The Third Riel Conspiracy (28 page)

“They appear to be healing well,” said the doctor. “Sometimes with this sort of . . . self-inflicted wound, there can be trouble. You're doing well.”

Saul stood and Lefèbvre placed his hand on the doctor's arm. “You said you hadn't seen Riel, not
yet
 . . .”

“Yes, that's right.”

“But you will see him?”

“I have been asked to see him tomorrow morning before the trial to ensure that he is physically up to the rigors.”

“I would like for you to pass on my blessing. Are you meeting at the courthouse?”

“Oh, no. For the man's safety, he's not being moved there.” Saul made as if to rearrange items in his bag.

“Ah, yes, of course . . . those rumours of a conspiracy to cause him some harm.”

“That's right. I'll be seeing him at the police barracks, in the infirmary, at nine in the morning.”

“Doctor?”

Saul turned to Lefèbvre.

“Please tell Riel when you see him that soon his soul shall be free.”

GARNET MOBERLY WALKED
straight into the offices of
The Regina Examiner
. There were half a dozen men standing around the layout table in the middle of the small press room. Several smoked pipes, and a haze of tobacco smoke drifted like clouds above them. “Office is closed,” one of them said, and they all returned to examining the front page for the following day's paper.

“Very good, then. I've got a news tip,” said Garnet.

The same man looked up. “We're open at nine in the morning. The paper's put to bed.”

“Very well,” said Garnet again. “I suppose it can wait until tomorrow. Riel's trial is not to start until latter in the morning.”

“Did you say it was about Riel's trial?” Stanley Block stood up behind his colleagues.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Come in,” Block said.

Garnet stepped toward the cluster of newspapermen. Block extended his hand and Garnet shook it. “Garnet Moberly, sir. I was at Batoche. I was with Wheeler's Survey Corps.”

Block led Garnet to his office. It was panelled in rich wood and lined with bookshelves. There was an ornate lamp on his broad desk, which he lit when they entered. Block sat down in his chair and motioned for Garnet to sit opposite his desk.

“Now, what news?”

“Well, sir, it would seem that there is a plan afoot to free Riel.”

“What of it? There've been rumours of this since before he was captured.”

“As fate would have it, I have overheard that tomorrow at ten the Red Coats will be moving Riel in secret. I have come to learn that he will be examined by a medical doctor before the trial to ensure that he is fit to take the stand. The Red Coats will be moving him from his cell to a doctor's examining room at their barracks at nine. I believe that a gang of men will try to free him then.”

“And how did you come by this information?”

“I'd rather not say—”

“But you must, sir.”

“The doctor is a friend. I'm afraid that he sympathizes with Riel. The doctor has fallen under this madman's spell,” Garnet moved his hands before him as if conjuring magic, “and has told that he won't resist should men try to free Riel. I suspect that these men will try to spirit Riel back to Montana by the fastest road possible.”

“How can I know it's the truth?”

“Well, you might take my word as a Scot.”

“I'm not sure that's going to be good enough, Mr.—”

“Moberly. In addition to being a proud Scot, I'm also an ardent supporter of our dear prime minister. John A. could use a break. If Riel takes the stand and things go as expected—” Garnet put his hands around his own neck and made an exaggerated choking motion.

Block considered Moberly for a long moment. “Leave this with me. I'll see that I have a reporter on the scene to cover this suspicious turn.” Garnet stood and extended his hand. Block shook it. “All right. I've got a paper to print.”

“Indeed.” Garnet left and walked out onto the street.

CHARLENE MASON WAS
dressed in her one and only fine dress as she stepped into the street and made her way toward Reuben Wake's empty stable. She had no doubt that Durrant would follow her. She reached the stable in ten minutes and stopped in front of its broad double doors. She could see no lights in the building but guessed that the Shadow Conspiracy men would be there as they had been the previous night. She stepped up to the doors, opened them, and entered the gloom. “Mr. Wake?” she called out.

There was no sound. She could tell, however, that there were men there. Something shifted toward the back of the barn, where the light of a street lamp seeped in through the high windows.

“Mr. Wake? Mr. Wake, I have important news.” Stillness. She turned, left the stable, and hurried down the street. When she passed the town hall, she glanced at the clock. She had just a few minutes to reach the newspaper office. She didn't look back over her shoulder, and though the temptation was nearly overwhelming, she resisted the urge to stop and tie her boots and peer behind her. She reached the newspaper office in time to see a well-dressed man confidently stride out of the false-fronted building and wink at her.

DURRANT WALLACE WATCHED
as Charlene entered the stable, called out twice, and then turned and walked down the street. He waited, almost without breathing, until a man emerged from between the buildings. The figure moved deftly up the street, pausing in the doorways of shops along the way. Durrant observed as Charlene and her follower turned the corner at the town hall, then made his way along the avenue. He checked over his shoulder to ensure that no other member of the Shadow Conspiracy was following. The man tailing Charlene stopped before she got to the newspaper office and slipped between two buildings. Shortly after, Durrant saw Charlene leave the newspaper and head back toward the hotel.

Durrant wished he could catch up to her to inquire as to Block's reaction but instead went through the dark to the rear of the newspaper building. He carefully crept through the bleakness until he could observe the member of the Shadow Conspiracy, who was standing outside the open window of Stanley Block's office, listening attentively. Durrant secreted himself among a stack of crates.

“Well, we're going to have to do something, and fast,” said a voice inside the office. Durrant glanced toward the newspaper building. The Shadow Conspiracy agent was concealed there by a large crate of newsprint.

“Goddamned right we'll have to do something. This changes all of our plans. This notion that Riel is to be examined is just another ruse by his sympathizers to play to his insanity defence. It's not going to work,” Durrant heard Block say.

“What do you want to do?”

“Let's wait until after he leaves the
NWMP
barracks. It will be easier to take him on the outskirts of town, between the barracks and the courthouse. He'll be too heavily guarded once he gets to the magistrate's. Same plan as before. Just a different location. Are you up for it?”

“I haven't had time to scout the location.”

“Then you had better go now.”

“Very well.”

The conversation ended abruptly. The man listening beneath the window moved quickly away from his hiding place and directly toward Durrant. Durrant held his breath as he passed. It was Jasper Dire.

Dire paused at the mouth of the narrow passage between buildings, his jet-black hair gleaming in the light of the street lamp. And then he was gone.

“YOU KNOW I'M
going to get fired if I get caught,” said Saul.

“You can tell them that I ordered you to do this,” said Durrant.

“Why could we not simply ask?”

“That would mean more people would have to know about our plan. I simply don't know who to trust. With the Regina Group and their shadows firmly rooted in all aspects of the North West Territories, I would prefer that we keep as small as possible.”

“So we're going to steal the mannequin from the I.G. Baker store?”

“That's right. Technically, it's not stealing. I'm a sergeant in the North West Mounted Police, you'll recall. I am merely drafting it for official duties.”

“How could I forget?”

“HOW IS IT
that we ended up with a glamorous job like this?” asked Charlene. She was hiking up her skirt and preparing to climb onto a crate next to a rubbish bin behind a barbershop on Broad Street.

“I'd say it's a true sign of our good sergeant's affection for the both of us that we've been sent to perform this task,” Garnet laughed.

THE SUN WAS
nearly up when Durrant Wallace walked into the courthouse. The wooden two-storey structure at the corner of Victoria Avenue and Scrath Street had been rented two years earlier by the federal government, and come the morrow it would see the start of its most famous trial to date. Durrant opened the door to the magistrate's office with the key he had been given, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

“Up we go, lads.” Durrant tapped the floor with his cane.

The sound of grumbling could be heard in the darkness. Then a lamp was lit. Five men were asleep on the floor of the magistrate's office. A sixth slept on the fine leather couch.

“Let's rouse these men, Tommy.” The man on the couch sat up. “You've done a fine job with La Biche since Batoche. Now we have one last bit of business before we can finish this affair with Riel. You and these lads have been selected for a special assignment.”

“Does it involve coffee?” asked one of the men.

“Private, it does indeed. First you need to be briefed. And then you're for the trail. We have a trap to set.”

THIRTY-FOUR

THE POST WAS QUIET. A
wagon hitched to a pair of stout quarter horses rested in front of a long, low building that doubled as the infirmary and bunkhouse for the post's doctor. Next to the wagon were two members of the North West Mounted Police, dressed in serge, white helmets gleaming in the sun, and standing at the ready with their Winchesters. They watched the road that led from Regina to the barracks.

While most of the barracks' constables were stationed at the courthouse for the trial, the labourers and non-commissioned members of the force went about their work. A young man pushed a heavily loaded hand truck the size of a wheelbarrow from the quartermaster's store toward the stables. The Mounted Police standing guard eyed him warily. The truck passed out of sight, momentarily eclipsed by the infirmary. Silently it came to rest near the back of the building. The young man pushing it stopped and scanned the yard. It appeared deserted. He reached down and uncovered his load: a man unfolded himself from the hand truck and stood up. He was dressed in a long black robe, and his head was covered in a hood. At the end of the building was a single door, and the labourer reached into his pockets to retrieve a set of heavy keys. He fumbled nervously and looked at his companion, whose face was hidden by the hood. The young man inserted a key into the sturdy Yale lock. The man in the robe took a canvas bag from the truck, and they passed out of the glare of the sun and into the building.

Father Lefèbvre pulled back his hood. “Quickly now. We don't have a moment to lose.” He handed the bag to his companion. The man put on a Red Serge. He strapped on a gun belt and awkwardly checked that the Enfield pistol it held was loaded. He looked up at the priest. He was sweating profusely.

“It will be all right, Private,” said the priest.

“I'll hang if we get caught. It's treason.” The young constable had a thick French accent.

“The force owes you nothing,” whispered Lefèbvre. “They declared war on your people, and on your religion.” The young man nodded. “Good. Let's free the prophet.”

The constable took a pair of manacles from his tunic and placed them on the priest's wrists without fastening them. He drew his Enfield, and the priest walked ahead of him. They made their way out of the storeroom and entered a long hallway that ran the length of the building. It was dark even at midday.

“Which room will they be examining him in?” asked Lefèbvre in a whisper.

“Likely the last room at the end of the hall,” said the constable. “It's the largest, and closest to the exit.”

“Very well. Let's go.” They reached the door to the infirmary. “Are you ready?” the priest asked.

The constable nodded and knocked on the door. Stepping back, pistol in hand, he held on to Lefèbvre's manacled arms as Saul Armatage opened the door. “What is it?” asked the doctor.

Behind his shoulder stood a bearded man, his head bowed low and his back to the door. The constable said, “This prisoner was caught trying to reach the courthouse. He was injured. My orders were to bring him here.”

Saul looked skeptical. “Is that so? It's most unusual. I have . . . a delicate examination under way.”

“May I bring him in? He's been shot in the arm.”

Saul stepped aside. The constable guided the priest into the room and then closed the door behind him. “Put him there, on that gurney for now.” Saul pointed.

“Riel!” cried the priest, as he shed his manacles and reached into his robes, drawing forth a small, double-barrelled derringer pistol. He pointed the gun at Saul. Saul immediately put his hands up.

“Come, Riel, we have a truck awaiting you!” The priest drew close to his prophet. “Do you not recognize me?”

The man in the beard looked up. “Of course I recognize you, Father,” said Durrant Wallace. At that moment, the young constable turned his pistol from Saul to the priest. Father Lefèbvre gasped in surprise. “Put the gun down, Father. You are under arrest.”

“You have betrayed me!” the priest shouted at the constable.

He shook his head. “It is you who has betrayed your country, Father.”