The Third Riel Conspiracy Page 7

  In the darkness Durrant pulled on his prosthetic and stood up stiffly. Garnet Moberly appeared from the gloom, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. Silently he handed one to Durrant. Garnet spoke first. “I am told that my company is to make for Fort Pitt in the coming days.” Durrant said nothing. After a moment Garnet added, “You seem distracted.”

  “I am. I can’t help but think about what Father Lefèbvre told us yesterday. The devil himself, he called Wake.”

  “It may simply be the spirit of the times,” said Garnet.

  “I don’t think so. Certainly the priest has a passion for Riel, and for his cause, but to hear him tell it, there was much more to Reuben Wake than we know. His subterfuge in infiltrating Dumont’s expedition to Sun River would be reason enough to want the man dead, but there seems to be more to it than that.”

  Garnet finished his coffee. “What do you want to do?”

  “Rouse Saul. Before this outfit breaks up and rides for its various postings, let’s see if we can’t learn more about Mr. Wake and those who held a grudge against him.”

  DURRANT CONSIDERED HIS options. He would need Saul in order to track down the whereabouts of Mr. Lambert. Father Lefèbvre suddenly appeared amid the baggage and crates stacked around the zareba. His dark robes nearly concealed him, and Durrant found himself reaching for his weapon for the second time.

  “You have a way of appearing that will one day get you shot full of holes, Father Lefèbvre.” Durrant relaxed his hand on the hilt of his Enfield.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to startle. It’s just that when I learned that Middleton is preparing to move, I feared I would not have another chance to plead the case of Mr. La Biche.”

  Durrant indicated a wood stump with his chin and sat down on an adjacent upturned crate. “I haven’t been able to speak with Mr. La Biche for several days, as his guards have moved him.”

  “Where to? And why?”

  “Mr. La Biche is not my prisoner.”

  “Are you not investigating the murder of Wake?”

  “No, Father, there is no investigation. The man who is responsible for his detention sees no need for further inquiry. I am pressing him to consider other options.”

  “It is as I feared. La Biche is to hang for a crime he did not commit.”

  “Not yet, Father. I do believe there are a fair number of questions that must be answered before I can be convinced of this man’s guilt or innocence. Questions that an impartial judge would want answered before he passed a verdict on such a case.”

  The priest folded his hands together in front of himself as if in prayer. “Let me pose a few more questions for your consideration.” He looked around quickly, then leaned forward toward Durrant. “I do not know who to trust. Even you, sir, are unknown to me, and thus so is your allegiance. I must trust someone, and you have the look about you that tells me that, above all else, you prize the truth.”

  “As a member of the North West Mounted Police I prize justice, and it is my pledge to serve Queen and country in its pursuit. My allegiance is to the Dominion of Canada.”

  “There are those even within the field force under Middleton’s charge who are members of a dark conspiracy.”

  “Surely not against the Queen.” Durrant’s posture stiffened.

  “No, not against the Dominion,” Lefèbvre shook his head, “but against justice; against Riel.”

  “Father, Louis Riel took up arms against Queen and country and for that will be tried for treason. The punishment if he is found guilty is death.”

  “You misunderstand me, sir. You and I will have to disagree about the justness of Riel’s act of . . . resistance. I can assure you that his cause was just. The manner by which his people, and the Indians who follow him, have been treated is simply barbaric. The conspiracy of which I speak is not one to see him in irons and hanged, but rather one to ensure that he is dead long before he takes the prisoner’s dock in Regina. It is a conspiracy that would see Riel silenced before he can utter a word in his own defence.”

  Durrant regarded the priest gravely. “Are you telling me that somehow the murder here on the battlefield of Batoche is entangled with this conspiracy?”

  “I simply can’t say with certainty, Sergeant. So much of what has happened here this fortnight has been shrouded in confusion and the fog of war. Reuben Wake was almost certainly involved in this trickery. Why else would he have taken it upon himself to infiltrate Dumont’s Sun River expedition? I would be willing to bet, and I do not say this lightly, that if you were to search every fold in the earth in the hills around Batoche, the Métis teamster who was to accompany Dumont to Sun River would be found dead, and by Wake’s hand.”

  “Do you have any evidence of this?”

  “My faith is all the evidence I need. It was not by chance that Reuben Wake found himself in Batoche the very day that Dumont was in desperate need of a man who could manage the horses on such a long journey. It is no coincidence that the appointed teamster was nowhere to be found and has not been seen since! In fulfilling the role of aide-de-camp, Reuben Wake’s aim was not to assist Dumont, but to seek a way to scuttle Riel’s return.”

  “He failed in that effort.”

  “He did, and the why of this is beyond my knowledge. Terrance La Biche may have had cause to want Reuben Wake dead, but he was by no means the only one. Had he committed the crime he would be crowing from the rooftops about his deed, and, God have mercy on my soul, so might I.”

  “Father, where were you on the afternoon of the twelth of May when the charge was sounded?”

  “I was . . . I was in my church, praying to God for the souls of his faithful servants.”

  “Were there others there with you?”

  “The holy spirit was with me, Sergeant Wallace.”

  “In the past I have found that he is unreliable in verifying a man’s alibi.”

  “Surely you can’t—”

  “Father Lefèbvre, you said yourself that you would like to have seen Wake killed.”

  “I am a man of God.”

  “I have known of more than one man who could kill in the name of the Lord.” The priest stood up quickly. Durrant continued, “Father, I think it wise for you to remain in Batoche until I tell you otherwise.”

  “I will remain in Batoche to help these people find solace in God as they rebuild their lives. And then I will follow Riel and offer what comfort I can as he faces the threat of the gallows. If you wish to stop me, Sergeant Wallace, then you will have to use the force of your arms.”

  Saul Armatage and Garnet Moberly stepped into view. The priest turned to regard the two men. “I must go,” he said. “There is much more at stake here than meets the eye.” Then, his robes pitching behind him, he disappeared into the clamour of the zareba.

  “What was all that about?” asked Saul.

  “That, friends, was Father Lefèbvre doing his level best to assert the innocence of one man while unwittingly impugning another.”

  “I assume he was here to argue for La Biche’s innocence,” said Saul. “Who was he implicating?”

  “Himself,” said Durrant.

  NINE

  THE HUMBOLDT TRAIL

  “YOU DON’T SERIOUSLY THINK THAT Father Lefèbvre located Reuben Wake’s pistol and then dispatched him with it, do you?” asked Saul.

  “I don’t rightly know what to think, Saul,” said Durrant.

  “How would he have known where Wake’s pistol was?” asked Garnet.

  “The same question could be asked of Terrance La Biche. It seems equally unlikely that either man could have known. Both men freely admit to their hatred for Wake, and one has confessed to conspiring to kill the man.”

  “I don’t believe that discovering the killer’s motive will lead to a conviction in the case of Mr. Wake’s murder,” said Garnet. “Access to the murder weapon—means—and opportunity will carry the day.”

  “I believe you are right, Mr. Moberly.” Durrant stood. “I need to talk with the ma
n who found the body of Reuben Wake.”

  HE DIDN’T HAVE to search long to find the man he was looking for. Near the stables, he was directed to where a small company of men was preparing to ride.

  “Hold up there a moment, Mr. Dire.” Wallace pressed hard on his cane as he crossed the muddy enclosure. Several horses stamped their feet as he approached.

  Dire was a tall man, over six feet, and lean and long in the limbs. He wore the uniform of a militiaman, with a pistol holstered on his right side and a Winchester 76 fitted in a boot scabbard on the left flank of his horse. He wore heavy riding gauntlets on his hands. He looked down as Durrant approached and smiled cheerfully.

  “Are you Jasper Dire?” asked Durrant.

  “I am that.”

  “Sergeant Durrant Wallace, North West Mounted Police.”

  “Ah, good. I assume you’ve come to claim Mr. La Biche and see that he is delivered to justice.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Durrant carefully. “I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t, but General Middleton might.”

  “This won’t take but a moment.”

  “That may be so, but that’s all it will take to have me cast in irons for failing to follow an order. If you wish to talk, then mount up and ride along awhile.”

  Durrant looked around and caught the eye of a teamster. “Can you spare a mount for half an hour?”

  The teamster turned and took the reins of a tan quarter horse and walked it over to the sergeant. “Care for a leg up, sir?” the teamster asked, but Durrant simply slung himself up into the saddle and slipped his cane under the cinch straps.

  “I’m just fine, thank you.” Durrant turned to Dire. “Let’s ride.”

  There were a dozen men including Dire and Durrant that set out along the Humboldt Trail, riding along the crest of the dell that dropped toward the Saskatchewan River. They took the gate of the zareba at a trot but soon put the spurs to their mounts and thundered east for a few hundred yards. When the compound was in the distance, they slowed. Dire looked over his shoulder and pulled back on the reins with gloved hands. “That ought to do it. We’ve got to make a show for Middleton when we take our leave, but there’s no sense running these beasts ragged just to hunt down a few farmers and blacksmiths still hiding in the weeds.”

  The other men fanned out along the trail, several of them taking the fixings for a pipe from the folds of their coats. Durrant asked, “So, you were the one to arrest La Biche?”

  “That’s right. Caught the fellow pretty much red-handed.”

  “How did this come to pass?”

  “Well, Sergeant, if you must know, there was quite the confusion that afternoon. It seems that Middleton’s feint through La Jolie Prairie was a bit of a middling effort, and he returned to the zareba in something of a foul mood. He gave the go-ahead to others to try for the fortifications at the Mission Ridge and we decided to make a go of it. There was quite the ruckus as our men made for the gate and rode the Humboldt Trail for the Mission Ridge. I was among the last to catch my horse up, and as I did, I heard a shot from quite close by.” Dire slowed his horse and turned it to look back toward the compound, now a mile behind them.

  “I didn’t think there ought to be fighting so close in on the zareba. I figured maybe one of Dumont’s men had come upon our fortifications from the south and managed to climb the barricade. I feared that he might be trying something of a suicide run in our midst, so I made my way on foot as quick as I could toward the sound of the shot.”

  “You were alone?”

  “The others in my company had already mounted.”

  “And you went on foot?”

  “I hadn’t saddled up as yet, and it seemed easier for navigating my way among the wagons. I just looped the reins of my mount and drew my pistol.”

  “What do you shoot with?”

  “A Webley Mk IV. A .38.”

  “Near the same weapon as I carry.”

  “Likely as awkward. Tough in a pinch, I’ve found. Mind, I never did have to draw it in the last two months on the trail. The Winchester is a better weapon for open country.”

  “So, what did you find when you went to search?”

  “Nothing at first. But I did see a man who looked to be Métis making his way through the wagons and so I followed. He led me right back to the cookery. It was Mr. La Biche. I ordered him to stand pat and he did, and when I searched him I found that Colt revolver in his pocket. Barrel was still hot to the touch. Not much question that it had been fired recently. I gathered up a few fellows and we all went together to the paddock for a search. That’s when we spotted Wake just lying there in the mud.”

  “How did he look when you found him?”

  “He had a hole shot in the side of his head as big as a silver dollar. There wasn’t much in the way of blood, just a big dark hole.”

  “He had been shot more than once?”

  “Not that I could see. I didn’t handle him. The Red Coats took over then. I haven’t laid eyes on the cadaver since.”

  “Have you ever seen a man shot before?”

  Dire shook his head. “Back in Regina, I work in a warehouse. I go to church on Sunday. I live a pretty quiet life, Sergeant Wallace. I’ve never seen a man shot before this.”

  “Not even in the four days of fighting at Batoche?”

  “I think I saw one of the Métis in a rifle pit hit, but it had to be three hundred yards away. Not like this.”

  “After you’d found Mr. Wake, what happened next?”

  “We threw the man in chains. One of the Mounted Police marched him right over to a wagon where he was keeping a few other prisoners and chained him there. Later on a man named Dickenson came back from the fighting and asked me for the revolver, which I handed over. Said it was evidence. That was fine with me. I didn’t want it. That was the end of it. He sent me on my way.”

  “Did any other members of the Mounted Police come to ask you questions?”

  “Not till you.” They had turned and were riding again, several hundred yards back from the others.

  “What do you expect will happen to Mr. La Biche?” asked Dire.

  “If he’s guilty, then he will hang.”

  “He’s guilty, I believe. I don’t see any question about it. He had Wake’s own pistol. Said that he knew what Wake was up to, and that he had to be stopped for the good of the resistance.”

  “Say that again?”

  “Said that Wake had to be stopped for the good of the resistance.”

  “Did he confess to you or Dickenson?”

  “As near as.”

  “But did he say, ‘I killed that man because . . .’”

  “I can’t remember if he said those exact words.”

  Durrant was silent for a long moment. “Mr. Dire, I expect that you’re going to be called on to testify at Mr. La Biche’s trial. I would hope that you will remember to tell this story just as you’ve told me here today.”

  “I hope this whole business with Riel is over so that we can get on with life. It’s been a terrible distraction,” said Dire.

  Durrant thanked Dire and turned his horse and started back to the zareba. He had two miles to ride, and it was the first peace and quiet he had found to consider the events surrounding Reuben Wake’s death since arriving on the twelfth.

  It seemed possible, though not likely, that Terrance La Biche had killed Reuben Wake. He had, after all, been caught with the murder weapon, supposedly, and Wake’s own revolver at that. Was it the business in Sun River with Wake that motivated this Métis man to seek out Wake above all others? Or was it something in the history between the two men dating back even further?

  And what of this half-hearted confession that Wake had to be stopped? Stopped from doing what? If Durrant could ever get close enough to La Biche again, he would have to ask.

  Durrant was a mile from the zareba when the shot came. It sounded like little more than a crack in the still prairie air, b
ut the horse didn’t mistake it and reared up suddenly. Durrant grabbed the reins hard to pull the horse down, but the beast kicked and stepped and, when the second shot came, bucked hard and threw him to the Humboldt Trail. Durrant landed on his prosthetic and then his back and lay dazed on the ground a moment, staring at the sky. He heard the horse gallop off toward the compound.

  Gasping to pull air into his lungs, Durrant reached for and drew his revolver and cocked the hammer, carefully rolling onto his side. He was on an open stretch of road with few bushes or trees for cover. His first assessment was that a Métis sharpshooter was lying in wait along the crest of the bank of the Saskatchewan, just a few hundred yards to his southwest. If that was the case, why not fire on the party of riders who had just passed? Better chance of hitting one of a dozen men on horseback than just a solitary rider.

  His next thought was more sinister. Someone had witnessed his leaving the zareba and followed him, knowing he would return along this route. Someone who didn’t want him undertaking this investigation. A person, now unseen in the vast country that surrounded him, whose sights were set squarely on Durrant Wallace.

  TEN

  CROSSING THE FOX

  LYING FACE DOWN IN THE dirt of the Humboldt Trail, Durrant experienced the dream-like sensation of déjà vu. It had been almost five years since he had been gunned down in an ambush in the Cypress Hills while tracking moonshiners. His horse had been shot and Durrant had lost his left leg below the knee; his right hand had been deformed by frostbite while he clutched his pistol on the frozen ground. Now he lay on his side, his Enfield in his left hand, his whole body aching from being thrown. His prosthetic had been dislodged by the fall and was bent at an awkward angle. The horse was nowhere to be seen and likely halfway back to the zareba. He would need to reaffix the prosthetic if he was going to get anywhere in this open country.