The End of the Line Read Online Free PDF Page A

him with an icy tide.
    â€œWe clear, Sergeant?” said Dewalt.
    â€œClear,” he finally said, spitting again into the ground.
    â€œFine then. Now,” said Dewalt, fitting a boot into a stirrup, “can I give you an arm up?”
    â€œI’m goin’ to take a walk,” said Durrant, looking west into the darkness.
    â€œSuit yourself,” said the Sub-Inspector, and Durrant thought he heard the man mutter “stubborn son-of-a-bitch” under his breath as he rode off toward the NWMP barracks. He left Durrant to contemplate the cruelty of an Almighty that took a man’s leg but left him in a world that expected him to remain unchanged.
    Durrant turned his back on the nearly extinguished bonfire and the icy rutted streets of Calgary and walked with his crutch west into the darkness.
    He walked until he passed the last of the tents and mud huts and turned west, standing with his face up to the clear night sky, the stars a broad smear across the blackness of space. In the distance he could hear coyotes yelping as they made their way along the banks of the Bow River. Far off, out on the low, rolling foothills, he made out the melancholy howl of a wolf. He knew that far beyond, across the swells of frozen earth, the Rocky Mountains broke against the foothills in nearly impenetrable sheets of limestone. A thin thread of steel snaked its way into the mouth of those mountains, passed the sidings of Padmore and Banff, and wove westward, following the river beside which he stood, until it reached the end of track near the summit of the Kicking Horse Pass, and the tiny tent town of Holt City.
    The wolf called again, and this time its howl seemed farther off, as if it was moving away towards the mountains. Much of Durrant’s life seemed to feel like that wolf sounded—solitary. Much of his work as a policeman had been just that—alone. Riding for days at a time along the frontier of the Dominion of Canada, intercepting the illegal trade in whiskey and in rum, talking with the great roaming bands of Indians that moved like ephemeral winds across the plains.
    There had always been a pack to return to. At Forth Walsh, and latter in Regina, and down at Fort McLeod, there had always been the comfort and companionship of the North West Mounted Police. But now? They had not abandoned him after the incident in the Cypress Hills. But the duties to which he was consigned now seemed far worse than desertion. If he had died that afternoon on the frozen ground at least he would have done so with honour. Durrant was a pony soldier, but now he was treated like a man gone mad at the worst, and at best, like someone who had worn out his usefulness to society.
    Durrant stood until his right leg ached where the prosthetic attached to the nub of skin and muscle and bone below his knee. He thought he might wait until the sun broke over the eastern horizon, thought that maybe the dawn of a new day might cast a fresh light on his life and his worth. But at the end of March the sun still rose late over the vast undulating plains, and the cold that bit and the burning ache in his leg that spread to his hips and back told him that the time had come to turn homeward.
    Over the icy tracks of the new city, he made his way toward the barracks. The promise of a hot cup of coffee and the woodstove buoyed his spirits enough to urge him through the snow. When he reached the door that led to his hovel, he thought he heard the familiar buzzing from the telegraph machine mounted on a long plank table in the mess of the main barracks. Since being sidelined from active duty, Durrant had taken on such tasks as operating the telegraph wire that had advanced with the railway across the plains. He set aside plans to return to his bunk and instead went into the mess of the main barracks. The hall was a forty-five-by-thirty-foot room that housed the cookstove and main common room for the Fort’s constables. At present there were