The End of the Line by Stephen Legault

look.”
    Durrant thought about this.
    â€œWhy Regina?”
    â€œWell, that’s headquarters, ain’t it?”
    â€œIt is, but Fort Calgary is much closer.”
    â€œYou’d have to ask Mr. Wilcox. He’s the one who told me where to send it.”
    Durrant looked down again where Christianson was standing in the snow. “You can come out of there now.”
    Christianson nodded and seemed to swim through the deep drifts until he reached the path. He patted all his clothing to knock the snow off of himself, and then, he looked up at Durrant. “Are you making me out to be a suspect in this killing?” he asked quietly.
    Durrant looked at him. The bright sun shining above the rugged peaks to the west, and the intense glare off the snow made his eyes water, the tears pooling and freezing on his skin the moment the air touched them. “It’s too early for that.”
    Christianson exhaled again. “That’s good. ’Cause I liked old Deek, and would never have done him harm. That, sir, is a fact.” Christianson stood up straight and looked up at the mountains. He seemed to breathe easier after his speech.
    â€œDon’t get too comfortable, Mr. Christianson,” Durrant said, blinking into the harsh glare of the noonday sun. Its reflection off the bright snow was dazzling. “As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t a man in this camp who isn’t a suspect right now.”
    Christianson nodded and pushed more snow from his coat.
    â€œAfter you found him, Mr. Christianson, did you happen to handle the body?”
    â€œHow do you mean like?”
    â€œDid you try to move him?”
    â€œDeek was a big lad. And in this deep snow . . .”
    â€œIs that a no?”
    â€œWell, I tired to be of help to those that carried his body to . . . the Mountie cabin.”
    â€œDid you happen to get any of Mr. Penner’s blood on you?”
    John seemed to shudder and looked down at himself, as if half expecting to see blood there now. “I don’t know. I don’t believe so.”
    â€œHave you been to the laundry since Mr. Penner’s death?”
    â€œNo. No, I’ve not been there in a week or so.”
    â€œAnd have you requisitioned any garments from Mr. Holt’s store?”
    â€œNot a one.”
    â€œThere’s one more thing, sir,” said Durrant, regarding the man brushing more dry snow from his coat. “The wire. This all started with you bringing a wire to Penner. But you never reached him. He was dead. What became of it?”
    â€œOh my,” said Christianson, his eyes searching, “I have no idea. In all the confusion I plain forgot about it!”
    â€œWould it be among your papers at the telegraph office?”
    â€œI don’t know. I have to check. I may have stuffed it in my pants pocket,” he started patting himself down again, looking for the paper.
    â€œIt may be important, Mr. Christianson. Please bring it to me directly when you have located it.” said Durrant. “You say that I can return to the NWMP cabin this way?” He pointed towards Penner’s cabin. Christianson nodded. “Alright then.” Durrant turned and made his way along the new trail towards the barracks.
    Christianson stood watching Durrant go until he disappeared from sight, and he continued to stand for some time after.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Durrant used the keys he had obtained from Hep Wilcox to open the door to Penner’s cabin. His was set amid a cluster of shacks and tents huddled in a thick stand of trees opposite the CPR right-of-way from the NWMP cabin, and nestled close to the Bow River.
    It was a tiny space, with a low narrow cot pressed up against the boards. A small but solid Ransom 1850 stove sat opposite, its stovepipe running up through an opening in the boards of the roof. Bailing wire had been used to secure it, and in places it was patched