The Third Riel Conspiracy (29 page)

“All right,” said Durrant. “Let's get this man locked away.” He turned to the constable. “Well done, Private Norman. Crozier will hear of your good work. Now, follow through and get the father here under wraps. Father, I will need your robe.”

SAUL ARMATAGE STEPPED
out of the infirmary and shielded his eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. He addressed the two policemen standing guard. “The prisoner is ready.” They entered the building, and as they did, Durrant Wallace, having shed his fake beard and dressed himself in the robes of Father Lefèbvre, quickly exited from the back of the building, Private Norman with him. A third man was thrown over Norman's shoulder. He was dressed in common clothing—tan slacks and tunic, and a wide-brimmed hat—and wore a thick beard. When they reached a waiting wagon, the man was gently lowered into it. Durrant got in with him, while Norman mounted the wagon's spring-loaded seat and quickly snapped the reins. As they drove off, the policemen rushed from the building, their rifles in their hands, and shouted after the escaping prisoner. One of the men levered a cartridge and, taking careful aim, fired twenty feet over the driver's head.

Saul appeared behind them. “Well done, lads. Now, make haste to your next post.” The men ran for their horses, tethered at the stable.

THE ROAD BETWEEN
the
NWMP
barracks and the town of Regina ran alongside the banks of Wascana Creek and through a narrow draw and then emerged along the flats, where it dissected the town. It was little more than a mile in distance and provided very few places for cover. Jasper Dire knew that the escaping prisoner would not pass this way. If they were headed for the
US
border, one hundred and twenty miles to the south, they would not risk the passage through Regina proper but instead would cut west and circle the town and then ride hard for the Medicine Line. Dire had set his trap where an old cattle trail passed between a pair of low sod buildings that had been abandoned by homesteaders.

He had been patient, and it had paid off. Now the final payment would come, when he recaptured the recently freed Riel. God have mercy on any man who stood in his way. He looked across the open prairie. A telling rooster tail of dust could be seen on the horizon. As the wagon drew near, Dire gave his signal, and a man hidden behind a low shed heaved a handcart into the road just as the wagon rounded the bend. The driver pulled up hard on the reins. The horses reared and kicked, and the man in the serge stood to try and rein them in. Behind the driver, Jasper Dire saw the priest clutch at his hat; he seemed to be supporting Riel, as if he had been injured.

As the wagon came to a violent stop, Riel appeared to fall to the floor of the wagon bed. Dire rushed from the hut, his Webley pistol in his hand, and shouted, “Stand to! Stand to! Put your hands in the air and I won't have to shoot!” Another man from the sod hut opposite came forward with a shotgun. The man who had pushed the handcart reached into it for a Winchester. The constable at the reins stood and raised his hands high into the air.

Dire approached, holding his pistol straight in front of him. “Stand, priest.” He aimed his weapon at the back of the black-robed man. The priest stood, his cloak concealing his face. “Now you”—Dire turned to the constable—“unholster that sidearm, carefully, and toss it into the road.” The young constable did as he was told. “Priest, step down from the wagon and turn so I can see you.” Dire noted that the priest seemed to have injured his leg, because he walked with a limp. As he approached, he looked up. “Mr. Dire” —he removed his habit, revealing the face of North West Mounted Police Sergeant Durrant Wallace—“you are under arrest for the murder of Reuben Wake.”

For a moment Dire seemed frozen. He raised his pistol but collapsed forward as he did so, falling into the dust. The man with the shotgun spun to take aim at Durrant, but he too fell forward, clutching his chest. No shots had rung out.

The third man, Winchester in hand, turned as if to run but tripped in the dirt and also fell forward, clutching his leg. He crawled a few feet, clawing at his thigh, where a small spot of blood was emerging, and then lay still. Durrant reached down and picked up the pistol Dire had dropped. He threw it to Private Norman. Garnet rose up from the sod next to the hut. He was covered in dirt and grass. He was smiling broadly and had a long wooden tube in his hands. He came forward quickly.

“Well done, Mr. Moberly,” Durrant said.

“Likewise, Sergeant, Private.”

“Nice choice of weapons.” Durrant pointed to the blowgun in Garnet's hands.

“Ah, yes, a relic from my time among the Dyaks of Borneo. Very effective. The serum that Doctor Armatage concocted last night should keep these men asleep for several hours. One would hope . . .”

“There will be a company along within a few moments to take care of these prisoners. Now, we must make haste.” Durrant bent down to unbutton Dire's tunic.

STANLEY BLOCK STOOD
in the shadow of a doorway on the main street of Regina. He checked his watch. Soon they would ride into town triumphant. He would have his day, and it would come with great reward: in time, Macdonald might even appoint him to the Senate. Of course, the mumbling drunk must never know the lengths his faithful supporters had gone to in order to shield him from the embarrassment of this trial, but Macdonald's keepers in Ottawa would know.

Block waited. He checked his watch. He looked up the road, and as he did, the woman appeared on horseback as she had promised the night before. She slowed her horse to a canter and rode past the storefronts, looking for him. He stepped forward, and she drew the sweating horse up alongside him. “You bring good news, I hope?” he asked, and she smiled. “You've been most helpful. Tell me, was Dire successful?”

“He was.”

“Are you sure you won't stay and celebrate with us tonight? I may have to insist . . .”

“I cannot,” she said. “Once Riel is done for, I must take the train for Winnipeg and report our success. The family of Thomas Scott will have some peace, at long last.”

“How is it you have come to be so helpful to us so late in the day?”

The young woman with the icy blue eyes laughed. “Someone is always watching.” She pressed her heels into the horse. As if on cue, the wagon being driven by Jasper Dire rounded the corner and entered the town. He sat erect at the reins. In the back sat a man with a Winchester and another with a shotgun. Between them was the bearded Riel, his hat pulled down low, obscuring his face. Block faded back into the shadows.

From down the street came a shout, and several Mounted Police on horseback began to ride toward the wagon. Dire drew up on the reins; as he did, Block looked to the window of a building across from him, raised his hand, and then quickly drew it down.

A shot, clean and crisp, rang out. The driver of the wagon jumped down, landing hard in the road. The two men in the back with Riel dove for cover. A second shot was fired, and the hat on the prophet Riel disappeared and the head of the man seemed to disintegrate. His body slumped into the wagon. The constables rode up hard, their pistols drawn, as passersby in the street screamed and ran for cover.

Dire hobbled to the back of the wagon, his leg obviously damaged from his fall, and yelled, “He's dead! They have killed him!” The constables dismounted and descended on the building where the shot had been fired as Stanley Block opened the door behind him and disappeared. He knew the shooter would already be gone.

THIRTY-FIVE

AS DURRANT SHOUTED, “HE'S DEAD!
They have killed him!” he noticed the dark shape of Stanley Block fade back and disappear. The four policemen dropped from their horses and rushed toward the building the shots had been fired from. Durrant reached down and touched the shoulder of Private Norman. He whispered, “You all right, son?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Okay, you know what to do.”

The lad sat up and, with his shotgun in hand, quickly dismounted from the wagon.

“You there, Staff Sergeant Provost? Planning on taking a nap?” asked Durrant. Provost was dressed as one of the men from the ambush.

“No, Durrant, just making a good show of it.”

“Show's over. I need you with me.”

Provost stood up, pushing down hard on the “corpse” next to him.

“Easy now Tommy, got to keep up the façade,” cautioned Durrant.

“I'd say he's lost his stuffing,” said Provost. Next to him were the scattered remains of the mannequin's head and the false beard that had been glued to it.

“Yes, I fear that the good doctor will be none too pleased. Hell of a shot.” Durrant snatched his cane from the bed of the wagon.

“It's a good thing. At that distance, one of us might have been zipped,” said Provost.

“All right, let's get a move on. He'll be halfway to the stable by now.” They mounted the buckboard, and Durrant cracked the reins and drove it hard down Broad Street. People pressed to the windows of the shops to see them ride by.

They rounded a sharp corner onto Victoria Street, and Wake's stable came into view. “How do you know he's got a horse stashed here?” asked Provost.

“There was fresh hay here last night when Charlene was snooping around. There was tack laid out by the door. When she was there the night before, there was nothing. It's a good bet this is where he's stashed his mount.”

They stopped two buildings away from the stable, and Durrant motioned for Provost to cover the front of the building while he slipped into the alley between the stable and the adjacent structure. Though Provost outranked Durrant, they had come to the understanding that Durrant was in charge of this undertaking. Durrant reached the place where the crates were stacked and carefully climbed onto them. He put his cane down and reached up to open one of the windows, just as Charlene had several nights before. Then he hoisted himself up and quickly slipped inside.

The stable was dark, but Durrant knew at once that there was a horse there. He could hear it breathing. Steadying himself with his left hand, he lowered himself down to a carefully placed box and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. As he did, he quietly drew his Enfield and held it at his side.

There was a noise, and it wasn't the horse. Durrant could hear wooden wall boards being pried open. He crouched next to one of the empty stalls and watched one of the boards at the back of the stable being dismantled. The assassin would have made this preparation beforehand, ensuring that he had a way to get into the barn unseen. A dark shape moved through the opening in the wall. The boards were left open, allowing some light into the room. Durrant could easily see the figure move through the darkness.

The man found his horse saddled and waiting near the front of the barn. Durrant stopped when he was just one stall away from the horse. He raised his pistol and waited. The moment would come when the shooter opened the door to make his escape. Tommy Provost would bear down on him, Durrant would catch him by surprise, and the final trap would be sprung.

The horse didn't move. Durrant began to feel uneasy. Then the barrel of a pistol pressed into the back of his head. “Sergeant Wallace.”

“Mr. Dickenson,” said Durrant.

“It's still Sub-Inspector to you.”

Durrant straightened. “You're not fit to wear the serge.”

Dickenson laughed. “No, but then neither are you. I could hear you clomping along with that peg leg of yours the moment I walked in here. Toss your pistol.”

Durrant threw the Enfield, too hard, and it skidded across the floor and hit the stable doors with a dull thud. “You'll not ride out of here alive,” he said.

“Who says I'm to ride?” asked Dickenson, and Durrant was silent. “Let's go. Back the way I came.”

Dickenson guided Durrant toward the opening in the rear wall. Durrant said, “So, you have been part of this Regina Group since the beginning. Holding La Biche was merely a ploy to stay close to the prisoner. You knew that sooner or later Riel would come, and you would have your shot.”

Dickenson laughed, and Durrant felt the barrel of the pistol clip the side of his head. His ear burned with the pain of it. “If you think you're going to get any sort of explanation from me, Wallace, you're a bigger fool than I imagined.”

They reached the back of the stable, and Dickenson pressed the pistol hard into Wallace's back. “You first. If you try to run with that gimp leg, I'll cut you down. Killing you would make no difference to me.” He shoved Durrant, and as he did Durrant tripped on the floor joist. He tumbled through the opening and landed in the dirt in the back alley. The sun blinded him, but he managed to turn as Dickenson came through the opening, his pistol held out before him. It was the missing Colt .45, the one that had been planted on Terrance La Biche.

“The great Durrant Wallace, lying in the dirt like a dog.” Dickenson carefully stepped closer and extended his pistol toward Durrant. He thumbed the hammer.

“Drop it,” said Tommy Provost. He stepped into the alley and held a Remington shotgun just a foot from Dickenson's head.

Dickenson wheeled on the man and the shotgun exploded, the blast blowing a hole in the side of the stable. He grappled with Provost for the weapon, the two men careening into the wall. From his prone position Durrant reached for his British Bulldog. He fired as the two men before him struggled to take aim at each other.

Dickenson wheeled against the stable, spinning and collapsing, his face twisted in agony. His pistol landed in the dirt, and he clutched at his leg. “You shot my goddamned knee off!” he screamed. Provost was breathing hard beside him, his gun aimed at Dickenson.

Durrant struggled to his feet, the Bulldog still trained on Dickenson. “We'll see if we can't get you fitted with a stump, Mr. Dickenson. See how
you
enjoy it.” He bent down and picked up the Colt and put it in his pocket. “Evidence,” he said, patting his coat.