The Third Riel Conspiracy Page 3

  Derek Lloyd had come home before Durrant left and given his assurance that he would keep a watchful eye on Charlene. Without the disguise of a stableboy, she was vulnerable. Durrant’s greatest anxiety was that her husband might find her before Durrant Wallace could find him.

  DURRANT HEARD THE whistle sound when the train crossed the Bow River, slowing to enter the town. In a moment the platform was filled with steam and a few passengers arriving from Canmore, Banff, and the recently renamed Laggan, formerly Holt City. Durrant gathered his haversack. Wrapped in a tarp, the barrel of his Winchester protruded from the top of the bag. Young John ran up, breathless. The lad had weaved his way through passengers and railway workers to reach Durrant and was now red-faced and bending over to catch his breath. He held out a cable for Durrant.

  To Sergeant Durrant Wallace.

  From Leif Crozier, Assistant Commissioner, Prince Albert Division, NWMP.

  Urgent.

  Have learned of Superintendant Steele’s request of you to lend assistance to Scouts there. Colonel Otter suffered defeat at Cut Knife to Poundmaker. Withdrew to Battleford. All are held up in the NWMP Fort. Do not attempt to reach Batoche via Battleford. Poundmaker’s Cree control region. Remain at Fort Calgary.

  Durrant looked from the paper to John, who was regaining his breath. Behind him the pullman porter yelled, “All aboard!”

  “Tell Dewalt the train had already left.” Durrant handed the cable back to John. Then he threw his bag in the door of the train and hauled himself up with his left hand. The train began to move forward, and young John and Calgary slowly disappeared in a plume of steam and black smoke.

  THREE

  RUMOUR AND GOSSIP

  MAY 12, 1885. BATOCHE, NWT.

  Durrant Wallace rode north and east from the train depot at Swift Current. He had procured a horse from the NWMP detachment and, freshly outfitted, was making his way across country. On the evening of May 12, just at sundown, Durrant came to the place where the Humboldt Trail drove down off the steps of the Saskatchewan and crossed the swollen river. The scene on the far side of the dell was like a dark dream. The town of Batoche lay in ruins. Buildings were pocked with holes and several fires burned in the tall dry grass along the banks of the river. Beyond, on a high sloping hill above the town, more fires smouldered and Durrant could see what looked like a church and rectory amid the grey haze.

  Durrant considered the scene. At first he could not determine which side had emerged victorious after what had been four days of fighting, but one thing was clear: the battle was over. He could see soldiers of the Dominion flying their colours from several of the remaining buildings and then he knew that General Middleton’s troops had carried the day. While his first impression was that of relief that the bloodshed was over, he also felt disappointed that he had not be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Mounted Police and countrymen.

  As he had so often done before, Durrant put the spurs to his horse not knowing what perils lay on the road ahead. When he reached the river he boarded the ferry and rode it across the Saskatchewan. He could not know that while the war might be over for the men he met on the other side, for him it had just begun.

  BATOCHE WAS SET on a broad plain along a bend in the Saskatchewan River. It consisted of a dozen buildings laid out along the Humboldt Trail. Here and there were bodies of Métis men cut down during the final hours of the battle.

  Soldiers gathered up wounded men from both sides of the confrontation and began the process of clearing debris from the town. Durrant recognized a few men from the ranks of the North West Mounted Police and spoke with those he had served with over his eleven years on the force. The mood was celebratory but restrained, and Durrant soon learned why. Already questions were being asked by those who had participated in the battle: why had so many good men been lost on both sides of the conflict? What had they died for?

  He rode up the steep slope of the Mission Ridge, off the flood plain and into the woods near the church and the rectory. The ridge had been the scene of some of the heaviest fighting. The fields had been burned and the cemetery trampled. The rifle pits the Métis had constructed as defensive battlements lay empty.

  Middleton’s encampment was a mile from the church. Durrant took note of the soldiers on the road and the artillery used to shell the village. The Gatling gun, on loan from its manufacturer in the United States, was still being watched over by its operator.

  Dismounting as he approached the encampment, Durrant presented his credentials to the sentry. A company of men was being assembled to pursue Riel and Dumont, who had fled after the battle. Other soldiers were sitting around smouldering fires, eating and smoking, while teamsters were attending to horses and their tack. It was loud and smelled of woodsmoke and sweat, and the acrid taste of gunpowder still tainted the air.

  Durrant found a teamster and arranged to leave his horse. Shouldering his haversack, he set off to forage for a hot meal, however meagre. He was surprised to hear his name called as he passed by a tent erected on dry ground near the entrance to the compound. Dr. Saul Armatage emerged, wiping his bloody hands on an operating gown.

  Durrant adjusted his pack and reached out his left hand as the man approached.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Durrant?” the doctor demanded, but he was smiling when he said it.

  Durrant looked around as if asking himself the same question. “I just arrived, coming on Steele’s orders.”

  “Late to the party by about three hours.”

  “Are there many dead?”

  “Nine on our side, including Captain John French. He led the charge into Batoche this very afternoon. I wish you had been here to see it, Durrant. It was quite the show. Old Middleton making haste to catch up and lead his men.”

  Durrant looked saddened. “How many dead on both sides?”

  “Twenty-five on the battlefield . . .”

  “You say twenty-five on the battlefield.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “The way you say that, Saul . . .”

  The sun was down and the camp was dark. Lamps were being lit to cast illumination on the final hours of the long day. “Yes, it is a peculiar thing. Men died on the field of battle, but just a few hours ago, we found a man dead right here, inside the zareba.”

  “A sniper? I noticed that the banks of the Saskatchewan would prove hard to defend against.”

  “We did have some trouble from the Dakota Sioux along the riverbanks the first night. Peppered the camp with rifle fire throughout the eve of the ninth. Nobody could get a wink of sleep. This man wasn’t shot by a sniper. He was a teamster, was taken at point-blank range and died where he fell. He was murdered, Durrant. We have a man in irons for it.”

  AFTER SUNDOWN, THE temperature was near freezing. Durrant Wallace, Saul Armatage, and a dozen other men sat around a fire. “Tell me what you can about this murder, Saul. I can see it’s playing on your mind,” said Durrant.

  Saul took a branding iron and moved the coals of the fire around, sending a shower of sparks up to circle above them in the night sky. “The dead man’s name is Reuben Wake. He was a foreman with the teamsters. Yesterday he came back from the skirmish at Jolie Prairie with a bullet in his right arm.” Saul paused to indicate the flesh on his own bicep where the man had been wounded. “I dug the bullet out and patched him up but forbid him from joining in today’s affair. He was likely to cause his own death, not being able to handle a horse or a gun.” Saul immediately regretted his choice of words. Durrant shifted awkwardly.

  “He was pretty miffed about being sidelined, mind you. He kept ranting about wanting to get back in the mix with the half-breeds. Today, after the first offensive failed and Middleton came back to stew, I saw Wake milling about the camp. When the charge was signalled this afternoon, he was still in the zareba, but with all the artillery fire and shooting, nobody heard the shot that killed him. He was found about three o’clock. As I understand it, a search was conducted by a number
of men here in the camp and a Métis deserter named La Biche was put in irons. I’m told he still had the murder weapon on his person: Wake’s own Colt Navy revolver, with two rounds fired.”

  “You weren’t in the compound at that time, Saul?”

  “When Middleton finally mustered his own company and moved on Batoche, I went along and set up a field hospital in the town itself. I was there until about an hour before you arrived.”

  “So what is it that’s troubling you, then?”

  “Besides the fact that a man has been murdered in the first place, it’s that the killer was found so swiftly, and still in possession of the weapon that did the deed. It just doesn’t sit well with me. If you killed a man and intended to get away with it, wouldn’t you dispose of the weapon?”

  “Maybe he was holding it as a trophy?” Durrant eyed the other men around the fire. “What do we know about the murdered man?”

  “I know very little of him. Mr. Wake had lived in Regina for some years and he owned a livery stable, but I don’t know much else.”

  “What about you men?” Durrant motioned to the men warming themselves by the fire. “Who knew this man Reuben Wake?”

  He watched their faces in the firelight. They kept their eyes down. One man spit a stream of tobacco juice into the fire, and it sizzled on the logs burning there. “Nobody here knew this man?”

  “There are two hundred in the service of the horses,” replied a grenadier from Winnipeg. “How could we know each and every one?”

  Again the group fell silent. Durrant watched as the men shuffled. “Your silence says more than your words.”

  “You’ve not changed one bit, Durrant,” said a man walking into the circle of light. He was tall and broad in the shoulders and stout around the waist. He wore the heavy field coat and cape of the North West Mounted Police. Several of his comrades moved aside so he could sit on a wooden plank bench.

  “I should say you have!” Durrant stood and limped to the man, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you, Tommy.”

  “And you, Durrant. I heard about your business at the end of the line last spring. It was good to know that the old Sergeant Wallace had finally returned to service.”

  Durrant returned to his seat and turned to Saul. “Tommy Provost was one of the lads who plucked me from the Cypress Hills in ’81.”

  “I remember now.” Saul shook a finger at Provost. “It’s you I have to thank for all this grief in my life.”

  “Don’t blame me, Doctor.” Provost packed tobacco into his pipe.

  “I had heard you had left Fort Walsh, but I lost track of you after that,” said Durrant.

  “I did. I went to work for Commissioner Irvine in Regina when it was seen fit to move headquarters there.”

  “That would explain the nobleness of your stature and the heartiness of your girth,” said Durrant, and several of the men laughed.

  “Laugh if you like, Durrant. It’s a good bit of work, and I get to keep my eye on things clear across the territories. As I’m getting on, it’s nice not to have saddle sores each and every day.”

  “And yet here we are.”

  “I couldn’t resist the temptation for one last adventure.”

  “They found you a uniform that fit?” teased Durrant.

  “We just let the old one out a little around the waist.” Tommy patted his tummy. “And sewed on a couple more bars . . .” He indicated the flashings on his sleeve demonstrating the rank of staff sergeant.

  “He outranks you, Sergeant Wallace.” Saul exaggerated a cautionary tone. “Best mind your manners.”

  “Don’t I always? So, Staff Sergeant, I suppose, given your posting so close to the top of the echelon in Regina, you must have known this fellow Reuben Wake?”

  “I know of him. There’s a difference,” said Provost.

  “Then what do you have to tell?”

  “Just rumour and gossip is all.”

  Durrant looked around the circle of men by the fire. “It may well come to pass that this man’s death was simply an unfortunate side story to the rebellion, but I for one should like to know for certain before we send a man to hang. It may be just gossip, but there is almost always a shadow of the truth in every story. Let it be told.”

  Tommy Provost looked at his comrades. Most of the men looked down at their feet or into the flames. “Well,” he confided, “I heard it told that Reuben Wake—” He paused. Durrant’s eyes rested none too gently on him. “I heard it told that Wake had his way with a girl out by Dumont’s Crossing. This tale got repeated among the soldiers here at Batoche; the man whose daughter Wake molested was held up with Riel before the fighting got under way.”

  “You think that this man somehow managed to learn of this foul deed and took it upon himself to slip into the zareba and kill Mr. Wake with his own pistol?” asked Durrant.

  “It’s possible,” answered another man. “If a man set his mind to it he could easily slip into the zareba.”

  “Even a man of Métis complexion?” asked Durrant.

  “We have many Métis here among us. Not all have taken up arms with Riel. Some in fact are here among our own field force.”

  Durrant’s face registered astonishment at the story. “Does any man here know the name of the father? It wasn’t this man in irons, this Terrance La Biche?” The men shook their heads.

  Saul Armatage spoke. “His name was Lambert. Jacques Lambert. I too have heard this story, and I can tell by your tone of voice, Sergeant, where this is going.”

  “Indeed,” said Durrant. “It troubles me that the dead man, Wake, may have brought this trouble on himself through his actions at Dumont’s Crossing. If this story was so well known, why wasn’t he arrested?”

  “Don’t be so incredulous, Durrant. It’s not so strange, is it?” asked Provost. “There was a lot of looting happening along the trail up from the Qu’Appelle where we decamped nearly a month and a half ago now. Some of the men took to ransacking the homes and farms of the Métis along the way, looking for food and blankets. After the affair at Fish Creek, I think some of the men bore a grudge. Maybe Mr. Wake was one of them.”

  Durrant watched his old friend. “Tommy, you and I have a long history. We rode west together in ’74. We served together at Walsh. I owe you my life. We’ve both been lawmen for more than a decade now, though I suppose each of us has been sidelined in his own way these last few years. I can tell you that a man who has his way with a girl in this manner isn’t exacting revenge. This isn’t some passing fancy that he up and decides to undertake: it’s bred in his bones and he’s just looking for the excuse.” Durrant paused and let that settle in. “So the gossip is that Reuben Wake had his way with a Métis woman as his revenge for the killing at Fish Creek—”

  “Not so much a woman as a young girl.” Provost looked at his boots. “Story is that she was just thirteen. That’s all I’ve heard of it. Rumour spreads like wildfire on the prairie, and it may be that this story got to the ears of the girl’s pappy.”

  “The man you have in custody has no relation to this girl?” asked Durrant.

  “Not that any can tell,” Provost said. “I’ve not spoken to the man, and likely won’t get the chance,” and by that Durrant knew he meant he didn’t want to. “From what I understand, and again this is just hearsay, he hasn’t said a word by way of confession. He was found in possession of Wake’s pistol, and two cartridges fired from it. One of them is in Wake’s brain.”

  “So we don’t know what this man La Biche’s motive might have been?”

  Provost shook his head.

  “What else do we know of Reuben Wake?” asked Durrant.

  “That’s all we know.” Provost looked at Durrant across the lick of flames.

  “Well, as we can’t ask the corpse himself, I suppose we’ll have to ask others this question and see what answers might arise.” Durrant stood with some difficulty and took up his crutch and his rifle.

  “Might as well leave it alone,” another man
cautioned. “Dead is dead and all the questions in the world ain’t going to bring this fellow back to the living.”

  “You might be right. From what you chaps tell me, there may have been more than one who wanted Reuben Wake dead, and if that’s the case, then Mr. La Biche may face the gallows for a crime he didn’t commit. That doesn’t sit well with me, and I hope it doesn’t sit right with you, Staff Sergeant.” Durrant was looking now at Tommy Provost.

  “It doesn’t, but I don’t think you or I will get much say in the matter.”

  The rest of the circle was silent. Durrant looked at Saul and signalled with a nod that he wanted a word. The two men stepped away from the fire and into the icy night air. “What do you make of this, Saul?”

  “It’s too simple to lay the blame on this La Biche fellow. I should like to know at least what his motive was before we go and hang him.”

  “I should like to find this Jacques Lambert and ask him of his whereabouts this afternoon. Where are these men now?” Durrant asked.

  “Terrance La Biche is locked in a makeshift stockade here in the compound and under guard. Sub-Inspector Dickenson won’t let you see him.”

  “Who is this Dickenson?”

  “He’s with F Division out of Regina; he’s taken control of the prisoner and won’t let others near the man. Refused me access to assess his health.”

  Durrant rubbed his whiskers, wondering what it was that made a man turn into a horse’s ass as soon as he reached the rank of sub-inspector. “What of Lambert?”

  “He’s in the infirmary. This man I have attended to. He was captured yesterday along the banks of the river, below our camp. I believe he may have tried to kill himself.”

  “First I’ll look in on La Biche, and then you and I will visit Lambert.”

  Saul shook his head. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve tried to pull rank on a superior officer, Durrant. Be careful. Powerful emotions have been stirred up with this rebellion. The fighting might be over at Batoche, at Duck Lake and Fish Creek, but the feud smoulders all around. There is something in the death of Reuben Wake that makes me fear that all of the blood over Riel’s rebellion has yet to be spilled.”