The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Page B

started to muster any explosives there, but I will prepare a list.”
    Durrant leaned against the door, looking at Wilcox. “Can you tell me if Deek was into anything else here at Holt City that might have had him cross a man?”
    Wilcox looked down in thought. “Let me give that some attention and I shall let you know.”
    Durrant nodded, then said, “One more thing, Mr. Wilcox . . . I don’t want anybody leaving this camp or the Kicking Horse unless I have given my permission. Nobody is to board a train for east of Holt City unless I have spoken with them first.”
    â€œDoes that include me, sir?”
    Durrant looked at him in the pale light from the window. “Yes, sir, it does.”
    â€œVery well.”
    â€œNow, I’m going to see what your man Christianson has to tell me about finding Mr. Penner with his face bludgeoned.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    John Christianson sat behind a desk that housed the telegraph machine. He was tapping out code, his spectacles resting on the tip of his nose. The man was so intent on this task of sending wires that he didn’t look up when Durrant entered the main station room from Wilcox’s office. Durrant watched the man awhile. He moved with confident ease while at the telegraph machine. He sat erect and composed, though he leaned over from time to time to read the code on some of the cables he had received. It was because of that composure that Durrant was surprised by what happened next.
    â€œMr. Christianson,” Durrant said from behind him. The man jumped, and the sheath of papers he was reading cascaded from the wooden table to the bare plank floor. “I’m sorry,” Durrant stepped forward, his crutch making a hollow sound on the floor. “No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay,” John Christianson stammered, dropping to one knee from his stool to sweep up the papers.
    â€œLet me help,” Durrant said, putting a hand on the desk to steady himself as he reached for an errant paper.
    â€œIt’s really okay,” Christianson explained. The man sat back down on his stool and tapped the loose papers into a semblance of order. “What can I do for you? Do you need me to dispatch a wire?” Christianson looked up at Durrant, who was still leaning on the table that held the telegraph. It was a smaller version of the model that Durrant had been using in Fort Calgary for the last year, and he regarded it with some interest.
    â€œWhat model are you using here at Holt City?” Durrant asked.
    Christianson straightened his papers again and looked down at the machine as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s a Phelps model 1880.”
    â€œI’m familiar with the Phelps ’76. It’s what we’ve got at Fort Calgary.”
    â€œYes, sir. I know that. I saw that unit when I come through Fort Calgary a year ago. Do you want to send a cable?” asked Christianson again.
    Durrant looked over the orderly space. The neat pigeonholes above the desk were filled with the papers and documents that were part and parcel of the telegraph trade. There were spools of telegraph cable script that Christianson would feed into the Phelps and that would be imprinted with the Morse code as it came over the wire. That code would then be translated by hand onto telegraph forms for delivery to their intended recipient. Durrant looked up from his consideration of the telegraph.
    â€œNo. I’m sorry. I’m Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police. I’m investigating the murder of Deek Penner.”
    â€œEverybody at Holt City knows who you are and why you’re here,” Christianson said sheepishly.
    â€œI understand you found the body of Mr. Penner,” asked Durrant
    â€œI did,” he said, looking for a pocket to tuck his hands into as he stood up.
    â€œI need to speak to you about that.”
    â€œI have these cables to