The Third Riel Conspiracy (19 page)

Durrant nodded and the two of them approached the tent at the centre of the circle, close to the fire. The corporal announced himself at the entrance. “You have a visitor, come to ask you questions. Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police.” Durrant stood to the side as the corporal opened the flap.

Durrant looked into the darkness. “Do you have a lamp?” he asked the corporal. The Mounted Policeman returned and lit the lamp; its light cast a pall over the tent. Durrant could see the man sitting on the side of a narrow cot. “Good evening, Mr. Riel. I have come to ask you a few questions, sir.”

The tent flap closed behind him.

PART TWO

TWENTY-TWO

MAY 18, 1885. BATOCHE.

Durrant slept little through the night. He watched the sparks from the fire drift into the dark sky and merge with the veil of stars that stretched across the firmament. He couldn't stop thinking about the words of Louis Riel—the traitor, the prophet. After two hours of conversation, Riel had said, “Life, without the dignity of an intelligent being, is not worth having.”

Durrant was already awake and had his things packed and coffee made when reveille sounded at five o'clock. Garnet Moberly and Saul Armatage accepted the brew. “I shall miss Mr. Jimmy's fare,” mumbled Saul.

The companions organized their kits, and Garnet went to the stables to secure their mounts. Durrant was stowing his armament when Saul approached him. “This business seems to suit you, Durrant. You seem like a new man.”

Durrant looked him straight in the eye. “I won't lie, Saul. You know me too well. As you put it, there is still much to
overcome
. The distraction of these past days in Batoche has helped.”

Saul noted that Durrant had his prized locket in his hand. He said, “Just so long as you know that your friends have got your back, Durrant. And I don't just mean in a tight pinch.”

“I understand.” Durrant carefully slipped the locket into his waistcoat.

“You still carry that thing everywhere?”

“Always will.” At that moment, however, Durrant's mind wasn't on the image frozen against the march of time in the tintype in the locket, but on another woman beyond his reach. “Wire me at Fort Pitt with your findings at the La Biche farm. Take care. Don't let the two constables I've assigned you to wander too far.”

Garnet appeared with their horses. They hung their bedrolls and travel bags on their mounts and then formed a sort of conference. “Garnet will wire me as soon as he reaches Regina,” said Durrant. “We can confer as to when the trial will be set for Mr. La Biche. I don't expect we have much time for our various investigations—maybe five or six weeks—and there is a lot of country to cover. We must be cautious. We can't know for certain who is a part of which conspiracy, and what other shadow hangs over this business. I fear that what we are dealing with reaches far beyond these North West Territories and pulls at the very fabric of the nation.”

“You're starting to sound like Garnet.” Saul was strapping his medical bag onto the back of his saddle.

“Well, then, maybe our departure is just in time,” snapped Durrant, but he didn't mean it. The three men shook hands. Durrant put his left leg in the stirrup and swung up onto his mount. He looked down at his two friends. “We'll see you in Regina.”

“For Victoria, Queen victorious!” Garnet raised a hand in the air and saluted Durrant.

Saul and Garnet waved as Durrant rode out of the zareba ahead of the chaos of the marching field force. It would be five weeks before the three men would see one another again, and during that interlude Durrant Wallace's life would change irrevocably.

DURRANT REACHED THE
far side of the Saskatchewan River and rode up out of the breaks. The aspens were starting to set fine green buds like delicate filigree. As the sun rose behind him, the hills along the Saskatchewan looked like they had been dusted with a light green powder. Durrant pushed his horse forward and rode the short distance to where the Dakota Sioux had their encampment. There were few fires burning, and the entire camp had the feel of bereavement hanging over it. It took only a moment for Durrant to determine that something was dreadfully amiss.

He dismounted and led his horse to the tipi of Iron Crow. He was stopped when the man's brother-in-law stepped out. The eastern sky was just flushing with dawn, and in that half-light Stands-his-Ground's face appeared drawn and old. “You have come too late, Red Coat. Iron Crow is dead.”

Durrant's face fell, and he said in his Lakota dialect, “I am sorry.”

“Men came and stole the food you gave to us. They said it wasn't yours to give. They said they were taking it back.”

Durrant felt a white-hot anger rise in him. He turned away so the man would not see his rage. A moment of silence hung between them. “When was this?”

“It was two days ago. A Red Coat and other men.”

“Did the Red Coat say his name?”

“No. He and some others just came with their guns and pointed them at us, at Iron Crow, and told us to give the food back.”

“Did you notice if he had stripes on his uniform?”

“No stripes. He wore a braid on his shoulder.” The Sioux man pointed to his own shoulder to indicate where the insignia was on the Mounted Policeman's epaulette.

“He was an officer,” said Durrant. “A sub-inspector.”

DURRANT WALLACE HAD
tracked men across frozen ground and in complete darkness, but this trail had been used by hundreds of horses over the last two weeks. He could not determine if Sub-Inspector Dickenson and his gang of thugs had travelled this way. All he could do was hope. It would take him four or five days of hard riding to reach Fort Pitt. His deepest desire was to catch up with Dickenson before he could be reassigned to a company that was pursuing the Cree north toward Frenchman's Butte. It seemed equally likely that after pilfering the Sioux's supplies Dickenson had ridden south along the Saskatchewan and doubled back toward Regina. Durrant would wire Grant Moberly and Tommy Provost. It was a long ride, and the nights were cold. One evening he knocked on the door of a farmhouse and was offered a hot meal and a bed by a Métis family. The other nights he slept rough, with his blankets clutched about him, his pistols close by, and a warming fire burning brightly.

He had time to think. Again and again Durrant considered his parley with Riel. While Durrant was convinced that the man was no prophet, this conclusion was reached because of Durrant's predilections, not Riel's. For Durrant, there was no way to right the hourglass; its sands had slipped away. There was nothing Riel or anybody else could say to convince Durrant that even a benevolent God could exist. The loss of his wife and child twelve years earlier had put an end to that question. Yet, in speaking with Riel, he understood why people believed him to be a modern messiah.

That there were those who feared Riel's words as much as his actions came as no surprise to Durrant. The motivation of those who conspired to kill Riel rather than allow him the pulpit of his legal defence was plain to see. Riel had revealed to Durrant that there had been some business around duelling conspiracies even before he had left Montana. He confided that some trouble had occurred in Sun River and that Dumont and the others had shielded him from it. When Durrant questioned him further, the man had simply said, “Look to Sun River for your answer.”

On Durrant's fourth day, the trail descended toward Fort Pitt. The weather was warmer and there were leaves on the willows and alders. He let up on his horse, which he had pushed too hard these last days trying to catch up with Dickenson and his mob. Durrant's first priority was the retrieval of the murder weapon, but he admitted to himself that the chance of finding it was slim now.

It was early evening on May 22 when he saw the fort on the bank of the Saskatchewan River. He sat his horse just below the crest of a broad hillside. He had the sun in his face and knew that only a careful observer might skylight him. There was more to be concerned about than Dickenson's mob of ruffians. On April 14, a skirmish between Big Bear's two hundred-strong Cree and the handful of poorly armed Mounted Police in the fort had left one Red Coat dead, another wounded, and a third man prisoner. The fort's commander had negotiated a truce, but it meant that he and his colleagues had to abandon civilians to Big Bear to be held as hostages while they skulked across the Saskatchewan Territory and made haste for Fort Battleford. It was not a high point for the North West Mounted Police.

Fort Pitt was now back in Dominion control, but there was little left. The Cree had burned it to the ground. Durrant could see that there were tents arranged around the charred buildings. The Union Jack flew high above the stockade's blackened walls.

Durrant rode down the hill and was soon stopped by a picket of Dominion soldiers. They let him pass when he identified himself as a member of the North West Mounted Police. He boarded his horse in the makeshift stable. A company of men from the Alberta Field Force had arrived just two days before him, but already they were at work restoring the fort to a working operation, rebuilding the palisade and stringing telegraph wire where it had been burned in the fire. He crossed what was once the parade ground to where he had been told he might find the sergeant-at-arms, and inquired after Commander Steele; he had not yet arrived. Then he asked after his quarry.

“Dickenson?” The man consulted his records. “Well, Commander Dickens fled the fort a fortnight ago—”

“Not Dickens, Dickenson.”

“Let me see . . .”

Durrant knew that Dickenson had doubled back and was already on his way to Regina, where he would be waiting when Riel arrived.

DURRANT SLEPT THAT
night rolled in his blankets near the stable. He was woken by a tap on his shoulder. He sat up abruptly, his hand falling to the British Bulldog. He heard a gasp in the darkness, and looked into the face of a boy not more than fourteen. “Sir, you are to come with me,” the boy croaked.

“What is it?”

“There is a wire from Fort Calgary.”

Durrant pulled on his prosthetic and noted the boy watching him. “Show me the way, lad.”

They walked to a buckboard wagon serving as the fort's impromptu telegraph station. There was a tarp over it, and an oil lamp provided illumination. Durrant was handed the wire.

Durrant. He is looking for me. I am in hiding. Calgary cannot conceal me. Will remain as long as able. Charlie.

Durrant lowered himself on a crate of canned fruit. Suddenly, the boy snapped to attention. Durrant, shaken from the contents of the wire, followed his gaze, then stood and saluted. “Superintendant Steele.”

“Sergeant Wallace. It's very good to see you, son.”

“I was told that you were hunting the Cree, sir.”

“I arrived an hour ago. We're here to resupply and then will track Big Bear north once more. What's the news, Durrant?” Steele pointed to the wire clutched tightly in Durrant's hand.

Durrant looked down at the wire. “Nothing, sir, a personal matter from Fort Calgary. I was just making preparations to double back for Regina. It seems the man I am hunting has given me the slip.”

“Come, Sergeant, let's see if there is a coffeepot in the cook tent. I've known you long enough to know when you are lying to me.”

“BIG BEAR IS
going north. Strange is a good commander, but slow, and cautious. Later today I will lead the Scouts toward Frenchman's Butte, where the Cree are believed to be holed up with their prisoners,” said Steele.

“Would you like for me to accompany you, sir?”

“No, Sergeant, but thank you. I have no doubt you'd prove your worth and then some, but Crozier has given you a far more important task.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You disagree?”

“No, not insofar as proving the Métis man La Biche's innocence goes. I believe there are other lives at stake, too. Wake was devilish in nature. I've never seen a situation where so many were eager to kill a man, and for good reason.” Durrant quickly filled Steele in on his investigation and his conversation with Riel.

“It's a harsh business. Who do you suspect?”

“There were many with powerful motivation and great passion to see the man six feet in the ground.”

“It may be that these passions are blinding you, Sergeant. Sometimes it's those who display little passion for the crime that we must give consideration to. Now, about this wire.”

“It's nothing.”

“Let me read it, Durrant.”

The sergeant reluctantly handed the wire over to Steele.

“You wire Dewalt at Fort Calgary and ask that he look in on the lady, and tell him that these are my orders,” Steele instructed.

“I will.”

“I doubt that will do it. After the business in Holt City last year, and what with Charlene taking up residence in Calgary, I am concerned for her safety, as I know you must be.”

“She fled this man two years ago,” said Durrant. “She took up her station as a mute stableboy to avoid detection. Though we've never spoken of his monstrosities, we didn't need to.”

“If he has tracked her to Fort Calgary, then he
will
find her there, Durrant. It's too small a town for her to remain secreted away for long.”

“Could Dewalt find and arrest him?”

“The magistrate would require a charge, and that would be difficult to fabricate. Locating the man would put Charlene at risk.”

“I could send a wire and ask that she take the train to Regina to be safe with Garnet.”

“No doubt Mr. Moberly would keep her safe. Durrant, if you don't mind me saying, it seems that this is your job.”

“My job is to find the man who killed Reuben Wake and determine to what extent a threat still exists. That is my duty.”