The Third Riel Conspiracy Read online

  “I told you, I was in the lavatory.”

  “What more do you know of this conspiracy to free Riel?”

  “Believe me or not, Sergeant, but I am in fact just a simple farmer. I don’t travel in circles that would allow me to plan a jailbreak. I don’t have the thinking for such a thing.”

  “Who does?”

  “You’re asking me? I have no idea. I suppose if you were to spirit a man like Riel out of the country, you’d need two things: money and influence. I’d start looking for someone who has both. Someone who can convince a lot of people to work together, and do it in secret.”

  Two such men immediately came to Durrant’s mind. “I’ve asked Staff Sergeant Provost here to be in charge of your security,” he told La Biche, and Provost smiled and nodded. “I trust this man. He’ll see to it that you are safe until we settle this matter. In the meantime, I want you to think about what I’ve asked you. If there is anything else you know, tell Mr. Provost and he’ll fetch me, and we’ll talk again.”

  Durrant started to push himself up but La Biche put a hand on his arm. For a moment Durrant tensed, but when he saw the man’s eyes, he relaxed. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s just that by all accounts Reuben Wake was a terrible man. He deserved to die. I suppose what I’m wondering is, why are you so eager to find his killer?”

  Durrant looked at Provost and the two other constables standing before him. He and his friends had considered that question a great deal over the course of the last week. “I have a job to do, Mr. La Biche. It doesn’t matter to me if Wake was a good man or a bad one. He was murdered. Maintaining the rule of law is the responsibility of every Mounted Police officer in this force. I aim to uphold it.”

  Durrant stood up and Provost pulled him aside. “Nice speech. Do you really believe all of that?”

  “For the most part, Tommy. Don’t you?”

  “Sure I do. Sometimes things get complicated. It ain’t like it was in ’74 when we rode west. Everything is so political now.”

  “Regardless, we have a job to do. There is justice to be delivered.”

  SAUL ARMATAGE AND Durrant Wallace sat with their backs to the zareba wall. Jacques Lambert was huddled between them, a buffalo skin pulled around his shoulders. On the far side of a cluster of wagons and horses they could plainly see a group of militiamen preparing their kits to march to Fort Pitt.

  “Do you recognize any of those men?” asked Durrant.

  Lambert shook his head. “They all look alike in their uniforms.”

  “What about those men there?” Saul pointed to a cluster of men standing by a fire. Again the Métis man shook his head. “Try to remember the morning when you saw Reuben Wake taken away.”

  “They wore beards, I recall, but then, many do.” Lambert looked at Durrant, who had a closely trimmed beard, then at Saul, who had recently shaved off his rough whiskers but left a long pencil moustache. “There,” he said after another moment. “He was one of them.”

  “Which one?” asked Durrant.

  “The man with the rifle slung over his shoulder. That’s one of them for sure.”

  “He was one of the men who was with Dickenson yesterday,” said Durrant. He instructed Saul to take Lambert back to the infirmary, where he would continue to be watched over.

  “Where are you going?” the doctor asked.

  “To see if I can’t press this lad for some information.”

  “Be careful,” implored Saul.

  “When am I not?” Durrant tracked the man Lambert had identified through the camp, watching to see that he himself was not being followed. When the man entered one of the crudely fashioned outhouses, Durrant positioned himself by the door. He found a long pole, one that had likely been cut to use for a tent, and wedged it under the knotted handle of the privy. “I’ve locked you in, Private.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Sergeant Durrant Wallace. I’m in charge of the investigation into the death of Reuben Wake. We met the other day at Xavier’s Store.”

  “Open the goddamned door.”

  “I have a couple of questions for you. Answer and I’ll let you out.”

  “I’ll blow a hole in the door before I answer you.”

  “Your Winchester is too long. You don’t have enough room to get a clear shot. I noticed you don’t have your Enfield with you.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch, Wallace.”

  “Be careful how you speak of my mother, Private. It would be embarrassing to have to call for help in your position. Who ordered you to throw Reuben Wake into the Saskatchewan River?”

  “Dickenson. Who the hell do you think?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe we was just too lazy to bury the man. I don’t know.”

  “That would not surprise me, Private, but I think there’s more to it than indolence.”

  “Well, then, you tell me if you’re so goddamned smart.”

  “I think you were hiding something. Maybe whoever killed Wake didn’t want his body to be examined.”

  “That half-blood La Biche killed him. He had the weapon on him.”

  “Did Dickenson order the body thrown in the river so nobody would see that the first shot was a misfire?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t no misfire. That half-breed shot him in the temple, plain and simple.”

  Durrant wasn’t learning anything he didn’t already know. He changed direction in his questioning. “Where’s the Colt?” There was no sound from the privy. “You know, it’s possible that a man could die of asphyxiation breathing in the methane produced by one of these lavatories.”

  “Dickenson has it.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He’s long gone,” said the man, with a laugh.

  Durrant put his face to the planks. “Where did he go?”

  “To hell, just like you, Wallace.”

  “We’ll see. Which way did he go?”

  “He went to Fort Pitt. He’s scouting for Major Boulton.”

  “If I let you out, are you going to be polite?” The man in the privy didn’t say anything. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to wait for the next man to come to drop his drawers.”

  “Blue Jesus, Wallace, I can’t breathe in here!”

  Durrant knocked the stick from the door. The man burst out of the privy, his Winchester in hand, looking about him wildly for a sign of his foe. Durrant had his Enfield out and pressed to the man’s temple before he could turn. “I bid you remember, sir, that we are all on the same side.”

  “You don’t have the faintest notion of who is on what side.”

  “You walk away. If I ever see you or your friends again, I’ll arrest you on the spot. You so much as raise a weapon in the direction of me or any of my friends, I’ll cut you down. Are we clear?”

  The man laughed. “You had better not find yourself in Regina, Wallace.”

  “Given that remark, I would say you can count on it. Now shoulder that weapon, report to your company, and follow your orders.” Durrant lowered his pistol. He became aware that there were others now observing the interaction.

  “You’re a dead man, Wallace.”

  “Won’t be the first time.”

  DURRANT WALKED BACK toward the spot where Saul and Garnet had agreed to rendezvous at lunchtime. Durrant told them about Dickenson’s flight for Fort Pitt. “You think he’s marching on Middleton’s orders?” asked Garnet.

  “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But if we want that pistol, we’ll need to catch up to him.”

  “Most of the camp will be struck by nightfall, and we’ll be making for Pitt in the morning,” said Saul.

  “I’ll have to ride ahead and see what can be done to catch up with this man.” Durrant turned to Garnet. “What did you learn this morning?”

  “I’ve spoken with several of my fellows in the Surveyors Intelligence Corps. Much of the citizenry has been split on the issue of Riel. Free him or hang him. There a
re those among them who believe that should Riel go to trial, it will provide some political gain for the Liberals.”

  “Political gain?” Wallace repeated.

  “War is always about politics, and here the gain will be made to expose how Macdonald has once again offended the French. This, of course, can be used by his political rivals when Edward Blake seeks the office of prime minister.”

  “Are you telling us, Garnet, that you think Riel’s enemies will try to kill him before he can take the stand and make his speeches simply to silence him?” asked Durrant.

  “Nothing about Canada will ever be simple, Sergeant Wallace. A nation forged from the ashes of the greatest conflict the globe has ever seen cannot help but relive these age-old rivalries again and again. The struggle between the French and the English, between the Catholics and the Protestants, between Upper and Lower Canada, will play out over and over again across this nation. In the West, the struggle has been compounded. Here the people are so far from the centre of power that they vie to have their voices heard and opinions included while at the same time insisting that they should go about their business as they please. This business with Riel is only the beginning.”

  “We’ll need to be on the move in advance of them,” Durrant said. “Gentlemen, let’s make haste with our inquires this afternoon so the moment will not be lost. At the supper hour, we will determine who is to ride for Regina and who will make for Fort Pitt.”

  EIGHTEEN

  LA JOLIE PRAIRIE

  STANLEY BLOCK WAS THE SORT of man who was more comfortable in a gentlemen’s club in Winnipeg or Montreal than on a mud-soaked prairie battlefield. When Durrant Wallace went to locate him after lunch, it came as no surprise that he was found sitting in the back of a well-appointed wagon, smoking a rich cigar and scribbling in his notebook. “Sir, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”

  “When last we spoke you levelled some unflattering allegations at my person, Sergeant. Is this to be another smear against my character and my choice of vocation?”

  “Mr. Block, you may have heard that I am now in charge of the investigation into Reuben Wake’s death.”

  “This news has come to my ears.”

  “I’d like more information on the events of the days leading up to Wake’s demise. I hoped that you, as a newspaper man, might have some insight.”

  “Seems like you have changed your opinion of my profession.”

  Durrant dismissed this. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  Block looked out of the wagon as if considering the weather. He lowered himself carefully to the ground and donned his hat and gloves.

  “I was thinking that I’d like to see the scene of some of the fighting to the north. I understand that you were with Middleton there on the third day. I was hoping you might indulge me and show me where the action was?”

  “It’s a fair stride. Are you certain you’re up for it?” asked Block, looking at Durrant’s cane.

  “I’ll manage.” The two men walked across the zareba and followed a cowpath north and west toward a heavy grove of aspens and alders. “Tell me about what happened on La Jolie Prairie, Mr. Block.”

  “I’ve interviewed General Middleton for the paper on this matter, and he is cagey to say the least,” Block began. “As I can surmise, the general felt a frontal attack on the Mission Ridge and the town beyond would not succeed unless he could draw out some of the Métis forces from their rifle pits around the church. On the eleventh of May he took his mounted infantry north to reconnoitre the sweep of grassland and poplar forests that the Métis use to graze their cattle. Around eleven o’clock he arrived near where the Carton Trail crosses the road to St. Laurent. He had his scouts probe the woods and soon found his foe.”

  “There was an exchange of fire?”

  “For some minutes, Boulton opened up with the Gatling gun, and that seemed to quiet the half-breeds. They kept their heads down after that.”

  They came to a broad clearing. Wallace tried to imagine the scene: Boulton probing for a weakness in the enemy’s defences, and the Métis scrambling to fill any holes. “Were there casualties on the third day?”

  “A few, but nothing serious.”

  “I understand Reuben Wake was shot that day.”

  Block looked sternly at him. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Mr. Block, I am investigating a murder. I have to understand how these events unfolded and what relevance they might have had with his final undoing.”

  Block huffed. “How could a battlefield wound be in any way related?”

  “Maybe you could tell me what you know.”

  “Wake was a teamster. When some of the field force dismounted to probe the enemy’s defences, Wake was given charge over their mounts. He and his fellows were back in those trees.” Block pointed to the east of where the fighting had occurred.

  Durrant estimated that the distance between the skirmish line and the woods was several hundred yards. “And where were you?”

  “I was positioned just here.” Block indicated a berm along the side of the road that might provide a man some cover during a firefight.

  “From where you were, how well could you see Mr. Wake and his horses?”

  “I could see the horses just fine. They might have been a few dozen yards back in the woods. I would not have known Mr. Wake.”

  “Did you see him shot?”

  “No. I was too concerned with Middleton’s feint. I wanted to see for myself if his reconnaissance would lead to anything. If so, I might have been able to get a story on the wire to my paper.”

  “The marvels of modern technology are amazing, are they not?”

  “How do you mean, Sergeant?”

  “Well, that you can be here in the middle of the frontier, while a battle rages around you, and with the assistance of the telegraph wire have a story in print the very next day.”

  “Yes, yes, it is fascinating. Now, Sergeant, I should dare say it looks like rain, so shall we—”

  “We’re almost through, Mr. Block. Walk with me a little more, would you?” Durrant led Block toward the grove of trees where Wake had tethered the soldiers’ horses. They made the distance in a few minutes. Durrant turned and looked back toward La Jolie Prairie. The woods were dark and dense, and though their leaves had not yet opened, the aspens were close enough to provide a good deal of shelter. Durrant began to examine the terrain. “I can see this is where most of the beasts were tethered.” He indicated a well-trampled area that was covered in horse dung.

  “Do you notice anything odd, Mr. Block?”

  “They are trees, sir. Nothing odd whatsoever.”

  “Would you characterize the Métis as crack shots with their rifles?”

  “No. Not in the least. Had they been, this would have been a much longer battle. By day three many of them were shooting with nails packed into their weapons.”

  “Don’t you think it odd that with the nearest Métis rifle pit at least two hundred yards away, and with this dense stand of trees between himself and the skirmish line, Mr. Wake could have been shot?”

  “I suppose it might have been a lucky shot.”

  “Let me see your hands, Mr. Block.”

  Block held out his hands. He wore leather gloves.

  “Please take off your gauntlets, sir.”

  Block pulled off his gloves. He stared at Wallace with malice.

  Durrant held his cane under his arm and took Block’s hands in his own. His right hand appeared very misshapen compared to the newspaperman’s delicate fingers. “What happened here?” asked Durrant, indicating where Block’s right forefinger and thumb were burned.

  “I burned myself tending to my fire.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, in fact I did. It may come as a surprise to you, but in Regina we have proper stoves to cook on. It’s been some years since I had to make my morning breakfast on an open fire.”

  Durrant looked again at the man’s hands. It
was hard to tell if Block was telling the truth about the origin of the burns. They could well be powder burns. He released the man’s hands, and Block immediately pulled on his gloves.

  “Do you carry a firearm, Mr. Block?”

  The newspaperman looked flustered. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. What of it? Only a fool would set off on such an adventure without something with which to defend his person.”

  “Do you carry it now?”

  “Yes, of course. There are still half-breeds lurking in these woods, Sergeant. Is there some law—”

  “Let me see it.”

  “I shall do no such thing.”

  “Mr. Block, you can hand me your pistol or I will take it from you. The former will be far more dignified.” Something about the way Durrant shifted his weight signalled to Block that Durrant was not bluffing. “Slowly please, sir. One would not want to alarm at this moment.”

  Block reached inside his coat and produced the weapon.

  “You brought an Elliot Derringer to defend yourself with?”

  “It’s fine in a pinch. At close range, I assure you it’s quite an effective sidearm.”

  Durrant cracked open the breech of the weapon. The pistol had four barrels, two across and two down, each just a little over three inches long. There were four .32-calibre cartridges loaded in the pistol. Durrant took the cartridges out one at a time and examined each barrel.

  “Has it ever been fired?”

  “I assure you it has, though only at targets.”

  Durrant flipped the breech shut, spun the weapon around in his palm, and handed it back to Block. Block fumbled it back into his coat pocket.

  “Mind you don’t zip yourself with that, Mr. Block.”

  Block looked up at Durrant with malevolence. “Once again, sir, I demand to know what you are driving at with these questions, accusations, and innuendoes.”

  “Only this: I don’t think Reuben Wake’s shooting on the twelfth of May was the first time someone tried to murder the man. I believe that on May 11 someone who had knowledge of his whereabouts, and easy access to him here in these trees, tried to use the cover of battle to dispatch him. And having failed, tried again on the twelfth and met with success.”