The End of the Line (13 page)

“Paine, you there?” As he called, several of the horses in the barn stamped their feet.

“I'm here. I'm in the tack room. Be right there,” called a voice from within the stables. “Come on back, door's open . . .”

Durrant stepped over the threshold and into the barn. Its floorboards were tracked with snow but were otherwise clean and bare. “Mr. Paine, its Sergeant Wallace. I'd like a word, sir.”

From the end of the row of stalls, Paine stuck his head out from the tack room. “Sergeant, please come in. I'm just wrestling with some lead ropes here, and will be free in a moment.”

Durrant walked down the centre row of the stables and looked into the tack room. Paine was an average-sized man with a thick crop of black hair and a cleanly shaven face. Durrant noticed that he now wore the heavy canvas coat that he had seen at the laundry the day before. His jeans were tucked into heavy winter riding boots. His eyes were still black and his lip still festering; his nose was set at an awkward angle to his face, and was bruised and had crusted red. As he struggled with the rope, he raised a handkerchief now and again to his nose to dab at a persistent trickle of blood.

Durrant leaned on the door, his face in shadow, his sealskin hat pulled down over his ears. “You're American, Mr. Paine?” He picked up a rope and began to untangle it.

“Born and bred.”

“Texas?”

“That's right. Galveston. I ain't been there in near twenty years now. I cut my teeth in the New Mexico Territory, working with a stage company out of Santa Fe.”

“You took care of their horses there?”

“Not at first. I rode shotgun for them when I was young and foolish, then drove a stage, and after a couple of years of that took up in the stables. I'm better with horses than I am with people.”

“I know that feeling,” said Durrant.

“Anyway, that took me north to Montana. I got on with the I.G. Baker Company and that's how I come up to the Dominion Territories,” said Paine, sorting out another lead rope and hanging it on a peg on the wall. “I signed on with the
CPR
when they come across the Saskatchewan River down at Medicine Hat.”

“Frank Dodds an American?”

“Half the men working in this camp are.” Durrant nodded. “Until the railway, the best way to come up into this country was to take a steamer through the Missouri Country to Fort Benton, then just turn north like. That was the main route for commerce: north south. It's how our man Rogers come up with his crew two years back. It's a hell of a long haul from Fort Calgary to Winnipeg. The I.G. Baker Company still pretty much outfits this whole operation out of Fort Benton, though that's starting to change.”

Paine looked up at the Mountie standing in his door way. “Seems pretty clear you don't like Dodds, do you Sergeant Wallace?”

“Ain't much to like, is there? He's a brash man with a short temper, and if I'm not mistaken, he's likely making illegal whiskey inside the Temperance Zone.”

Paine started in on another rope. “Won't argue with you about the man's disposition.”

“Is Frank Dodds making moonshine?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know or you won't say.”

“Sergeant, there's whiskey at Holt City. Hell, there's whiskey anywhere this train has stopped for more than fifteen minutes. Some fellas I know had a still set up in a boxcar on the train last summer. I don't see what the big deal is.”

“You drink, Paine.”

“I take a drink. But I don't drink that moonshine. That will make a man crazy.”

“But you ain't goin' to rat out Frank Dodds . . .”

“What good would that do?”

“Might get me closer to the killer of Deek Penner.”

“You think Dodds killed Penner?”

“He could have.”

“Lots of people
could
have, Sergeant. Why would Dodds?”

“From what folks are telling me, Penner was a good man. Honest, hard working, a company man. Believed what the
CPR
is trying to do. He didn't want to see it fall apart because of men getting drunk. Didn't want to see hard-working men like you get blown up with nitro while they were stumbling down a ladder half crazy after a night of binging. I think maybe Penner was onto Dodds' operation, and when Dodds found out, he cracked the man's skull.”

Paine continued on with this work. “Maybe,” he said nodding. “It's a possibility. Penner was known to have his nose into a lot of business in this camp besides his own.”

“How well did you know Penner?”

“Pretty well.”

“You think his killer shouldn't be brought to justice?”

“I didn't say that. I just don't have nothing for you on Mr. Dodds.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Who says I'm afraid?”

“You're whole body is saying it, Mr. Paine. People, we're a lot like horses. We get afraid, and it's pretty obvious. We perspire, our eyes shift about, and our hands start to fumble with our work. We tense up. You're scared of Frank Dodds. That much is clear.”

“He's my boss, in a manner of speaking. This is a good job. Money's good.”

“Dodds ever threaten you?” Paine's brow furrowed and he concentrated on his work. “Mr. Paine?”

“Look, anybody who works for Dodds or around Dodds knows he's got a temper. Ain't a man in this camp except maybe Tom Holt or Hep Wilcox who ain't been threatened by Frank Dodds.”

“You still going to maintain that fool story that one of these horses kicked you?” Durrant looked around the tack room. Paine focused on his work. “How'd you get the blood on your coat?”

Paine continued at his knots. “Who says I did?”

“You had it laundered.”

“Some law against cleanliness? Bible says it's next to godliness.”

Durrant smiled. “Around here it seems next to impossible.” Paine smiled too and looked up at the man. Durrant spoke again. “Whose blood was on your coat?”

“It was my own. Got myself tapped by that mare picking ice out of her shoe. I told you.”

“You're lying.”

“What makes you so certain?”

Durrant regarded the man. “You can't look me in the eye and say it. Oh, now that I point it out you will. Most can, once it's been pointed out to them. But in conversation, you'll look anywhere else. Like down at your hands, as you're doing just now.” Paine hung up another lead rope.

“Did Dodds threaten you recently?” Durrant asked. Paine shook his head. He started in on the last rope, working his way through a Gordian knot the size of his fist.

Durrant was no longer looking at the ropes in his own hands. He drew a sharp breath and took a step forward. Paine looked up, startled. “Mr. Paine, a man is dead, and on the night he died, you and those other men were in a cabin with him playing cards. It's a fair bet that you all were the last to see him alive. That makes you all witnesses. It makes at least one of you a prime suspect.
You
recently had your coat laundered, and if I'm not mistaken, it was because there was a mess of blood on it. If it was Deek Penner's blood, then you get to be at the top of my queue. Am I making myself clear?”

Paine looked Durrant in the eye. Paine
was
afraid, but not of him. Paine took a step back from Durrant.

“He threatened me the other night. That night that Deek died.” For the first time Paine looked straight at Durrant as he spoke. Durrant reached out with his left hand and grabbed the man by the face.

“Let's have a good look at you,” Durrant said hoarsely and pulled the man into the light. “He do this to you?”

“It ain't nothing. I got between a horse and its stall. I told you. My own damned fault.”

Durrant held the cowboy's face in his powerful left hand. “That knocked two teeth out?”

“Yeah, I got my face hit pretty good.” Paine shook his face and Durrant let go.

“What'd he threaten you about? What did Dodds say?”

“It was just cards.”

“When did your horse do this?”

“Next morning.”

“Bust up your nose too?”

“Yes, sir. Bled all over myself. A real mess.
Had
to have the coat washed up. Not decent to go around a bloody mess. It ain't right. Now listen, if you don't mind, I need to get back to the tack . . .”

“You listen to me, Paine,” said Durrant, his voice a low rumble. “I like you. You seem to like horses, and that makes you a good man in my book. I also think you're lying. If I find out you're covering for Frank Dodds, or are in anyway involved in the death of Deek Penner, what I'm going to do to you will make
this
look like a Sunday picnic. You understand?” Paine nodded and fumbled with the ropes.

•  •  •

It was nearly eleven when Durrant left the barn and found his way though the soft snow towards the main station. The chinook wind would raise the temperature another ten degrees by mid-day. Durrant had faced the gale winds of the chinook a dozen times since being posted to Fort Calgary a year before; each time he had noticed that along with the rising temperatures, tempers had flared. The chinook wind made men ill at ease, made their blood boil. Durrant expected to use it to his advantage.

Durrant carefully picked his way along the Tote Road to the munitions warehouse, where he hoped to find Grant McPherson. The large double doors to the warehouse were ajar, but Durrant noticed that they also held a sturdy Yale bolt and a gleaming new cast heart padlock. There were many such locks throughout the camp; the railway used them for securing switches and flatbed cars. Out of inquisitiveness, Durrant dug the set of keys he had taken from Penner's bunk and looked for the match to the heart-shaped lock. He found one stamped with the same brand and tried to insert the key into the lock. It didn't fit. He then tried the remaining half dozen keys, but to his consternation, none would slide into the lock.

He straightened himself. Why would Penner not have a key to his own warehouse? He resolved to find out who
did
have a key. Leaning carefully on his crutch, Durrant swung one of the heavy doors open and the pale morning light fell across the dirt floor of the depot. The room wasn't as dark as he thought it might be, and he noticed that high up on the walls there were wide openings in the boards over which heavy metal wire was tacked. Given the nature of the contents of this building, Durrant understood at once that relying on natural illumination and not kerosene lamps was prudent. There were several men at work in the warehouse, and they looked up and blinked at the backlit Mountie as he entered.

“I'm looking for Grant McPherson,” Durrant said to the nearest man. He was cradling a paper-wrapped cylindrical tube the size of a loaf of bread, and Durrant guessed that its contents were best not disturbed.

“He's back yonder,” the man said, returning to his task.

He could hear voices from the far end of the warehouse. The building was lined on both walls with large crates and Durrant could clearly discern the warning sign on each: “Caution, explosives.”

“Mr. McPherson, it's Sergeant Wallace.”

“I'm here,” called McPherson, and at the same moment Durrant saw him and two other men gingerly carrying a crate from one side of the room to the other. “Okay, now,” said McPherson to the men. “Just there on the floor next to the wall . . . That's it.” The men carefully lowered the crate to the floor. They stood up straight when it was in place and McPherson said a few words to the men that Durrant could not hear.

“Come on back, Sergeant,” he said, as the two men walked toward the door where Durrant stood and brushed past him.

“I suppose you're here to talk about Deek,” said McPherson, walking the length of the warehouse, passing in and out of the shadows. He wiped his hands on a worn rag. Durrant noticed that he wasn't wearing an overcoat. When he stopped in front of Durrant, he extended his hand, which Durrant grasped with his left and shook firmly.

“Well, here's as good a place to talk as any,” McPherson said. “This
was
Deek's life.” He motioned to the stacks of crates all around.

“Is this all nitroglycerine?” Durrant asked.

“Most of it's just the raw ingredients. Some of it's the finished product. We have a few crates of dynamite, but for the most part, we'll be making pure nitro.”

For the first time since arriving at Holt City, Durrant felt uncomfortable. “It's pretty unstable stuff,” he said, trying to mask his unease.

“You bet, Sergeant,” said McPherson, sitting down on a crate. He motioned to a second crate for Durrant to sit. He grinned when he noticed the look on Durrant's face. “Its okay, Sergeant, these ones are just raw silica. We'll be using that to make a little dynamite.”

“Why not make dynamite sticks instead of using liquid nitro?” asked Durrant as he sat down and surveyed the room.

“Cost. Dynamite is very expensive, and as you can see, we need a great deal of the stuff. A decision was made to use liquid nitro for most of the work.”

Durrant looked at McPherson. “Back up for a moment, please, Mr. McPherson. How does this all work?”

“Nitro?”

“Yes, that, and a decision such as the one to use liquid explosives rather than dynamite.”

“Deek was the expert on that. I can tell you how the blasting works, but as for all the decisions, that was Deek and Mr. Wilcox and those above them.”

“You were his number two. You must have picked up some insight.”

“I just signed on again a month ago. Before that I was up in the woods working for Mr. Dodds. Sure, I heard some things in that time, but not as much as you might expect.” McPherson cleaned his hands again on the rag that hung from his pants pocket. Durrant watched him.

“As for how the nitroglycerine works, it's really pretty simple. It's actually a pretty straight forward chemical. As you might know, Mr. Alfred Nobel discovered that if you add a nitrate to glycerol, you can blow things up with it,” he laughed.