wires as well as the store. Through there,” pointed Wilcox, “is where we keep the supplies for the men to purchase with their pay.” Durrant made note of the heavy lock on the outside of the door.

  Wilcox stepped to a third door on the northern wall of the station. “This here is the CPR offices.” He pulled a ring of keys from his coat pocket, unlocked the door, and shoved it open. Durrant could see where the door had already cut a groove into the soft, uneven, pine flooring. They stepped into the room. A small stove glowed in the corner and Durrant felt the heat through his heavy clothes. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. “Take your coat off, Sergeant,” said Wilcox as he unbuttoned his own. “Would you like coffee? There’s a pot there on the stove.”

  “No, thank you,” said Durrant, hanging his coat on a chair while leaning on his crutch.

  The office was small and neatly ordered. A compact desk with an oil lamp was pushed against one wall, and there were two chairs arranged near the tiny window that looked out on the rail yard. Durrant could see the men moving about with their crates of raw material to make nitroglycerine through the frosted pane of glass.

  He didn’t wait for Wilcox to finish pouring coffee for himself before he started. “Do you know who killed Deek Penner, Mr. Wilcox?”

  His back to Durrant, Wilcox quickly replied, “If I did, there would be no reason for you to be here, would there Sergeant.”

  “That may be so, but nevertheless, do you?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Mr. Penner dead?”

  “Well, that’s another matter altogether.” Wilcox sat down next to his desk and put the tin cup with his coffee in it down next to the lamp.

  Durrant continued to stand and survey the room as he talked. “So let’s make a list, shall we? Who was it that found Mr. Penner’s body?”

  “That would be John Christianson. John’s no killer, I assure you.”

  “There was a card game that evening. Who was in attendance at that game?” asked Durrant.

  “I know that Frank Dodds was there, as it was in his cabin. And John was there, ’cause he told me that he nearly lost his shirt in the game. You’ll have to check with one of them to determine who else sat in on the game.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Didn’t see why. The boys here play cards nearly every night. There’s always a dozen games on the go. I don’t make it my business to keep track.”

  “Gambling is illegal.”

  Wilcox smiled. “I suppose . . .”

  “That being said, my concern is not with having a bet now and again. I’ve been known to play a hand or two of poker myself. It’s what nearly always accompanies a game that I’m wondering about. And what happened after this particular game was over is my principal concern.”

  “Liquor.” Wilcox said it in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Is there liquor at any of the games you mention?”

  “I imagine there might be a jar here and there.”

  “This doesn’t bother you, Mr. Wilcox?”

  “Course it does. Liquor is illegal along the CPR. Selling liquor is prohibited in the camps.”

  “But you don’t know for sure if there’s any at Holt City.”

  Wilcox looked at Durrant as he sipped his coffee. “Sergeant, you and I both know that wherever there are men working, there is whiskey. It’s just the way it is. Is it a problem at Holt City? I haven’t seen evidence of it. Do I make it my business to meddle with it? So long as it ain’t disrupting business, then I got other problems more pressing.”

  “It’s your job, Mr. Wilcox.”

  The man glared at Durrant.

  “As a representative of the CPR, it’s your job to meddle.”

  “I don’t take kindly to you telling me what my job is, Sergeant Wallace.”

  “I’m certain you don’t, but the fact of the matter is, I’ve seen more than one man killed ’cause he stuck his nose into a moonshine operation.”

  “You think that’s what happened to Deek?”

  “It’s possible. Tell me what Deek’s responsibilities were.”

  “He was site foreman for my blasting operations. He was going to be in charge of blasting out the right of way for the Tote Road, for the mainline, and for the tunnels and platforms on the Upper Kicking Horse.”

  “So he was in a position of authority.”

  “That’s right.”

  “As a CPR man, he too had a responsibility to meddle in moonshine operations; to report any violations to you, and to the Mounties.”

  “I guess he did.”

  “Did he ever report any violations to you?”

  “I don’t recall ever hearing a word from Deek Penner about moonshine,” Wilcox said immediately. Durrant watched him a moment. An awkward silence filled the tiny room.

  “You’re certain?”

  “I don’t ever recall.”

  “That’s different than he didn’t ever report anything, isn’t it?”

  “What exactly are you getting at, Sergeant?” said the General Manager, his eyes tightening, his lips thin.

  “This morning in the mess I could smell the stench of whiskey on a man who passed me. If it’s that obvious to me, then it seems that it must be obvious to just about anybody who cares to look, Deek Penner included. And you as well, sir.”

  Wilcox drank from his coffee. He’s stalling for time, thought Durrant.

  “Of course there is whiskey her
e,” Wilcox finally said. “I never said there wasn’t. I told you it’s in the nature of a camp like Holt City to have a little whiskey from time to time. Probably comes in from Fort Calgary with the mail. Who knows? Did Deek Penner know about it? Likely. Did he care? I can’t say. But I know for certain that Deek Penner had his hands full with preparing for the spring push down the Kicking Horse, and unless someone was messing with his explosives, it seems pretty unlikely that he would give a damn about a little booze in the camp.”

  Durrant nodded. “Well, we’ll never know for certain what Deek Penner cared for and didn’t.” He turned awkwardly in his chair and looked about the tiny window behind him. “Tell me more about Penner’s job, sir.”

  “He was a foreman, as I already said.”

  “And he was on the CPR roll?”

  “He was on my contract. I suppose in a manner of speaking we all are on the CPR roll.”

  “What exactly was his job?”

  “He started as a blaster. He worked the mainline when we did the millage along the Lakehead north of Superior. He was the best blaster I had in my crew, and so when the men I work for won the Kicking Horse contract, I asked him to come on as foreman. He’d have been supervising the crews that will be blasting the line down the Kicking Horse Pass. There’ll be two or three hundred men working along that section just on the munitions side of things come the spring.”

  “It sounds like a big job.”

  “It is. Out on the prairie it was all about speed, how much track a team could lay down.”

  “I’ve heard the stories. Six miles in a day . . .”

  “Well, in the mountains it’s all about bridges and tunnels. That latter means explosives. We build five hundred yards in a day and it’s a good day’s work,” said Wilcox.

  “Did he make enemies among the men he worked with?”

  “It’s a bit too early to know, really. The team he was putting together never had a cross word for him, and none of the fellas along the Lakehead ever said a bad word. He was a fair man. He worked hard, and expected the same of others. That’s why I hired him.”