The End of the Line (28 page)

“He left a message for young Charlie and me last night.”

“What did it say?”

“There were no words,” said Durrant, scanning the group of men.

“Speak plainly, man,” said O'Brian.

“It was a message just the same. A bucket of nitro whose detonation I interrupted. It's a message I'll return in kind, in due course,” said Durrant. “That time is coming upon us shortly.”

Dodds kicked a board of the smouldering shack and it toppled down, sending a shower of sparks into the crisp morning air. He turned around, his gaze lingering on Durrant, before it moved to the crowd milling about in the woods. He spoke not a word, but walked past Durrant, his face hard and menacing, and proceeded down the path towards Holt City. The knot of men who had accompanied him followed suit, among them Wilcox and O'Brian. Only Armatage remained behind.

In a few moments Durrant, Charlie, and Armatage were alone in the dawn woods, the ruins of the shack still smouldering behind them, a difficult road laid out ahead. Armatage looked down at his friend, who remained sitting.

“Anybody injured?” the doctor finally asked.

“Hell, no,” said Durrant.

“So you're okay?”

“Of course I'm okay. I haven't felt this good in years!”

Armatage shook his head and grinned. “That's what worries me, Durrant,” he said. Both men were smiling.

AFTER EATING A QUICK BREAKFAST
in his bunk, Durrant was determined to follow the tracks that led away from the site of the deadly bucket of nitro behind his cabin. Charlie insisted on helping and Durrant relented. It was mid-morning and the light was grey and flat so that the snow lost all definition, and the path where it wove through the trees could only be determined by close inspection. With Charlie acting as a crutch, the two men pushed their way through the low pines growing along the railway bed and close to the river bank of the Bow River. The path was winding and difficult, and Durrant wondered how the night-time intruder had managed to follow such a course without blowing himself to smithereens.

One word dawned on him:
practice
. The path they followed proceeded like this for more than two hundred yards, winding like a frozen snake through the pines, and finally terminating near the station itself. The two companions found themselves on the Tote Road, looking at the north side of the train platform. As the station was the centre of the tiny encampment, and pathways led to every other part of the settlement from this point, their tracking had led them nowhere. Durrant and Charlie looked at one another and then walked toward the station itself and the storage yards beyond.

“You stay here,” Durrant said to Charlie, indicating the station. He then walked to the munitions warehouse, where loaded crates were being corralled, along with kegs of powder and sacks of material for manufacturing explosives.

“Grant McPherson about?” asked Durrant as he stopped one of the men carrying the heavy crates.

The man nodded to the back of the warehouse. There Durrant found McPherson talking with another man. Durrant stood quietly while they finished.

“A word, sir?” Durrant asked, and Grant nodded and motioned for the Mountie to step away from the men at their task.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Been out on any moonlight strolls of late?”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“Been out late in the evening wandering through the woods? Last night, perchance?”

“Last night I was in my bunk shortly after dinner. It's been busy days and it's getting busier. I've got near fifty men working under my charge, with supplies arriving daily to be shipped to Kicking Horse Lake.”

“You got those who seen you in your bunk?”

“I've got three bunkmates who did. Mind, several of them were out till late playing cards and the fiddle.”

“I'll want a word with them.”

“You can have it. As usual, Sergeant, I don't know what you're getting on to.”

“Last night someone left young Charlie and me a message: a pail of nitroglycerine and a fuse, tamped and ready for the match. It's only providence that I'm here to speak with you about it. I interrupted the man at his task of lighting the cord.”

“Nitro, you say?”

“Pure stuff, I imagine. Powerful. Whoever set it carried it though the woods. I expect they were well practiced or we'd be finding bits of them scattered through the forest by the Bow this morning. That's why I come to you. Do I need to tell you that the attempted murder of a law officer is a hanging offence in this country?”

“I imagine it would be, Sergeant, but you're not going to hang me today. I was in my bunk, and there are those that can attest to that.”

“Who else has access to nitro?”

“Anybody who has keys to this warehouse, I suppose,” said McPherson.“A few more than I'd like. Deek Penner gave a few of the foremen access. The fellas who are working on the Tote Road and your friend Dodds.”

“What does Dodds need explosives for?”

“Time to time he finds a Douglas fir that's suitable for bridge work, and uses a stick of dynamite to help bring it down. I haven't heard of him using nitro, through; much too strong for his purposes.”

“What of Hep Wilcox?”

“Well, this is Wilcox's outfit. He's got the key to all the buildings in the camp.”

“Hep know how to set a fuse?”

“I imagine he would. Before he come to Holt City and the railway work, he manufactured explosives back east.”

The words hit Durrant as if a train had barrelled him over.

•  •  •

After Durrant left the munitions storeroom, he went to the station, arriving just as another freight was steaming in from Fort Calgary. He sent Charlie back to their cabin, asking that he spend some time working on the coded wire transmission from the man named Kauffman. Durrant stayed at the station. He needed to update Sam Steele, and he wanted to dig further into Wilcox's past. As the freight exhaled a final blast from its brakes, another troop of young men looking to be a part of the excitement building at the end of track began to disembark. Bob Pen stood on a soapbox to address the men as they milled about.

“Alright, listen up, lads. The lot of you are for the Tote Road. Throw your bags on the sled there and those who can fit, hop aboard; those who can't, you'll be well and familiar with the Tote before you reach the Kicking Horse.” With that, the men moved en mass for the sled that awaited them at the far end of the station. Pen watched them go and nodded at Durrant as he stumped past, making for the station.

The heat of the place felt good once he'd secured the door behind him. John Christianson was seated behind the counter, sorting the post. “Anything for me, Mr. Christianson?”

He looked up with a start. “No, sir, just a bunch for the fellas out at Kicking Horse, and for those around the camp.”

“Nothing from my ol' Dad to get me through a cold mountain winter?”

Christianson shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Lighten up, John. I'm only funning.”

Christianson forced a smile. “Actually, Sergeant, I do have something for you.”

“What's that?”

Christianson put down his bag of mail and went to the telegraph machine. He picked up the log book. “I managed to get this sorted out for you. I've got a record of everybody who's sent a wire over the last four months, pretty well since we've been holed up here. That is, them that have asked me to send it, or maybe Mr. Holt when I've been off.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing that stands out, Sergeant.”

“Really, nothing strikes you as unusual?”

“Well . . . you'll want to look it over yourself, Sergeant Wallace.”

“That I will, but what strikes
you
?”

The little man in front of him seemed to change momentarily. For a second, Christianson seemed to grow before Durrant's eyes. It wasn't that his physical stature changed, just his countenance shifted from diminutive to substantial and back in the blink of an eye. The change unnerved Durrant, and made him watch the man more closely.

“Most of Deek's correspondence was with his superiors back in Winnipeg, the men who own the contracts. He had some correspondence direct with the big bellies at Montreal and with the people at the Canada Explosives Company in Mount Saint-Hilaire. I don't think there is anything unusual there, Sergeant.” Christianson showed Durrant the log book, his small finger scrolling down the list of signal stations that wires had been directed to. “See,” he said. “I marked the initials of the sender and the receiver here for you . . .”

The Mountie stood beside and slightly behind Christianson, who sat on the stool next to the wire. From his position Durrant could look down and over the crown of John's head. He looked through the man's spectacles and wondered how Christianson could see through the accumulated grit on his lenses.

“What about Hep Wilcox?” Durrant asked, and Christianson turned to face him. Christianson thumbed through the log book, his face flushed and perspiration began to show on his brow. “Here you go, and this . . .” He flipped a page. “And this.”

Durrant nodded. “Okay, I'll have a look at these. Tell me this, would you please?”

“Anything, Sergeant.”

“The ones that are blank, where there are no initials, what does that mean?”

“I don't know who sent or received those wires,” said Christianson.

“So why would someone mark the log?”

“I don't know.” said John.

Durrant paused a long moment to study the man. Christianson was having a hard time keeping his eyes on Durrant. Durrant asked, “If this supposed Grand Trunk man wanted to send or receive a wire, he could do it without you knowing about it, correct?”

“He would if he knew how to operate a telegraph.”

“Wouldn't be much of a spy if he didn't, would he now.”

“I don't suppose he would.”

“Any other way for us to learn if he's been sending wires?”

Christianson put a finger to the side of his face in thought. “Well,” he said after some time. “You could always check on the other end.”

Durrant stood up straight. “My God, man, you're absolutely right.”

•  •  •

Durrant sent his wire to Steele, explaining the demolition of the still on the Pipestone River. Durrant was careful to make as little as possible of the incident with the pail of nitroglycerine outside their cabin, mentioning only that he awoke to find it there. He didn't want Steele dispatching reinforcements. Not yet, not before he had Deek Penner's killer in shackles. He also asked that Steele arrange a warrant for the procurement of the Grand Trunk Railway's wire logs so as to ascertain the identity of the inside man here at the end of track.

Satisfied with this undertaking, he set his mind to what he had learned about Hep Wilcox and Deek Penner's wire correspondence. While Christianson and others busied themselves around the station, Durrant studied the log book that Christianson had provided. He first read through all of the entries and familiarized himself with the codes of stations sending and receiving to and from Holt City. Most had the initials JC, HW, or DP next to them. Occasionally, Bob Pen had sent a wire, likely regarding his needs for skilled labourers, but most of the camp's recorded wire correspondence came from the other three men.

More interesting to Durrant were the wires that had been sent from Holt City that Christianson had
not
put a mark beside. These he studied with curiosity. He scrolled down these looking for patterns. It didn't take him long to find much more than he was expecting: an exact match. He looked up. Christianson was busy sorting the post.

Durrant set the wire transmission for send and keyed in the code that his finger rested on. He tapped in a quick message:

Station, please identify yourself.

He waited. A moment passed. Durrant could hear a clock tick somewhere in the room. He was aware of Christianson moving about the station. There was a buzz and Durrant set the wire to receive. As he tapped out the incoming code, Christianson looked up and started to move toward the telegraph table. Durrant stopped him. “It's for me,” he said, without looking up. Christianson returned to his post. The message before him was in Morse:

House of Commons. West Block.

Durrant felt a flush of heat rush through him. Both Hep Wilcox and another person had been sending messages back and forth to the same station in the House of Commons. Durrant had a strong suspicion who it was that was sending and who might be on the receiving end of those telegrams.

Again, Durrant felt the pulse of impatience rush through him and he got to his feet, grabbing up the log book. He noted Christianson stop his activities as he strode from the wire station.

Durrant had a lot to think about as he went in search of the general manager. He hoped Wilcox might become more forthcoming if he provided an incentive for his honesty.

•  •  •

Durrant found Wilcox in his bunk. While he had taken great pains to search each of his other suspects' quarters, Durrant had not yet found the opportunity to search for a bloodied coat within Wilcox's personal space. That could wait no longer. Now, with the revelations made clear by the preponderance of wire correspondence between Holt City and Ottawa, he had more than one reason to further brace the general manager. Durrant tapped on the door of the caboose that sat on a siding not far from the station.

“What is it?” he heard Wilcox say from within.

“Mr. Wilcox, it's Sergeant Wallace.” There was no reply. Durrant listened carefully, his hand resting on the hilt of the Enfield revolver. After a long silence the Mountie heard the bolt pulled back on the door. Hep Wilcox stood before him.