The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Page B

“Don’t take no detective to figure that out.”
    â€œWhy did they hate one another?”
    â€œPenner was always sticking his nose in Frank Dodds’ business, accusing him of running moonshine.”
    â€œIs he?”
    â€œHow should I know? I don’t touch the stuff,” said Ted, and his two friends burst out laughing and then he joined them.
    â€œGood luck, Red Coat,” said Ted.
    â€œYeah, good luck,” said the third man.
    â€œYou’re going to need it in Holt City,” Ted said, moving toward the door.
    â€œAnd why’s that?” Durrant said.
    The man called Ted turned and looked at him. His two friends bunched up next to the door, pulling their wool caps down over greasy hair. “This ain’t Fort Calgary. You’re all alone here. People here liked Deek fine, but there ain’t nobody here who is going to say a word against Frank Dodds, even if they seen him crack Deek Penner’s skull with their own eyes. That’s a fact.” Ted pushed open the door and the cold air filled the room as the three men left.
    â€œYou think Frank Dodds killed Deek Penner, Mr. Christianson?” said Durrant, still watching the door.
    â€œI don’t know, Sergeant Wallace.”
    â€œYou think it was Dodds you saw running away that night?”
    â€œI can’t say . . .”
    â€œCan’t, or won’t.”
    â€œCan’t say, sir. Can’t say,” Christianson was shaking his head, not making eye contact.
    â€œI need to use your telegraph, Mr. Christianson.”
    â€œYou want for me to send a wire for you, Sergeant?” Christianson looked up at him, smiling weakly.
    â€œNo, I’ll send it myself. I know the machine. And the North West Mounted Police have their own code.”
    â€œVery well,” said Christianson, “sit yourself down, Sergeant, make yourself at home.” Christianson seemed genuinely happy not to be under the spotlight any longer.
    â€œYou need pen and paper, it’s all right there.”
    Durrant watched the man walk to the far side of the L-shaped counter where he had been sorting the mail. Another man entered the room and Christianson greeted him and fetched a package for him. Durrant sat down and thought about his message. He checked the circuit and made the connection with the North West Mounted Police headquarters in Regina. He operated the machine quickly, tapping out the coded cable:
To Sam Steele, Commanding.
    From Sergeant Durrant Wallace.
    Arrived Holt City. Examined Deek Penner. Cause of death, blow by blunt object. Establishing possible motives. Presence of whiskey with likely connection to the murder. Questioning suspects . . . Will update thereafter.
    Durrant sat up straight on the narrow stool as he waited for a reply.
    Durrant took Wilcox and others on their word that the corpse was in fact Penner. The weapon used for bludgeoning had not been recovered. It could have been dropped right next to the body and might not be recovered until later in the spring, when the snow finally melted. Durrant made a mental note, however, to search for the weapon in the area around where Penner was found. That would be a good job for Charlie. It occurred to Durrant that the killer might actually be walking the tracks. He could be making his way by shank’s pony along the relatively snow-free tracks between Holt City and Banff Station, nearly fifty miles to the east. It was a slim possibility, but still doable. Durrant would wire the stationmaster in Banff and ask that he keep an eye open for a severely frostbitten man arriving from Holt City. It was no surprise that there was whiskey in the camp. Wilcox, as the manager of the camp, should have been doing more to root out this evil. From what he’d learned so far, it sounded like Penner had been poking his nose into at least one moonshiner’s business, and it may well have gotten him killed.
    His thoughts were