The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Read Free Book Online

warm glow over the tiny space, made more cramped by the presence of its extra cargo.
    â€œYou like to work,” said Durrant to Charlie, who was looking out the window into the darkness. Charlie nodded.
    â€œHe’s strong for his age,” said one of the brakemen.
    Durrant nodded and mumbled, “I’m glad to have you along, lad.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    The world around them was devoid of human life. With every mile they covered on the thin ribbon of steel, they outstripped the reach of civilization and the prospect of aid should it be required.
    When they reached Holt City it was close to midnight. Compared to the tiny sidings at Padmore and Banff, Holt City seemed immense. At the end of the construction season there had been nearly ten thousand men working along the mainline where the Bow River veered north, and the rail line would ascend the gentle eastern grade of the Kicking Horse Pass. Now five hundred men remained, but the winter quarters spread out along the confluence of the Bow and Pipestone Rivers for half a mile.
    When Durrant stepped off the train the cold hit him in the face like a frozen fist. The sky was now completely clear, and the veil of stars seemed so close that a man on horseback might reach up and scoop up a gloveful to line his pockets.
    Charlie stepped off the train behind him, tucking his coat around himself, and dug his hands into his pockets. The soot from the engine and the steam from the brakes swirled along the wooden platform next to the stationhouse. The boardwalk had been scraped clear of snow to facilitate the ease of loading and unloading cargo, but the banks of snow beyond were above Durrant’s head. For a moment he saw an image of himself trying to find his way between buildings at the end of the line through icy tunnels of snow.
    A lantern’s pale light emerged from the darkness and soon it illuminated the man who carried it. He looked the train up and down as he passed the boxcars, and Durrant heard him say a few words to the brakemen. One of them pointed towards Durrant and Charlie.
    The lantern bearer was a big man with broad shoulders, and as he came closer Durrant could see his thick moustache and beard. Between his teeth he clenched a pipe that glowed red when he drew on it. His beaverskin hat was pulled down tight against his thick black eyebrows. But he smiled when he saw the two at the end of the train and extended a hand toward Durrant, which the Mountie took. The grip was firm.
    â€œBob Pen,” said the man with a genial smile, the pipe nodding.
    â€œDurrant Wallace.”
    â€œWelcome, Sergeant. I’m glad you’re here.”
    â€œI’d like to say the same, but . . .”
    â€œBut a man is dead, and his killer at large, and that’s not exactly cause for glad tidings,” said Pen.
    â€œNo. No, it isn’t. I had expected to meet Hep Wilcox, the general manager of this camp,” said Durrant.
    Pen was examining the train. “Well, Mr. Wilcox asked me to come and meet you. I’m in charge of the labour force for Holt City, and for the camp that’s being raised at the Kicking Horse Pass. I meet the trains and make sure the lads coming in find their way to where they are needed. Guess it seemed to make sense that I come and receive you as well.”
    Durrant nodded.
    â€œYou must be tired. Let’s get you settled. Who is this?” asked Pen.
    â€œThis is my . . . my assistant, Charlie,” said Durrant. “He’s here to help with my things on account of . . .”
    â€œYes, yes, on account of your leg. I know the story. No need to explain. Can’t see how I could do a lick of good without my two legs. You’re a better man than I for continuing to serve your Queen and Country. Good for you, Sergeant.”
    For a moment Durrant thought to protest, but he just nodded and said to Charlie, “Let’s haul our stuff along.”