The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Page B

breakfast Durrant and Charlie made their way across the Pipestone, Durrant catching himself on the slippery Tote Road that dropped down the bank of the river and climbed back up on the far side. As they approached the station they could see where a few dozen men were already hard at work hefting supplies that the previous evening’s freight had delivered. Others would spend their day maintaining the Tote Road that snaked through the valley’s deep snow to the summit of the Kicking Horse Pass. Each morning they drew water from the Bow River, accessible through a deep hole in the snow and ice, and filled a massive iron cauldron that was mounted on a buckboard sled. The sled was then driven along the Tote Road to the Kicking Horse Pass, its contents dripping from the cauldron into the ruts of the road. This allowed the buckboards to glide over the tracks despite their heavy loads.
    â€œI’m going to speak with Hep Wilcox,” Durrant said to Charlie. “Head back to our bunks and see what you can do to make it feel like a NWMP detachment.” Charlie regarded him a moment. “I’ll be fine. I can get around fine. Go,” he said. Charlie headed back along the path through the snow.
    Durrant turned and made his way towards the station where the camp’s general manager kept his office. The Mountie hadn’t gotten a good look at the building in the darkness when they arrived, but he did now. Like most of the other structures in the town, it had been hastily constructed the previous fall, and Durrant suspected that it, too, wouldn’t last out the following summer’s construction season. Durrant stepped up from the snowy path onto the broad station platform. The freight that he and Charlie had ridden in from Calgary was still being unloaded. Durrant watched as the men ferried supplies from the boxcars to the landing north of the station.
    â€œThat’s one train you don’t want to mess with,” a voice said behind him. Durrant turned to see a well-dressed man standing with his hands buried deep in his pockets by the station’s main doors. Durrant turned back to regard the train. “Nitroglycerine,” he heard the man say.
    The dapper man stepped forward. “You must be Durrant Wallace.” He extended a hand sheathed in a black leather glove.
    Durrant extended his left. “ Sergeant Durrant Wallace.”
    â€œSergeant,” said the man, taking the Mountie’s hand. “I’m Hep Wilcox. I’m the general manager here at the end of steel. I’m glad you’ve come.”
    â€œHow much will you put aside by the spring?” Durrant inquired, watching the passage of crates of explosives with suspicion.
    â€œThe short answer is as much as we can. The long answer is, well, a little bit more complex.”
    Wilcox was now beside him, his breath thick in the frigid air. “We have a contract with the Canada Explosives Company out of Mount Saint-Hilaire to manufacture the liquid nitroglycerine for the Upper and Lower Kicking Horse. It’s a subcontract, really, through my operation. But the vetting of the bid was done through the Parliament of Canada, as they are paying the bills. I’m not really all that happy with the terms of the deal, but what can you do? We’ve been having a lot of trouble with quantity. We’re yet to see the quality. We’ll be running some tests this spring up at the Kicking Horse Pass to assess the power and stability of the mix.”
    Durrant had lost interest in the troubles of the railroad man, and wanted to turn his attention to the death of Deek Penner. “Can we step inside and talk?” he asked.
    â€œOf course.” Wilcox held up a gloved hand to point to the main station door.
    The station was the first truly warm space that Durrant had been in since departing Fort Calgary, and it came as a relief. Wilcox led Durrant into the small vestibule, where a broad L-shaped counter