The Third Riel Conspiracy (17 page)

“Good afternoon, Father.” Durrant stopped, feeling his leg pulsing. If Charlene had been here, he would have caught hell from her for overdoing it.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

“Just out enjoying the weather?”

“I was awaiting your return.”

They stepped into the church, and Durrant felt the warmth of the fire in the woodstove that graced its centre. Since the sergeant had been in the sanctuary on the thirteenth of May, Lefèbvre had restored some order to the space. “What is it that you were so anxious to tell me?” asked Durrant.

“I understand that you are to move Mr. La Biche to Regina in the morning.”

“News travels fast in Batoche.”

“Even a priest is not without recourse to the news of the day.”

“Do you have some new information to share?” The priest sat down and pressed his eyes shut. “Father, you understand that it is I who is now in charge of this investigation. It is your duty to tell me what you know.”

“La Biche could not have killed Reuben Wake.” The priest looked up, his face stern. “It was not his orders.” Durrant remained silent as Lefèbvre looked down again. “He was not to kill him, despite how much he and many others wanted to. That would be a crime against God. He was to watch him, and if Wake got close to . . . to undertaking his own foul mission, then he was to intervene, but no one was to be killed.”

The silence of the sanctuary was disturbed only by the howl of the wind. “Father, you're going to have to explain a little further.”

The priest stood and walked a few feet, then turned to face Durrant. A momentary feeling of uneasiness came over him, as if he'd underestimated the man because of his faith. “There are those here in Batoche, and elsewhere across the Saskatchewan Territory, who believe that Louis Riel cannot be allowed to stand trial and be hanged for what has happened here. Not just Métis, but whites too. They have a plan to free him.”

“I have heard of this conspiracy, Father. I assure you, Mr. Riel is well guarded. His route to Regina is a closely held secret. Even I do not know it.”

“That may be so, but you do not understand the passion with which these people regard him. He is not just a leader to them, he is a prophet. To allow him to hang for returning to Batoche would be a sin. So they . . . so
we
have planned from the start that if he was to be captured, we would move to free him.

“But just as there is always a light in this world, there is darkness. And while Mr. La Biche, and others . . . myself . . . are that light, Reuben Wake and his lot are the very darkness at midnight. Wake's colleagues still plan to kill Riel. When it was discovered that Wake and this Regina Group were to be among the soldiers at Fish Creek and then here at Batoche, we had to get close. Mr. La Biche volunteered to infiltrate the enemy camp to keep watch over Wake and the others. Should things go poorly for the Métis and Riel be captured, only then was he to intervene. He was not to commit a sin against God. There was to be no murder, no matter how vile the foe was.”

Durrant watched as the priest paced back and forth, his hands clasped so tightly that his fingers showed white.

“What would he have done if Wake had made a move against Riel?”

“If it had come to that, he would have alerted the guards, or even Middleton himself. If he had to, he would have detained Wake. In the worst case, he would have shielded Riel with his own body.”

“To me that seems like a gambit. La Biche would never have gotten near General Middleton. For all you know, there are those within the field force who are sympathetic to the Regina Group. How could La Biche have known that the guard he protested to would not have been one of Wake's confederates?”

“He could not, but it was something we had to prepare for and try to prevent.”

“To me it seems far more likely that La Biche decided to eliminate the most obvious threat.”

“What good would killing just one man do, Sergeant, when there are so many other members of the Regina Group in your very midst? They wear all manner of disguises, and La Biche could not hope to eliminate them all. No, he was to watch and sound the alarm, and that is all.”

“He has admitted to me, and others, that his aim was to kill Wake. He stashed a weapon with which to do so.” Durrant stood and walked to the front of the church. Lefèbvre followed him.

“I implore you, sir, do not send this man to the gallows for a crime he did not commit. Someone else had it in for Reuben Wake, and for reasons I cannot even begin to speculate on. If La Biche is to hang, and Riel is left to the mercy of the Regina Group, then there shall be no justice at all from this sorrowful endeavour.”

“Father”—Durrant turned to consider the man—“I assure you that very little good shall come of this conflagration. When the first shots were fired in this conflict, the reasons for them were lost in the din. All that history will remember of this day is that Métis and Indians fought and lost, and the reasons why will fade into the dust.”

“I fear that you are correct, Sergeant, but must we compound that disaster with even more sorrow?”

“My aim to ensure that justice is carried out, Father Lefèbvre. The power of people's hatred for this man Wake is shocking, even to me. You yourself have called him the devil, a curse that I suspect has no equal in your vocabulary.”

“But that does not make me a killer.”

“It does not, but it gives you clear cause. And in my business, motive is often the best evidence.”

The priest turned a moment in the aisle. “This is a house of God, Sergeant. And I am his servant. Surely you could not be suggesting that I was somehow entangled in the death of this man, no matter how heinous his life was?”

Durrant did not answer the question. “You had free rein to come and go during the events of those four days, did you not?”

“I did. As a man of the cloth I was permitted to provide last rites.”

“Tell me, Father, on the third day of the battle, when Boulton took his mounted infantry to La Jolie Prairie, did you happen to accompany either of the forces?”

“I did not.”

“You're lying to me, Father.”

The priest turned on him. “How dare you accuse me of lying, and here, in God's house!”

“I believe that you went to La Jolie Prairie on the third day of fighting. You went there to see for yourself what Reuben Wake and his compatriots were doing.” The priest sat down in a pew. “Father, do you possess a pistol?” The priest held his head in his hands now. “Do you own a firearm?”

“I don't.”

“Did you procure a firearm and on May 11 travel with the soldiers to La Jolie Prairie and there, upon seeing Reuben Wake alone with the horses, attempt to kill him?”

“No.”

“Father, please look at me.” Durrant stepped before the priest. Lefèbvre looked up; his face was red, his eyes clouded with tears. “Did you shoot Reuben Wake?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Did you see who did? The bullet that sidelined this man was not fired from the Métis skirmish line. Someone tried to kill him on that day, and failed. Perhaps this same man was successful on the following afternoon.”

“I saw none of this. I merely watched the conflict and prayed to God for peace.”

“Be that as it may, you must have seen something of Mr. Wake.”

“I was there to observe not only Mr. Wake.”

“Who else caught your attention that morning?”

“As I have told you, Sergeant, there are many within the field force who hold the beliefs of the Regina Group. Who controls the story of this event will control how history remembers it.”

“And who controls the story, Father?”

“Stanley Block does. He is first and foremost among those who would see Riel dead before he goes to trial.”

TWENTY

IT WAS LATE IN THE
afternoon when Durrant walked the Humboldt Trail back toward the zareba. After his conversations with Stanley Block and Father Lefèbvre, he felt as if he needed the evening to consider the interwoven conspiracies, and the motives they created, around the murder of Reuben Wake. He would not have such a luxury.

As he approached the camp he heard horses on the road. A dozen riders from General Middleton's mounted infantry thundered by him; the last rider to pass wheeled his horse in the road, and Durrant recognized Jasper Dire. “Sergeant, I would think, given the danger your life was in just a few days ago, you would be sticking closer to the safety of the zareba.”

“You would be wrong, Mr. Dire.”

Dire swung down from his mount and patted the horse on its flank. Its hindquarters shivered. Durrant was once again startled by the contrast of the man's jet-black hair and his clear blue eyes. “Is it true that you were once shot and left for dead—”

“Yes,” interrupted Durrant. “And the men who did it are still at large after these five years.”

“That must burn.”

“Like glowing embers, Mr. Dire. But I do not let it consume me,” Durrant lied. A day hadn't passed since leaving Calgary that he didn't think about Jeb Ensley, his brother Bud, and the prospect of bringing them to justice for their crimes high in the Cypress Hills.

“Would you like to walk with me back to the camp?” asked Dire.

“Certainly. Are you for Fort Pitt in the morrow?” asked Durrant.

“I am, along with the rest of the company, of course. I only wish that we had ridden as soon as the conflict was finished here, so that we could be of some aid in tracking down Big Bear and his Cree. I should like to get in on that fight.”

“There may still be a fight to join. Steele hasn't tracked Big Bear to the end of the trail yet.”

“There is simply too much country to cover. I will go with my company, but I fear we will miss the fun.”

“You seem to have changed your tune.”

“Have I?”

“When we spoke just a few days ago, you pined to return to Regina; now you seem disappointed that you will soon have to.”

“I suppose. The din of the cannon was still in my ears then. A few days of idleness has returned my zeal. It's more the hunt that is exciting.”

“You are a sportsman?”

“I've been known to take some game from time to time. I grew up south of Regina, close to the Montana line. We hunted the coulees along the Missouri breaks and up into the Cypress Hills. It's only recently that I've moved to Regina.”

“Why leave the country?”

“Opportunity, I suppose. So tomorrow,” said Dire quickly, “I will ride for Fort Pitt. And you, Sergeant? I should think that your work here must be done.”

“Only starting, in fact, Mr. Dire.”

“You are not satisfied that La Biche is your man?” Dire asked, seeming perplexed.

“Mr. La Biche denies having the Colt in his possession when you apprehended him.” Durrant stopped and looked at the man. “I've been asked to lead this investigation now. You tell me that you found that pistol in Mr. La Biche's coat. He denies it. What I can't understand is how he came by it. He even went so far as to stow a hatchet to do the job. I've found
that
weapon. La Biche has a good motive too. What he didn't have was an opportunity.”

“He had every opportunity. Nobody was guarding him. You think the cook and his peelers were going to stop him? He could have gone to visit the head and done Wake in.”

“And so why not boast of the act, given the vile feelings that Mr. La Biche seemed to harbour?”

“The promise of the noose would clam any man up.”

“I'm not convinced.”

“Well, you should be. I found that man.”

“What is it that worries you?”

“Nothing at all worries me.”

“You are practised at appearing calm, but your emotions betray you, Mr. Dire. You're flushed. Your breathing has changed.”

“The suggestion that I am not being forthright with you has me irked, is all.”

“Is that it? Or is it something else?”

“Mr. Wallace, I wish that you would just be plain with me.”

“It's Sergeant Wallace, Mr. Dire. And to be plain I will say this: the first person I suspect of being a killer is the one who finds the body.”

Dire stopped in his tracks as if he'd struck a wall. He regarded Wallace with astonishment. “Well, I found Mr. La Biche. There were several of us who then went in search of the murdered man. Are you suggesting that because I was present when Wake's body was found that I am a suspect?”

Durrant watched the man stammer on the words. “I didn't say that. But your presence at the centre of this murder investigation leaves me with more questions than answers, Mr. Dire.”

“I have no reason to have wanted Wake dead. I didn't even know the man.”

“Did you not? Regina is a small town. Have you heard of the Regina Group?”

“No, should I have?”

“They are a secret order, a conspiracy of sorts. Their purpose is to kill Louis Riel before he can stand trial to keep him from speaking. To protect those who would be harmed by what he has to say.”

“Who?”

“Their political masters in the East. Those who sent you to march on Riel and his uprising, and who will be embarrassed by what he has to tell at trial.”

“Riel could have just as easily been killed in the fighting.”

“I suspect this Regina Group was taking no chances.”

“I simply have no idea what you are talking about. I lead a very dull life in Regina. I do not associate with the sort of political men who would devise such a conspiracy.”

“You shoot with a Webley pistol, Mr. Dire. I'd like to see it.”

Wake upholstered his pistol and handed it to Wallace. Durrant took it in his left hand and flipped open the cylinder.

“Take off your gloves, Mr. Dire.”

“What for?”

“I want to see your hands.”

“Sergeant Wallace, this is most unusual—” Dire pulled off his riding gauntlets and pushed them into his belt. Durrant held the Webley pistol under his arm and took Dire's hands in his. The fingers on both hands were black as pitch.