The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Page A

with tin.
    There was a trunk next to the door, its lid closed. There was no lock on it, and Durrant opened it, the aroma of cedar chips, used to stave off garment-eating moths, filling the room. It was of crude construction, and had leather for hinges. Inside were a few pairs of heavy wool trousers, several thick shirts and a jacket worn and frayed at the elbows. A pair of boots sat next to the trunk. There were no papers of any sort to be found there, or anywhere else in the quarters. He opened the stove to inspect the contents. The fire had burned down to almost nothing and he could find no shreds of paper among the pale ashes.
    Durrant turned his attention to the bed: it was carefully made, but sparse. The blankets on it were faded and frayed, but not moth-eaten. Next to it was a small oil lamp on an upended crate that had once contained tinned peaches. The lamp was dark and stained with oil. A small tin-type sat in a homemade frame next to the lamp. Durrant picked it up with his left hand. The photograph was of a family; a man and wife, dressed in formal wear, and six children. Durrant assumed that that one of the two strapping lads in the photo was Deek, as the others were school-aged girls. He wondered if they had been notified of his passing.
    The Mountie completed his search of the austere quarters. The photograph still in his hands, it struck Durrant that the outcome of his investigation would affect people he had never met, but who would be counting on him to succeed in his undertaking. He put the tin-type back by the lamp and left the tiny cabin to its ghosts.

SIX
SEVEN MEN
    â€œI’M GOING TO WANT TO see the men Deek Penner was playing cards with the night he was killed,” Durrant said as he stepped into Wilcox’s office. He held in his left hand the script that Wilcox had furnished with the list of men who had participated in the card game the night Deek Penner was killed.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mr. Wallace.”
    â€œIt’s Sergeant Wallace, Mr. Wilcox. I’ll need you to arrange for me to see all the men, together, tonight please. In Frank Dodds’ cabin.”
    Wilcox closed the ledger he had been making notes in and twisted in his chair to look at the Mountie. “Okay, well, yes, that can be arranged. I will check with Mr. Dodds.”
    â€œThis isn’t a request, Mr. Wilcox.”
    Wilcox regarded him a moment. “Frank Dodds doesn’t take orders well. He’s an independent man.”
    â€œI’m certain you will find a way to convince him so that I don’t have to.”
    Wilcox drew a slow, laboured breath. “I’ll ask the men to gather around eight, after the evening meal.”
    Durrant opened the door and left without another word.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Three men were milling around the counter in the area outside Wilcox’s office. Behind the counter that served as the general store, post office, and cable office, Christianson was passing a packet of mail to a man. The four men all turned to look at Durrant as he emerged from Wilcox’s office. Their conversation died, and a silence filled the space. Christianson had been leaning on the counter with one elbow, but straightened up as Durrant made his way across the floor to the counter. One of the men made room for him. Durrant could smell the powerful combination of body odour and wood smoke on the men.
    â€œYou here to find out who killed Penner?” one of the men asked.
    â€œI am,” said Durrant, leaning on the counter, doing his best to appear authoritative, the crutch pushed behind him. “You got something to tell me?”
    â€œI don’t,” said the man. “But my guess is that Frank Dodds got something he could sure tell.”
    â€œShut up, Ted, you aiming to get your teeth broke?” the man next to him urged.
    â€œWell, everybody in camp knows them two had a hate on for each other,” said Ted, looking sharply at his friend.