The End of the Line Read Online Free Page A

ain’t Fort Benton, this is Dominion Territory.”
    â€œHarmless fun is all. You could have shot my arm off.” The man took another step and Durrant aimed the Enfield high and fired again, the rifleman dropping to a crouch. Several of his friends laughed.
    â€œYou think that’s funny?” he growled, standing, and turning on his friends. Then he looked back at Durrant. “Why don’t you go and sort some post, Red Coat.”
    â€œYou making a crack?” Durrant took a step forward and re-cocked the Enfield.
    â€œAin’t making no crack about anything. But I’m telling you to leave well enough alone and go back and parley with the red skins or the like,” the rifleman said, his voice laced with malice.
    â€œYou sure? It sounded to me like maybe you were having a little fun at my expense.” Durrant took another step, the crutch catching on a spot of ice, and he slipped forward. Several men winced at the thought of the Mountie falling, the Enfield discharging in their direction as he did.
    â€œPut that goddammed thing away before you take off my head. My rifle’s smashed on the ground there,” the man said. “There ain’t no reason for waving a pistol around.”
    Durrant held the pistol level. “Who’s making the whiskey?” he demanded.
    The men were silent, their faces dark, backs to the fire, facing down the lone questioner.
    â€œPass it forward,” Durrant said. “Empty the bottles out and pass them here into the snow. Gently now.”
    Several men emptied bottles and tossed them into the snow between themselves and Durrant.
    â€œThat all of them? Don’t make me strip you down to your skivvies.”
    â€œThat’s it,” the rifleman said. “That’s all we got.”
    â€œWho’s making it?”
    â€œWho ain’t?” said a voice from the circle of dark bodies.
    â€œYeah, who ain’t?” repeated the rifleman. “It’s just whiskey.”
    â€œIt ain’t just whiskey. It’s goin’ to be the end of the line for this railroad and that’s a fact. Too much whiskey, not enough work from you navvies, and Ottawa is fed up with it.”
    â€œIt’s the middle of the bleeding winter,” said a voice from the circle.
    â€œWhy don’t you get on back to your post, cripple,” said another voice.
    Durrant raised the Enfield and fired over their heads.
    All the men ducked this time. Several cursed him. Durrant took a few steps forward and his face became plain to the men, the light of the fire illuminating it for the first time. Behind the beard, below his eyes and across the bridge of his nose were the scars of his long night on the frozen earth in the Cypress Hills.
    Durrant held the Enfield level not ten paces from the nearest man.
    â€œListen here . . .” he started, teeth gritted, his breath coming in heavy clouds in the frozen air.
    There was the sound of horses in the night and two Mounties rode into the circle of firelight. The revellers almost looked relieved.
    â€œWhat’s all this shooting about?” the first asked. Durrant saw it was Sub-Inspector Dewalt, Deputy Commander of Fort Calgary.
    â€œThis Red Coat’s gone mad,” the rifleman barked. “Aiming to kill us all over a little harmless fun,” he spat as he yelled.
    The officer rode around the front of the crowd, the horse pawing the ground. He saw the whiskey bottles and the ruined rifle on the ground. “Doesn’t look so harmless to me. Durrant?”
    Durrant took a deep breath and blew a thick stream of mist between pursed lips. Already there was frost forming on his beard. “Fellas here thought drinking and shooting up the night was a good way to pass the time. I thought otherwise. The law is the law.”
    â€œYou’re just a goddamned postman here!” shouted a man from the crowd.
    Dewalt turned his horse in the snow and bore down on