The End of the Line (19 page)

“Who has authority to send a wire?”

Christianson put a finger to the side of his face and looked up, his face curling into thoughtful consideration. “Well, me of course,” he said helpfully. “Mr. Wilcox. All the foremen can send and receive wires, but I don't expect most of them know how, to be honest.”

“Deek did?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Penner certainly did.”

“Who else?”

“Well, other than that, the wire's supposed to come and go through me. Some do take advantage of the situation. I can't be here every moment, and if someone comes in and decides to send a wire, then not much can be done to stop them.”

“What about incoming?”

“Well, those that aren't collected right away end up over here,” said Christianson. He showed Durrant the bottom of a crate that served as his inbox. “Every so often I walk them around to the men who are expecting them if they haven't been collected. Most fellas who are expecting a wire come right quick for it. It's better than getting the post in a place like Holt City.”

“John, would there be any way for you to provide me a list of everybody who has sent or received wires?”

Christianson put his finger to his cheek again in exaggerated concentration. “You mean, besides them that I've got recorded in the log?”

“That's right.”

“I don't believe so, Sergeant. Not unless the tape from the wire is left lying about, and that's not often.”

Durrant looked around the spare room. “Alright then, I'll start with the log. I'll need to take it for several days.”

“I can do without,” said the clerk. “I've been meaning to petition Mr. Holt for a new one anyhow. Let me put some order to it, and then I'll give it over to you.”

Durrant looked at the man. There was no guile in his voice. “Thank you,” he finally said. “Now, I need to use your wire for police business, please,” Durrant said, indicating that Christianson should return to his other duties.

Again Christianson agreed. He adjusted his spectacles, pulled on his coat, hat, and gloves, and took the journal. “You need anything else from me Sergeant?”

“I'll be just fine,” said Durrant, taking a seat behind the counter where the telegraph machine rested.

When Christianson had left, he tapped in the code for the
NWMP
headquarters in Regina and signalled his intent to transmit. When the ready response came, he tapped out his message.

To S. Steele.

From Durrant Wallace.

Update on progress at Holt City. Many suspects in murder of Deek Penner. Am narrowing search. Significant presence of whiskey production at end of track. Please advise.

Ask Winnipeg to question contract holders with
CPR
about relationship to Penner.

Check with other forces on known persons named Kauffman. Possibly with
CPR
or
GTR
.

Please advise on possible presence of
GTR
espionage and/or sabotage of
CPR
mainline.

He sat back. It seemed hard to believe that the entirety of his undertakings in Holt City could be summed up in five lines of coded text. As he sat waiting for a reply, he heard Wilcox's door open behind him and felt the man's eyes on the back of his neck, then heard the door close. Only after a long minute did Durrant turn around to see that the door was indeed shut.

A few more minutes passed before the telegraph machine buzzed with an incoming wire. Durrant put the headset on and tapped out the ready to receive message. The wire was from the
NWMP
:

To Wallace.

From
NWMP
.

Steele observing Métis near Fort Pitt. Will forward transmission.

That didn't bode well, thought Durrant. For Steele to be distracted from the railway work by the Métis meant trouble was brewing. Durrant bunched the piece of paper he had scribbled the message on, opened the lid to the stove, and threw the message into the flames. He stood, adjusted his coat, pulled on his hat and gloves, and stepped out into the afternoon light.

Durrant made his way to the mess tent where he ate his first meal of the day alone, and when he was done, stood at the door of the tent and looked up at the western mountains. There were too many loose ends. He had to start tying some of them off, or he'd never find the man who killed Deek Penner. In time he would have to brace all the men from the card game again, but it was too soon for that. He needed to give them all a day or two to reflect on the consequences of their falsehoods, and to develop a sense of security that maybe they had sidestepped his inquiry. Then, he could go back and see if he might catch them in their duplicity.

The first thing to do was to track down answers to several outstanding problems. Who is the mysterious man named Kauffman that Penner had been corresponding with before he was killed, and what does his coded message say? And next, who is the Grand Trunk spy, if even there is one, and what might have transpired between Penner and this rogue element in the camp?

As the afternoon began to wane, Durrant set off toward his bunk. By now Christianson would have delivered the log book of wires sent and received from the camp. He'd look through this to see if there was anything suspicious. It seemed unlikely that if the Grand Trunk had in fact dispatched a spy to Holt City, he would not be able to transmit his own wire correspondence.

As Durrant stumped his way back along the icy path to the
NWMP
cabin he drew near to the place where Penner had been killed, and he spotted Charlie far out on the frozen Bow River. The boy was trudging back and forth in the deep snow that had fallen over the ice, his head down, eyes scouring the drifts for the discarded murder weapon. Durrant watched his faithful companion plod through the snow, when suddenly the boy disappeared. His first reaction was to reach for his pistol, but inside of a split second, he knew this was futile.

“Charlie!” Durrant yelled towards the snow heaped river. There was no answer; no sign of the vanished boy. “Charlie!” he yelled again in futility.

Durrant looked around him. He was alone on the trail. The sounds of the camp surrounded him, but he stood apart from its goings-on. He started out toward the river, yelling as he plunged into the deep ice-encrusted snow. His crutch could offer him no support, and within two steps he had fallen on his side, the snow up around his ears.

“Sweet Jesus,” he cursed, and then yelled again, “Charlie!”

Lying on his side, Durrant reached into his pocket and struggled with the pistol. The Bulldog came out, choked with snow, and he held it aloft, cocked the hammer with his left thumb, and fired, and then cocked and fired again. The retort of the pistol echoed off the face of the adjacent mountains. Durrant fired a third time, and then struggled through the snow toward the river.

Soon Durrant heard voices, and a moment later he looked up to see Grant McPherson plunging into the snow after him, followed by half a dozen other men.

“It's Charlie!” Durrant cried.

“Are you okay, Sergeant?” McPherson asked, trying to pull the Mountie up.

“It's Charlie, he's gone through!” Durrant cried in a panic-striken tone.

“Where?”

“There!” Durrant pointed from his prone position towards where Charlie had vanished into the frozen river.

“Cut some poles,” McPherson called to the men who had gathered round. “Hurry now!”

McPherson let go of Durrant and high-stepped toward the river, his arms flailing to keep himself upright in the deep snow. A thick crust had formed on the surface, but beneath it the snow had the consistency of sifted sugar, and the man plunged up to his waist with every step. More men came from the camp, one bearing a length of rope.

“Careful, for Christ's sake!” one of the men yelled to McPherson, who was nearing the place where Charlie had vanished.

Durrant tried to crawl, but ended up face down in the snow again. Two of the men emerged from the woods with a sapling stripped of its branches and went to the aid of McPherson. Two more men helped the struggling Durrant to his feet, his left hand still tightly clutching his pistol.

McPherson turned to see the men holding out the sapling, while another man tossed him a rope. He quickly tied the rope around his waist, took the sapling, and advanced on the area in the middle of the river where Charlie had vanished. The three men took hold of the rope and held it fast as McPherson stepped to the very edge of the darkened spot. He slipped and the men holding the rope all strained at the hemp line.

McPherson disappeared up to his shoulders in the snow and seemed to dive into the unknown depths. The sun sank behind the ramparts to the west and as it did, the entire valley seemed to shudder with the coming darkness.

“He's got him!” a man called from the rope line. “Bring blankets!”

Durrant, wide-eyed, watched as the three men on the rope heaved and the form of McPherson slowly emerged from the depression in the snow, his right hand around the collar of young Charlie.

“He's got him,” the man called again, as several others advanced on the site with heavy wool blankets. By this time, there were fifty or more men on the shore, watching the undertaking. The men on the rope gave a mighty heave, and then McPherson found his feet, stood up, hefting the boy up onto the snow. The men grabbed at him and swaddled him in blankets.

“He's okay! He's okay!” one of them called.

“Blue as the Major's tongue, but he's okay,” the navvie cracked.

“Let's get him inside!” yelled another.

“Take him to my cabin,” said Durrant, awash with emotion. “Call for Doc Armatage.”

“Get the fire stoked,” said another man.

“Go and do it,” said Durrant. “We'll meet you there.”

McPherson had swept Charlie up in his arms and carried him quickly through the snow. The man was soaked himself, and the snow clung to him so he looked like an apparition ploughing through the deep drifts along the river's bank.

“Help me, please,” said Durrant to the men next to him.

“Mind putting the pistol away, Sergeant?” said one of the men from the munitions warehouse.

Durrant, with shaking hands, put the Bulldog in his coat pocket, and with the help of the two men, met McPherson on the trail. Charlie was indeed blue in the face, his eyes closed, and his teeth chattering. He held his body tightly with his own arms, his over-sized coat drawn around him, dripping with icy water.

“Let me get this lad inside,” said McPherson. The procession made its way along the trail to the
NWMP
cabin, where the volunteer had run ahead to stoke the fire. “Blue Jesus,” said McPherson halfway along the path. “This lad looks light but carries heavy.”

“Put him there on his bunk,” Durrant said when they entered the barracks, pointing. McPherson put the boy down and Durrant managed to squeeze past. Sitting heavily on his own bunk, he reached over to pull the blankets over the boy.

“He didn't go through the ice,” said McPherson.

“What happened?” said Durrant, his face ashen.

“There was melt water under the snow, but above the river ice proper, two, maybe three feet of it. As cold as the river, mind you. Happens when it warms up in these parts, snow on the river melts from underneath first. Your boy here broke through the crust of snow and into that icy stew. He's a lucky one, that's for certain.”

“We owe you a debt of thanks,” said Durrant, turning from Charlie to look at McPherson.

There was a commotion at the door and Saul Armatage appeared in his shirtsleeves, his black bag in hand. He pushed past a couple of the men who were milling at the door and said, “Durrant, you okay?”

“I'm fine; it's Charlie. He went into the melt water atop the ice on the river.”

Armatage entered the room and pushed the door closed in the face of the men clustered there. “Let's have a look.” He went to the bedside and looked at Charlie, hunched and shivering in a ball. “Charlie, I'm Doctor Armatage. How are you?”

“Lad don't speak, Saul,” stammered Durrant.

The doctor nodded. He put his fingers to Charlie's carotid artery and felt for his pulse.

McPherson stood in front of the stove, looking down at the boy. “I don't think a frail lad like this ought to be in the mountains, if you don't mind me saying, Sergeant.”

“You're entitled to your opinion, and I've no mind to argue with you, given what you just done. This lad's been a big help to me, though. I don't know what I'd do without him,” replied Durrant.

McPherson just nodded. “I best be changing into warm skivvies myself.”

Durrant expended his left hand. “Thank you.”

McPherson shook it awkwardly, as he wasn't accustomed to shaking southpaw. “Remember this the next time you come round with your inquisition.”

“I'll broker no favours in my investigation, mind,” said Durrant.

“I don't expect you will,” laughed McPherson.

He stepped to the door, but stopped and turned to look at Durrant and at Armatage. Charlie seemed to have drifted off to sleep. The doctor was trying to strip the boy's jacket from him without any luck.

“Sergeant,” McPherson said. “I might as well tell you, as I'm certain you'll find out anyway. Hep Wilcox asked me to take over Deek Penner's duties. I'll be running the blasting contract on the Tote Road and on the first tunnel come the spring. I just thought I should 'fess up, what with your . . . inquiries.”

Durrant just nodded at him.

“Alright then, goodnight.” McPherson closed the door behind himself.

Durrant and Charlie were alone in the cabin with Armatage. The stove rattled as it heated up. Durrant watched Charlie. “How is he?” Durrant asked the doctor.

Armatage smiled. “He'll be fine. But we've got to get him out of these wet things and under the blankets. He's knotted up pretty tight.”