The Third Riel Conspiracy (10 page)

“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, but 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

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.

Durrant scanned the surrounding landscape. The shot seemed to have come from the south, along the bluffs above the river. There was a dense tangle of tall willows there. He immediately considered that there might be more than one man lying in wait, so he turned and scanned the country to the north. The nearest cover was nearly five hundred yards off, a low cluster of willows and a few aspens that might conceal a man. His quick visual reconnaissance complete, Durrant had to decide what action to take next. Exasperating this effort, however, was a wave of self-loathing at being thrown into the dirt, without cover and poorly armed at that.

How could he have let this happen again? He should have insisted on interviewing Jasper Dire in the safety of the zareba. He knew he had little right to give orders to these men; his investigation was not official. Dire had led him here, even turned and sat his horse in the road as they spoke, and allowed some distance to be put between him and his fellow scouts. It suddenly occurred to Durrant that Jasper Dire himself may have doubled back along the rim of the river and was fixing the sights of his Winchester on him now.

That was just one possibility. It was just as likely that the man Durrant sought had been alerted when he left the zareba.

Durrant laid his Enfield on the road and reached down to hike up the left leg of his wool trousers. There was a thick smear of blood where the prosthetic had bit into his stump when he was thrown. He did his best to reaffix the leg using its suction socket and then rolled down the blood-wet pant leg. He picked up his pistol.

Durrant fixed his eyes on the hedgerow to his south. If he waited long enough, someone would come along the trail and find him. It was the safest course of action: when his horse returned to the zareba riderless, the teamsters would send out a party to look for him.

Jasper Dire was certainly in the best position to frame Terrance La Biche. If he was working with Sub-Inspector Dickenson, the two of them could have easily planted the pistol to prove La Biche's guilt. What connections were there between Dire, Wake, and Dickenson?

Durrant zeroed in on the association: all three men hailed from Regina. While the men fighting at Batoche and Fish Creek were from all across the Dominion, these three men called Regina home. Durrant thumbed the worn hammer of his Enfield. This postulation was not getting him any further ahead. He wouldn't just wait for some rider to come along and find him, hapless as a fish out of water, lying in the dirt of the road. Durrant forced himself to stand. He felt the uneasy sensation in his chest as he imagined the shooter zeroing in on him. Instead of walking back toward Batoche and the safety of the zareba, Durrant turned south and, with the Enfield held at his side, walked toward the verge of willows.

Travelling over the rough, muddy ground was hard for Durrant. He planted his feet carefully, measuring each step against the risk of falling. He scanned the shrub border before him, pistol pointing toward the unknown gunman. He made the willows after a few minutes of slow, careful walking and, using the Enfield, parted the bushes. Durrant looked back at the Humboldt Trail. He could see where his horse had thrown him. He could see his own path through the frost-tipped grass; it traced a dark line through the silvery dew. The frost was what allowed him to see clearly where his assailant had been. Behind the first row of willows, not twenty feet from where Durrant had entered the verge, he saw a place where a man had lain, the grass dark from the man's heat. And there, caught up in the vetch, two shell casings from a .32-calibre rifle.

Durrant picked them up and slipped them into his pocket. He peered into the darkness of the hedge, the barrel of his Enfield tracking an arc across his line of sight. A branch snapped. Durrant could see the path his shooter had taken. The world became a tunnel through which he peered toward the possible threat. Durrant heard movement in the tangle of growth, and he quietly thumbed the hammer on the pistol, the cylinder rotating as a .38-calibre cartridge was positioned beneath the firing pin. Time seemed to halt.

Something red moved in his peripheral vision. Durrant quickly swung his pistol toward the motion. Could this be a red jersey? He straightened his left arm, aiming. He drew a steadying breath.

A red fox stepped from the willows just fifteen feet from where Durrant crouched. He released a long breath and the fox, startled, bolted for cover.

THEY MET HIM
after he'd walked half a mile toward the zareba. Garnet Moberly was riding at a gallop in the fore, three other men from the Survey Division following close on his heels. They had the horse tethered behind them, and it was breathing hard and sweating. “Are you all right?” Garnet dropped from his mount and scanned the country around him. He had his rifle in his hands.

“I'm fine, Garnet. No need for the cavalry.” The other riders had fanned out around them and were scanning the open ground for signs of trouble, rifles held at the ready.

“What happened?”

Durrant dug into his pocket and produced the two shell casings. He held them out in his hand for Garnet to see.

Garnet took them in his hand and considered them. “You're not hit?”

“Not even close. My horse spooked pretty good and threw me. I went and looked for the shooter, but this is all I found. The gunman is long gone, and the woods there along the riverbank are a maze of animal trails. I don't think we'll find anything now.”

Garnet looked down at the shell casings in his hand. “Thirty-two calibre. Same round as fired from the Winchester. Standard issue.”

“Not for the Métis.”

IT WAS WELL
past the noon hour when Durrant rode into the zareba. He watched the faces of the men he passed with interest, hoping to detect some glance, some sign, that might give away the identity of his attacker. But he could see none.

He rode straight to the stables and dismounted, leaving the horse with a young stable hand. He took his cane from the cinch strap of the saddle and headed off to meet Saul Armatage. Passing a buckboard wagon, he overheard a heated argument between Sub-Inspector Dickenson and a well-dressed, elegant-looking man who wore a beaver-felt hat and a long, dark heavy coat. Durrant stepped back behind the wagon but could not make out what they were saying. He decided on a more direct approach and simply turned the corner once more and kept on walking.

“Good afternoon, Sub-Inspector,” he said as he walked past the men, trying not to betray the ache in his leg and back from his fall.

“Wallace,” said Dickenson by way of greeting, his closely set eyes regarding Durrant contemptuously. The man in the beaver-felt hat turned to consider the one-legged man.

“Who is your companion, Sub-Inspector?”

The well-dressed man scowled. “I am Stanley Block. And who might you be?”

“Sergeant Durrant Wallace, North West Mounted Police.” Durrant extended his left hand.

“Mr. Block owns
The Regina Examiner
.”

“Always a pleasure to meet an esteemed member of the fourth estate. What brings you to Batoche?”

“I am here to cover this great expedition of General Middleton's army.”

“I see. It
has
been something of a grand adventure,” responded Durrant.

“Have you been involved in the fighting?”

“No, sir, I just arrived at Batoche four nights ago. The first shots I heard were just this morning on the Humboldt Trail!” Durrant let his gaze slip from Block to Dickenson.

“Do tell, Sergeant,” said Block.

“Not much to tell.” Durrant watched for a reaction. “Likely just someone out hunting for his supper.”

“Mr. Block”—Dickenson shifted his weight from his left to his right foot—“I must attend to my prisoners.”

“Have you been out hunting today?” Durrant asked Dickenson.

Dickenson's face seemed to curl at the edges. Durrant could see the tips of several teeth, like bared fangs, press against his lower lip. “If I had been, I would have certainly bagged my prey.”

Block turned back to Dickenson. “Sub-Inspector, I suppose that we will have to settle the matter some other time.”

Durrant watched Dickenson stalk away, then turned to Block. “Sounded like the two of you were having words, if you don't mind my saying.”

“Nothing of consequence. A newspaperman has got to do his digging, is all. I had wanted a word with the murderer of Reuben Wake. He was a well-known member of the community in Regina and his killing will cause a stir.”

“Dickenson would not permit it?”

Block shrugged. “There's always another way, Sergeant.”

“Indeed there is. What is the story you have to tell about what happened here at Batoche, Mr. Block?”

“There are many stories to tell in a campaign such as this. The battle itself is just one. It is the human element that enthralls readers and makes them wish to turn the page and buy the paper again the next morning.”

“And that is what it is all about, is it not, Mr. Block?”

“What's that, Sergeant?”

“Selling papers.”

“I take offence to that, sir.”

“Take it if you wish, Mr. Block, but I am only speaking the truth of the matter. You are in Batoche to print stories and sell your papers?”

“You make it sound tawdry. There is nothing wrong with a businessman wishing to sell his wares.”

“I agree insomuch that the manufacture of those wares comes at such a cost—”

“There is no basis for such an accusation. Riel has been spoiling for a fight since '74. He should have been hanged then for the death of Thomas Scott. Instead Macdonald let him evade capture and seek his asylum in the United States of America. If Riel had been a Protestant and a Liberal that would never have happened. I am only reporting on the goings-on. The press has had no hand in creating this conflict whatsoever.”

“Every word you have penned has been fuel for the fire of this rebellion.”

Block shook his head. “The press is an important part of our democracy in this young nation, Sergeant. We hold the elected representatives in Ottawa to account. We press the case of these backwoods locales with the elected officials. Someone must be made to answer for what has happened here.”

“Is that so? I take it then, sir, that you are not a member of the Conservative press?”

“If I must take a side, I would say that I am a Liberal, but that doesn't matter. What matters is presenting the truth of the story.”