The End of the Line Read Online Free PDF Page B

Durrant prepared to turn on his crutch and leave the room.
    â€œSergeant,” Dewalt said, standing. He pulled the front of his scarlet tunic down and straightened his heavy leather belt.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œHolt City is the end of the line. It’s March. The snow is ten feet on the ground.”
    â€œWhat’s your point, sir?”
    â€œIt’s going to be hard getting around there.”
    â€œYou mean hard for me ?”
    â€œI mean hard for you; hard for anybody.”
    Durrant gripped his crutch more tightly, his knuckles turning white.
    â€œMy point, Sergeant, is why don’t you enlist some help? You know: someone who can tote your kit, help you with chores around the bunk.” Durrant was silent. “Sergeant, there is no shame in asking for help. You’ve suffered a terrible loss . . .”
    â€œI can manage.”
    â€œFine!” said Dewalt sharply, then more calmly, “fine, fine. You’re a stubborn Scotsman, Wallace. That’s fine. You can manage. You go to the end of track and find yourself facing an angry mob of men, or loose your temper because you can’t make your way to the pisser in the snow, and you’re going to blow your one last chance, Wallace. So get your head out of your arse and think about your future service to the Mounted Police instead of being so goddamned bullish all the time!”
    Durrant pivoted on his crutch and made for the door. “Will that be all, sir?”
    â€œDismissed, Sergeant.”
    Durrant opened the door and stepped through it. Dewalt blew out a stream of breath through his lips and sat back down. He thought that the end of the line wasn’t nearly far enough away for Durrant Wallace to go.
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    Durrant looked at the trunk of his possessions next to the bench that held his prosthetic: his long bison coat, a change of civilian clothes, a thick sealskin hat, and his riding gauntlets. He hadn’t sat a horse since that day in the Cypress Hills, but the gloves were still the warmest he owned. His serge, a bedroll, and inside it an oilcloth wrapped around a Winchester Deluxe 73 short-barrelled lever-action repeating rifle. He had adopted and then taught himself to fire that weapon too, shooting left- and single-handed. He inspected the rest of his armament: the Enfield Mk II, cumbersome to reload but accurate and deadly, and of course the snub-nosed British Bulldog, which felt reassuring in his left hand. He put the Bulldog down on his bedstand. It sat next to the golden locket; the same locket that had remained unopened for ten years now but was never far from sight.
    He reached for his leg and affixed the suction cup over his stump. He stood and limped to the chest, bent down and grabbed the leather handle and tried to haul the chest to the door, but his leg buckled. Durrant had to catch himself on the wall to keep from falling to the floor. He leaned against the wall, his stomach in a painful knot, his stump aching.
    If he was in deep snow at the end of track, with men around whom he was investigating for murder, a fall in the snow would be humiliating at best, and more than likely the end of his time as a Mountie. Some things a North West Mounted Police officer could survive and some he could not. Weakness would not be tolerated by men who had spent a long, bitter winter struggling in the mountains. If the killer was still in that icy camp and was anything but a half-crazed drunk, he would no doubt seize upon the Mountie’s weakness and exploit it to his own advantage. It brought a bitter taste to his mouth to consider it, but he knew Dewalt was right.
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    The North West Mounted Police stables were divided into two buildings, each measuring ninety-five feet long and thirty feet wide, and were situated on the north side of the main parade ground. The structures, built late in 1883, were so new that their pine boards were still