The Third Riel Conspiracy

  It is the spring of 1885 and the Northwest Rebellion has broken out. Amid the chaos of the Battle of Batoche, a grisly act leaves Reuben Wake dead. A Métis man is arrested for the crime, but he claims innocence. When Durrant Wallace, sergeant in the North West Mounted Police, begins his own investigation, he learns there were many who wanted Wake dead. What Durrant uncovers is a series of covert conspiracies surrounding Métis leader and prophet Louis Riel. And, during the week-long intermission in Riel’s trial, he sets a trap to find Wake’s true killer.

  The Third Riel Conspiracy is the second book in the Durrant Wallace Mysteries, a series of historical murder mysteries set during pivotal events in western Canada’s history.

  * * *

  PRAISE FOR STEPHEN LEGAULT

  “First-rate . . . keeps readers wondering whodunit until the very end.”

  —Mysterious Reviews

  “Legault knows his history, and that’s what makes this novel shine.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “A whopping good tale of adventure and murder in the frozen tundra of western Canada . . . a riveting and winning history mystery.”

  —The Hamilton Spectator

  “A suspenseful plot that draws us in and keeps us hooked.”

  —Alberta Views

  “A historical mystery that stands proud among the best of the genre . . . Legault’s intimate knowledge of these mountains and their history brings Durrant and Holt City alive . . . Time well spent.”

  —Rocky Mountain Outlook

  “Legault knows there’s a fine balance between developing rich characters and leaving enough mystery to maintain interest until the next adventure.”

  —Calgary Herald

  “For those looking for a glint of Canadian history set in a more riveting narrative . . . The End of the Line combines the guilty pleasure of a page-turning murder mystery with the brain food found in Pierre Berton’s history books.”

  —Avenue Magazine

  “Legault does a good job developing this rich character while never allowing the suspense of the story to flag.”

  —Quill & Quire

  STEPHEN LEGAULT

  For Jenn, Rio, and Silas

  For Sharon and Ernie

  For the part of the story that remains untold

  Author’s Note to Readers

  The Third Riel Conspiracy is a work of fiction. While I’ve taken pains to see that it conforms as much as possible to actual events and motivations of the Northwest Resistance of 1885, attentive readers will note many deviations from the historical record. The investigation undertaken by Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police and his companions is based on the real timeline and events of the period, but I’ve taken liberties with many of the characters who took part in this piece of Canadian history. Louis Riel, Sam Steele, Leif Crozier, Edward Dewdney, and others all played a part in the Northwest Resistance, but their appearance in this work is purely fictional.

  This mystery novel is intended to entertain and provoke an interest in the actual occurrences that led up to the Battle of Batoche and the events that transpired afterward. Consider it a starting point from which you can launch your own investigation into the dramatic history of Western Canada.

  A note on language: Throughout, some characters refer to the Métis as half-breeds or savages. This reflects the predilection of the times and not my or the publisher’s point of view.

  Batoche

  Ferry

  To Dakota Camp

  Church

  Cemetery

  Zareba

  Reuben Wake’s body

  PART ONE

  BATOCHE

  ONE

  THE ZAREBA

  WITH THE TUMULT OF RIFLE fire echoing in the distance, Reuben Wake found his kit, stowed in a latched compartment in his wagon. He took up the oilcloth-wrapped package where his Colt revolver had been placed and unrolled the canvas; the pistol wasn’t there. Instead, a heavy stone fell to the earth at his feet.

  Wake looked around as if he might find the Colt nearby, but it was nowhere to be seen. He scratched his greasy head with his free hand, pushing his leather cap up as he did.

  That’s when he heard the hammer of a pistol being cocked.

  Wake froze. Everything became very still. He felt the wind on his face, still strong from the east, and he thought he could smell the stew the cooks had prepared for lunch.

  “Turn around.” The voice was behind him.

  Reuben Wake hesitated.

  “Faites-le maintenant.” Do it now.

  As Wake began to turn, a pistol was pressed to his forehead.

  “What the hell—” Wake’s mouth was suddenly dry.

  “Long live Riel.” The man pulled the trigger and the cartridge exploded. Wake closed his eyes but no bullet reached him. It was a misfire, and the gunman cried out as gunpowder burned his hand.

  Wake, startled and in a panic, spun to flee as his would-be killer recocked and fired again. This time the bullet found its mark, breaching Wake’s temple and ending his life instantly.

  MAY 12, 1885. BATOCHE, NORTH WEST TERRITORIES. EARLIER IN THE DAY.

  The battle raged all morning, but Reuben Wake had been left behind.

  At first light the commander of the North West Field Force, General Frederick Middleton, broke camp and led his soldiers to La Jolie Prairie to rout the despicable half-breeds. The rest of the field force, nearly eight hundred men, was to attack the Métis defences at the Mission Ridge, high above the village of Batoche. The intent was to crush the rebellion between the Métis, their Indian conscripts, and the Dominion of Canada.

  Wake had been with Middleton on the previous day when the general first approached the broad plain of La Jolie Prairie. Recently Wake had become a teamster, and he owned a livery stable in Regina. When war had broken out in the North West Territories, he was only too happy to enrol. At sixty-two, he was too old to join the infantry, so he put his skills with horses to work as a foreman tending the stock. On the third day of fighting he had been left with the mounted infantry’s horses at La Jolie Prairie. Despite the cover of a dense grove of aspens, he had been wounded in the arm and ordered by the company’s doctors to rest. Now, on the fourth day of the battle, he was inside the zareba, the field force’s defensive structure set high above the Saskatchewan River.

  The zareba was roughly rectangular and spanned several hundred yards. With walls built from packing crates, upturned wagons, and earthen berms, the African-inspired enclave was cloistered around a fetid pool. Outside its hastily constructed walls, the zareba was ringed with deep rifle pits—not unlike those used by the half-breeds—set along the Humboldt Trail. Since the first day of the Battle of Batoche, it had been home to the North West Field Force.

  Staying behind angered Wake. Riel’s savages were running out of ammunition and had taken to loading their guns with everything from melted-down coins to silverware. Wake surmised that the fighting would soon be over. He could smell the powder from the Winnipeg Field Battery, its guns firing from its position just outside the haphazard walls of the encampment. Its target was the village of Batoche. A strong wind blowing from the east meant that Wake couldn’t hear the field guns and Captain Howard’s magnificent Gatling gun firing at the Jolie Prairie. Reports came into the zareba on a regular basis, telling of the action.

  Reuben Wake had been spoiling for a fight and now he wasn’t going to get it. General Middleton’s plan was to crush the rebellion this very day with a swift attack on two fronts. His force would feint along the skirmish line of La Jolie Prairie, and Colonel Van Straubenzie would charge the defences along the Mission Ridge and sweep down on Batoche. Wake made his way to the western entrance of the encampme
nt to get a view of the action. Overhead the prairie sky was slate grey, the clouds featureless, their bellies pan-flat in all directions. He stood on a crate to see beyond the entrenchments. Behind him, several of the wagons of the field force were organized in a rectangle that formed the inner defence of the encampment. Here his lads tended to the horses, the cook and his swampers prepared meals for the soldiers, and the handful of deserters and prisoners were put to work.

  As he stood watching the field guns firing, he heard a shout from the northwest and managed to heave himself up onto the top of the wall. There he spied a great host of men riding toward the zareba, the general in the lead.

  “It’s Middleton!” a man from the field battery shouted, “come back from the Jolie Prairie!”

  “I wonder if he got his prize?” Wake shouted back. He speculated if Louis Riel, General Gabriel Dumont, and the other traitors had been killed or captured. When the men came into view, Wake could tell by their dour expressions that they had not been victorious. Middleton looked to Wake like a man who had just eaten something rank. His face was grim, and he pressed his horse to the entrance of the zareba. Wake jumped down in time to catch up to the animal and took the reins from the general’s hands.

  The stout commander was silent as the rest of his company rode in around him. Other teamsters took the horses into the makeshift corral. Middleton didn’t say a word but instead strode off toward his private carriage.

  Another member of the infantry dismounted next to Wake. “Did things fare poorly at La Jolie Prairie?” asked Wake.

  The man shook his head and spat on the ground. “It was our forces at the Mission Ridge that missed their signal to advance. Middleton lacked the fortitude to press his advantage without the coordinated attack in place.”

  “The Métis remain dug in?”

  “Greatly diminished, and doing little more than throwing pots and pans.” The solider handed the reins of his mount to another teamster. “But yes, they still hold the Mission Ridge and the skirmish line along the St. Laurent Road.”

  Wake led the mare to the stable amid the commotion and disorder of the returning mounted infantry. He could hear the hullabaloo as more men fell back to the zareba, the day’s momentum lost. Wake’s frustration boiled. All his life he had harboured an unaccountable bigotry toward the half-breeds. To him, these sons and daughters of Frenchmen and Indians were the ruin of the young nation, and he had made a long career of causing them pain. Fuming, he passed the reins of Middleton’s mare to a young stableboy, instructing him to keep her at the ready as the general might not yet be done for the day. He walked out of the stable and circled the encampment again. When he passed the northern quarter, he saw Middleton standing by his lodgings. Colonel Van Straubenzie of the 10th Battalion Royal Grenadiers was at attention before him. Middleton was dressing him down for failing to mount the direct attack that was supposed to come when he heard Middleton’s guns.

  Wake paused and leaned on a nearby wagon to adjust his sling. He could hear Van Straubenzie explain that with the wind he had not heard the sound of the Gatling gun. Van Straubenzie asked what the general’s orders for the field force were for the rest of the day. “Take them as far as you please,” said Middleton, dismissing the colonel with a wave of his hand. Van Straubenzie marched toward the company of foot soldiers gathered at the entrance of the zareba. Wake followed.

  All might not be lost. Wake might yet get a chance to kill a half-breed in this battle. He simply needed to get out of the zareba and look for his chance. He’d already had an opportunity once on this campaign and had made good use of it. But killing one half-breed wasn’t enough for Reuben Wake. He wanted more. Given the opening, he would try for the greatest prize in this war: the so-called prophet himself.

  At the compound gate where Van Straubenzie’s officers were gathered, the colonel was issuing hurried orders. A great hurrah went up from the men. Several hundred of them mounted their horses and charged out of the zareba, heading toward the Métis skirmish line at the top of the hill above Batoche. In the distance, the Winnipeg Field Battery opened fire again.

  Men raced for their horses, and Wake, not wanting to be caught standing still, ran against the surge toward the corral to muster the mounts. Nobody wanted to miss the action. Near the centre of the camp, the kitchen was in chaos. Men dropped their tin plates and grabbed their Winchesters, making for the Mission Ridge. In no time, the men who had retreated from La Jolie Prairie that morning had regrouped and were charging across the open ground between the encampment and the village of Batoche.

  That’s when Middleton appeared, calling for his horse. Wake found the mare and snatched the reins from the stableboy’s hands in time to present them to the commander himself. And with that the general was gone. Wake stood again in the relative quiet of the zareba. To hell with the doctor’s orders. This would be his last chance to kill a dirty Indian, and he wasn’t going to be sitting on his ass while the others had all the fun. He would retrieve his pistol from where he had stowed it while in hospital and get in on the action. And should Riel be captured alive, Wake still had a job to do.

  TWO

  DISPATCH FROM STEELE

  APRIL 29, 1885. CALGARY, NWT.

  Durrant Wallace stood in the rain, a stream of water pouring from his hat’s curled brim. It spilled down onto the front of his heavy oilskin coat. The dim flicker of oil lamps cast the only illumination on muddy Stephen Avenue, Calgary’s main street. Durrant receded like a shadow into a doorway next to the Stockman’s Bar and watched the entrace of the busy saloon.

  The night had started off with sleet driving in from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Around midnight the North West Mounted Police sergeant felt the temperature shift, and the ice turned to rain. It was all the same to Durrant Wallace. Wet was wet and cold was cold. The ache that had settled into his game left leg and burned in his right hand felt as if it might paralyze him. In the ten months since Durrant Wallace had returned from Holt City, Calgary had grown by more than five hundred souls, and more were arriving on the banks of the Bow and Elbow Rivers daily. What had started as a crossroads on the cattle trail from Fort Benton, Montana, in 1881 had grown into a sprawling town of tents, tipis, clapboard shacks, and even a few streets boasting wooden homes with porches.

  While Calgary had selected its first chief of police that very year, the Mounted Police still kept the peace along the Canadian Pacific Railway, intercepting illegal whiskey and upholding the laws of the Dominion of Canada. With the outbreak of war in the North West Territories, more settlers and farmers were crowding into the city’s confines.

  Durrant Wallace, a veteran of the celebrated March West in 1874, was among those who had been left behind at the outbreak of war. It came as no surprise to him.

  Superintendent Sam Steele, now a major in the militia of General Strange, had delivered the news personally. When the tensions between the half-French, half-Indian Métis and a handful of full-blood Indian bands loyal to Riel had erupted into violence on March 19, Steele had been called away from his post near Golden, British Columbia. Riel had declared a provisional government in the Saskatchewan Territory. He had written to the Government of Canada and threatened to “commence without delay a war of extermination upon all those who have shown themselves hostile to our rights.”

  All winter, rumours had been spreading up and down the North West Territories that such an act was inevitable. When it finally happened, Steele and the other men of the North West Mounted Police were called together to serve as scouts for a company of men that would march north from Calgary and then east from Fort Edmonton to confront the rebels. Steele had stepped off the train at Calgary’s new station to a cheering crowd. Durrant had approached him late that evening at the barracks in Fort Calgary. Now, standing in the driving rain, he recalled the meeting with his superior.

  “YOU ASKED TO see me, sir?” Durrant held his sealskin hat in his left hand, his deformed, frostbitten right hand leaning on his silver-handled cane. He
was dressed in the scarlet serge he rarely wore during regular undertakings. Durrant reported daily to Sub-Inspector Dewalt, Fort Calgary’s deputy commander, but it was to Steele that Durrant owed his allegiance.

  “Good of you to come, Sergeant. Sit if you like. I see you’ve given up with the crutch.”

  “Yes, sir, except in the worst weather.”

  “And the cane?”

  “A gift from Garnet Moberly. He came by it after our time in Holt City. It seems that its previous owner felt a certain indebtedness to Mr. Moberly, who had no need for it.”

  “Indeed.” Steele stood and placed his reading glasses on the ledger laid open on the desk. He trimmed the wick on the oil lamp, and the sparse room brightened. Steele could see the scars that marred Durrant’s countenance, a grim reminder of his having been left for dead on the prairie during the bitter winter of 1881.

  “I can’t take you with me, Durrant.”

  Durrant tried not to betray his disappointment.

  “General Strange, who is leading the Alberta Field Force, will have nothing to do with it and Sub-Inspector Dewalt says he can’t spare you. I know that you and Dewalt have never seen eye to eye,” continued Steele.

  “He did everything in his power to prevent my reinstatement after my . . . convalescence,” Durrant said. “If he had had his way, I’d still be collecting the post and taking the census. I’d be an errand boy.”

  “I ruled that day, and the decision to reinstate was mine. You earned it. But he’s your superior officer at Fort Calgary. If General Strange was on side, it would be another matter. He doesn’t know you as I do, Durrant.”

  “I understand. Thank you for delivering the news in person, sir. Better to hear it from you than from Dewalt.” Durrant stood and turned to go.