The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Page A

long, low window that separated the mess hall from the kitchen, Charlie took up a plate and filled it with eggs, bacon, and biscuits, and then a mug with steaming dark coffee. The three men working in the kitchen stopped to regard the newcomers. The word that a one-legged Mountie was coming to Holt City to investigate the murder had preceded Durrant’s arrival. It seemed that nearly everybody wanted to get a look at this curiosity.
    Charlie put a set of utensils in his pocket and pointed his way to a table on the far side of the room that seemed to have space. Durrant followed him, trying to keep the humiliation born from his dependence on the boy at bay, while meeting the gaze of the rough men in the room with his own trail-hardened eyes.
    Charlie put Durrant’s food on the table. Durrant propped his crutch against the wall-boards of the mess hall behind him while he pivoted into the bench. Charlie went to fetch a plate of food for himself. When he returned, Durrant greeted the man next to him and nodded to those across the table from him. The conversation in the room slowly returned to its normal din. Durrant drank his hot coffee, which warmed him, and ate his breakfast. Charlie sipped at the coffee and took small bites from his plate. Durrant regarded him but said nothing.
    â€œYou that Mountie?” the man next to him finally spoke directly to Durrant after a few moments of stoney silence.
    â€œThat’s right,” Durrant said, swallowing a forkful of eggs.
    â€œHere to look into that business with Deek.”
    â€œThat’s right. Don’t happen to know who killed the man, do you? Get me back to Fort Calgary that much faster.”
    The man smelled of wood smoke and sweat. His eyes were barely visible beneath a thick cap pulled tightly over his brow, and his face was masked by a thick black beard that was discolored at the corners of his mouth by tobacco juice. He regarded Durrant coldly. Finally the brown corners of the man’s mouth curled a little and he shook his head, seeing the humour in the Mountie’s question. “I don’t. If I did, though, could I hitch back to Fort Calgary with you? I hear they got running water there now.”
    â€œIf they do, I ain’t never seen it,” Durrant said, grinning and shoveling another fork full of breakfast into his mouth.
    â€œAny of you other boys want to talk, you come find me at the Mountie barracks. Young Charlie here’ll make sure there’s always a pot of coffee on the stove for you, right, Charlie?” Charlie nodded.
    A lumbering man passed behind them, plate in hand, heading toward the serving board for another helping. As he did, he tripped over Durrant’s crutch, which spanned the distance between the wall-boards and the bench, sending it clattering to the floor. Durrant could smell alcohol on the man, as if he’d bathed in it the night before. Even in the cold of the mess hall, the man seemed to be sweating moonshine.
    The men at Durrant’s table all stopped eating. The big man behind Durrant just stood there, frozen. Durrant slowly turned to regard him. It felt as though the table drew a deep breath.
    â€œBlue Jesus, pick up the man’s crutch, you bloody idiot!” barked the bearded man next to Durrant. The big man balanced his plate and stopped to retrieve the crutch. He righted it against the wall and was rewarded with a sharp slap on the back by the bearded man. He shuffled on to fill his plate with more food.
    It came as no surprise that there was whiskey in the camp. He knew that five hundred men laboring through a winter as cold as it was in Holt City would turn to drink for warmth and to alleviate the paralytic ennui brought on with the isolation. There would be time enough to chase down the source of the moonshine; for now, Durrant decided that making peace was more important, so he smiled and the men at the table broke into laughter.
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