The End of the Line (20 page)

Charlie opened his eyes, a faint smile across his soft face.

“I've already lost one,” said Durrant, his face white as ash, “I dare say I don't want to lose you.”

Saul looked over his shoulder at Durrant. Durrant was shaken from his musing when Charlie coughed. “What is it?” Durrant asked the boy.

Charlie struggled to free himself from the blankets. With his left hand he pushed the doctor's hands away from his coat.

“Easy, son, easy now. You've got to keep warm. In fact, we ought to get you out of those frozen clothes.”

Charlie shook his head. He pushed the blankets off with his shoulders. As Armatage tried to pull them back up, Charlie none too gently grabbed his left hand, forcing the doctor to stop.

“Charlie!” scolded Durrant, but Armatage stepped back from the boy.

Charlie shook his head. He took off his covers, exposing his sodden jacket and the Mountie's leather chaps, crisp with ice. A wide grin came over the boy's lips.

Charlie pulled back the coat with his left hand and with his right revealed a two-and-a-half-foot long iron star drill.

•  •  •

“He's foolhardy,” said Armatage in a hushed voice. The two men sat by the door of the cabin, Durrant with his prosthetic off. The doctor unwrapped the man's stump. The doctor finished removing the bandage and was now examining the raw end of Durrant's leg. He frowned.

“I don't like the look of this, Durrant. This prosthetic is never going to be like a
real
leg. You've got to take it easy on it. You can't go hiking up into the mountains as if it were real live flesh and bone. It's just not made for that. I know it's difficult,” he said, still whispering. “I know how hard this is for you. I know. We marched west together, remember?”

“I can't forget.”

“Good, then you know I understand. I saw what you could do as a man with two good legs. You were the best rider in your company. If you don't take care of this,” the doctor said, patting the man's leg paternally, “you're not going to be able to walk
at all
. You and I both know what that will do to you.”

Durrant looked down where the doctor's hand still rested on his bare skin. He could not feel the man's fingers there, just the burning of the wound that would never heal.

“Alright then,” the doctor said. “Let's get this fixed up for you.” Armatage reached into his black satchel and took out a glass jar of ointment. As soon as he opened it, the room was filled with a powerful medicinal smell that made Durrant wince. Armatage ignored him and applied the thick ointment to the Mountie's leg. As he did, he spoke. “You haven't been by to see Evelyn as yet. She's taken offence, you know.”

“I don't mean any.”

“Oh, I tried to explain that to her, but you know how women can be. She expects a visit at some point, Durrant.”

Durrant stared blankly at his ruined leg.

“She doesn't know about your past, Durrant. Nothing before Regina, at least. She doesn't know about what happened in Toronto. She won't ask. It's just between you and me. I've never discussed it with her.” Durrant showed no sign of acknowledgement. “And she can cook, Durrant. You should bring the lad Charlie by and let Evelyn cook you a meal. It's bound to be better than the mashed turnips and flat steak you get from the camp cook most nights.”

The doctor had finished dressing the Mountie's leg. “If you can, leave the prosthetic off for the night and then put more of this on in the morning,” he said, handing the glass jar to Durrant. “You'll have to take it easy on the leg. No more mountaineering adventures. Catch a ride if you need to go somewhere.”

Durrant nodded. He knew from experience that agreeing was easier than arguing with Armatage.

“What about the boy?” Durrant asked. They both turned to look at the sleeping lad.

“He'll be fine . . . so long as he stops running fool's errands for the likes of you.”

Durrant smiled thinly and nodded. Armatage stood and picked up his bag. He had arrived with no coat and didn't ask for one to see him home. Durrant was lost in thought.

“Durrant,” the doctor said.

The Mountie turned and looked at him.

“Charlie isn't . . .”

Durrant held up his hand so quickly that Armatage stopped speaking. “Don't,” he said. “I'll mind your advice for my leg, Saul, but enough with the sermons.”

The doctor broke into a wide smile, his dark, narrow face a mass of lines. “Very well, Durrant. You shall keep your own counsel, as you always have. Good night.” With that the man stepped into the darkness beyond the cabin's door leaving Durrant in the darkness contained by the four walls.

TWO MORNINGS AFTER CHARLIE WAS
plucked from the frozen clutches of the Bow River, Durrant awoke to the whistle of a train approaching Holt City. The chinook that had blown for the last four days had come to an end, and the Bow Valley was once again gripped in winter's clutches.

Charlie was already up and out. He had heard the boy leave almost an hour before. The lad was a miracle to Durrant. That the boy had not frozen to death in the Bow River was one thing; that he had the presence of mind to grasp the object of his search as it was sliding into possible oblivion was another. Durrant had told him so. Charlie had seemed pleased. Now the boy was off having breakfast. Since being snatched from the waters by Grant McPherson, the speechless lad had become something of a celebrity around the camp, and Durrant could not have been more pleased.

Durrant had been out late the night before, talking with the men of the camp, verifying alibis and discussing Deek Penner's friends and enemies, and hadn't gotten in until well after midnight. Though most men in the camp regarded him with suspicion, some with outright hostility, he managed to find his way to more than a few card tables and conversations crowded around a leaking woodstove. He had even enjoyed a meal of Bryndzové HaluŠky, a traditional Slovakian meal of dumplings served with cheese and bacon. When Durrant had stepped into a crowded boxcar dormitory he had interrupted a card game and a meal cooked on the top of the potbellied stove. After the men had confirmed Bob Pen's alibi as rock solid for the night of Penner's death, they had dealt him into the game and fed him a helping of the hearty food. Next to Charlie's stovetop fare, it was the best meal he'd had in months.

Durrant heard the second whistle of the locomotive as it approached the platform of Holt City. He pulled on his prosthetic and dressed quickly, wanting to see who disembarked from the train, and who might stow away on it for the return trip to Fort Calgary. Dressed, he stepped out of the cabin into the morning.

He arrived at the same time as the train and joined half a dozen others on the platform. Most of these men were now familiar to Durrant. After a week in their midst he was coming to know them, and to know the camp's habits. At the last minute—the train squealing as it came to rest—Wilcox appeared on the platform from his office, pulling on his coat and gloves and donning a sharp bowler cap.

Durrant stood back and watched as the doors to the first two boxcars slid back and about a hundred men disembarked onto the platform. They milled about in a sort of orderly chaos as Pen, McPherson, Dodds, and several other foremen called to them, finding those who had been promised work and snatching up the most favorable among them that hadn't, but who looked as if they might fit their bill. As this happened, half a dozen other boxcars were being unloaded of their freight.

As the men filtered off, their baggage loaded onto sleds and their new employers extolling the virtues of work along the mainline of the
CPR
, a solitary figure stepped from the caboose of the train. This was a different sort of fellow for Holt City. The man was dressed in a full-length black coat, and as he paused on the snowy platform, he placed a beaver-felt top hat onto his neatly parted hair. He wore a long white beard thick through the chops, and his eyebrows shone above green eyes like icebergs. He adjusted his black leather gloves and took up a silver-handled cane to make his way down the platform. Durrant watched Wilcox move forward to greet the man, and the two of them shook hands and conversed on the platform amid the shuffle of freight and the sorting of labourers. The steam from the locomotive's brakes drifted like cotton threads across the sun-decked platform.

Durrant stood at the far end of the clearing, away from the tumult, and observed the goings on. Shortly, Wilcox turned in his direction and raised a hand, pointing directly at him. Durrant felt a hot wave wash up his body and colour his face. Wilcox leaned towards the man and Durrant could see that he spoke a few words into the man's ear before leading him Durrant's way.

This new top-hatted man was no man of hard labour. He looked familiar to Durrant, and as the stranger and Wilcox strode forward, Durrant searched his memory for how he might know the face.

“Sergeant Wallace,” said Wilcox as the two stopped before him.

Durrant remained silent.

“Sergeant, this is Mr. Blake O'Brian . . .” Of course. Durrant's mind snapped to attention. “Mr. O'Brian is the Honorable Member for Northumberland and Vice-Chair of the House of Commons Select Standing Committee on Railways, Canals, and Telegraph Lines.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, sir,” and Durrant extended his left hand.

The Member of Parliament reached out with his right and grasped it, unsurprised.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. Now, exactly what the hell is going on with our railroad here?” the man demanded.

•  •  •

The two men sat crowded into Wilcox's tiny office. The Member of Parliament had placed his overcoat, gloves, and hat neatly on the desk. He sat upright in Wilcox's chair, his hand resting on his cane. Durrant noticed how smooth and soft the man's large fingers appeared.

Blake O'Brian was a man accustomed to speaking first. “Alright, Sergeant, I'll have a full report from you about the goings on here at the end of steel.”

Durrant cleared his throat. “If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I report to Sam Steele, Superintendant for the North West Mounted Police.”

“And he works for the Dominion Government, of which I am a senior Member.”

“Of the Opposition, sir.”

“I am an officer of the House of Commons, and as such, entitled to extract a report from you, Sergeant. Need I contact Steele himself?”

“The Superintendant is away on business, sir. The Métis.”

O'Brian's face seemed to glass over a moment. “Yes, yes, a nasty business brewing there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant,” the
MP
said, his tone having levelled somewhat. “I am the ranking member of the Opposition on the Select Standing Committee on Railways. As such, I am here on behalf of Mr. Edward Blake himself, in his role as leader of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition. I am here to ascertain the status of the progress of the mainline, and understand what barriers stand in the way of its completion, on time and on budget.”

“Sir, your Mr. McKenzie was opposed to the rail line.”

“What of it?”

“Only that I can't imagine you using anything I tell you to aid in its completion.”

“Sergeant Wallace,” the
MP
said testily, “I have only the best interests of the country in mind here. Certainly, while he was Prime Minister, Mr. McKenzie expressed some doubts about his predecessor's zeal for the Dominion railway. After all, it was so poorly handled by Sir John while he served his first term. I assure you, our new leader, Mr. Blake, wants to see the mainline completed as quickly as any other Member of Parliament in Ottawa. It is, after all, a matter of national pride, and a matter of unity, that this railway come into use, and soon!”

Durrant sat back in his chair. He regarded the man a moment. “Alright then,” he finally said.

“You'll report then,” said O'Brian.

“I'll tell you what I think relevant.”

“I want it all, sir,” said the
MP
.

“You'll have to settle for what I give you, sir. I am conducting a murder investigation, after all.”

That seemed to take the wind out of the
MP
's sails, as he sat back and tapped his fingers on the fine handle of his cane. “Go ahead then, Sergeant.”

Durrant told him about the circumstances surrounding the death of Deek Penner. The
MP
listened.

“So you think it might be related to the brewing of illegal whiskey?” the
MP
asked.

“It is possible. I know of at least one distillery in the vicinity, but I've not yet be able to locate it. I am reasonably certain I know which man is making and selling the whiskey—a federal offence, I might add—and that man was among the last to see Deek Penner before he was brutally murdered.”

The
MP
was silent a moment. He pulled at the long tufts of white hair that grew like chops along the ridge of his cheeks. “Tell me, Sergeant, what authority are you acting under regarding the disruption of the whiskey trade?”

Durrant leaned back. “The Dominion temperance laws are clear, Mr. O'Brian.”

“Of course they are, Sergeant,” blustered the
MP
. “The selling of whiskey is illegal.
Possession
is not. I would imagine that if you were cooped up in this God-forsaken country for the long darkness of an interminable winter, you'd want a drink now and again too.”

Durrant shook his head. “I would expect more from you, sir. I would expect a better understanding of the impact that whiskey can have on the construction of this railway.”

“Do not lecture me,” interrupted the
MP
. “I understand full well, sir, what its impact could be. What I want to know is why you are wasting your time on harassing this operation's foremen when you should be trying to find a killer.”