The End of the Line Read Online Free

pistol in the frigid Saskatchewan winter, held the polished handle of his crutch awkwardly.
    After gaining what mobility he could in the corridor of Regina’s small hospital, he taught himself to be a southpaw in the field behind the barracks of the North West Mounted Police in the “Dewdney Section” of the new Territorial capital. There, on the outskirts of the town, Durrant felt like the ten-year-old boy he once had been; hoisting his father’s British Bulldog, the small, heavy-gauge pistol made by Webley and Son, and shooting tin cans and his mother’s ceramic pots behind the family’s weekend farm on the outskirts of Toronto. That had been more than twenty years ago. Now he had to learn again.
    At thirty-three, learning to shoot while leaning on a crutch, he grew easily frustrated with his lack of progress. He had plenty of time, though, before he would be steady enough to travel west. He finally left Regina in the spring of 1883. At first, the notion of returning to duty with the NWMP , even if it was light duty, buoyed his flagging spirits. After traveling by wagon over the thawing prairie from Regina to Fort Calgary, while other Red Coats rode proudly out over the plains, Durrant slipped back into melancholia.
    Another crack of a rifle brought Durrant back to the present. He passed the lee of the Fort’s store, its white washed walls pale in the starlight. Durrant made his way toward a pair of boarding houses surrounded by white tepees and ramshackle cabins, whose occupants were notorious for their revelry.
    Durrant muttered a curse into the night air, his words hanging like a frozen mist around his bearded face. The NWMP force was badly outnumbered at Fort Calgary. They faced competing demands: making peace with the mighty Blackfoot Nation that was growing increasingly restless along the Rocky Mountain Front, or quashing the production and trade in whiskey that threatened the speedy completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway. There was often nobody to mind the Fort but Durrant himself. When trouble arose, he was cursed to clomp along on the frozen ground, feeling every bit the fool.
    The sound of merrymaking in the distance became clear. Durrant turned the corner of one of the boarding houses and saw the source of the mischief. Behind one of the buildings a group of figures huddled around a fire, the flames casting long shadows across the snowy field that danced on the whitewashed walls of the buildings. The firelight blinded the Mountie to a view of all but those within the lick of the flames. Myopic as his vision was, Durrant could see the bottles of whiskey passed between the estimated two dozen men.
    He pushed forward through the snow, his crutch slipping on patches of ice. He crossed to within twenty paces of the men. One man held a rifle above his head and fired it again, then lowered the gun to reload. By its shape, Durrant recognized the rifle as a Sharps Silhouette, a single-shot long-bore rifle used by many ranchers and cattlemen for hunting.
    Durrant took the opportunity and raised the Enfield and leveled his aim above the rifleman’s head. When the Sharps was raised again, Durrant drew and released a long breath, closed one eye, and fired. The flash from his muzzle and the new gunfire stopped the revelry flat. His shot found its mark, though not dead on, and the rifle leaped from the man’s hand to land in the snow behind him.
    â€œEvening, gents,” Durrant said in the silence that followed the crack of his pistol. The rifleman stepped from his circle of comrades as if to advance on Durrant. Durrant cocked the Enfield. “Stand your ground, friend,” he said.
    â€œI ain’t your friend, mister.”
    â€œSeems like you fellas have gotten into some whiskey tonight. Care to share?”
    â€œWe’re just having a little fire is all. No harm done.”
    â€œDischarging a rifle inside the town. Drinking whiskey within ten miles of the CPR . This