Click. Clack. The telegraph jumped to life, catching Richard Simpson snoozing in his chair. He reached for the pencil tucked behind his ear and began transcribing. “On my way…need hot rum.” Agent Simpson chuckled as he rolled a fresh sheet of Canadian National Telegram paper into the typewriter. "Frank's coming home." The station house shuddered as another blast of wind swept in from the north. A skim of snow was creeping under the freight room door. Agent Simpson shivered at the thought of delivering a message on such a night.  Frank Forster chased work wherever it was to be found. Earlier that fall he had journeyed to the Thompson Valley for a logging job deep in the bush, but a big part of him was still at home, 350 miles away as the crow flies. Each day he marked an X on on the calendar pinned beside his bunk, and penned a letter [...]