The Third Riel Conspiracy (3 page)

Dewalt watched the sergeant lock the pistol in a desk drawer and wipe his hands on his coat. “You could have been killed,” the sub-inspector protested weakly. “How would I explain that?”

“Your troubles with me would have been over.”

DURRANT STOOD IN
the fort's jail. The doctor had just left and the prisoner was looking angrily at the sergeant, cradling his bandaged right arm with his left hand. “What's your name?” Durrant asked.

“I ain't telling you a goddamned thing.”

Durrant looked around as if to inspect the cell. “Who are you stealing horses with?” The prisoner sat staring at Durrant through the bars. “You come up from Fort Benton country. We've got a report from Fort Macleod that you trailed twenty head of horses through there ten days ago. We've got half a dozen men in this area who say that you sold them horses under false pretenses. Forged papers from a breeder in Pincher Creek.”

“You got nothing to hold me on. And you shot up my arm!”

Durrant continued. “There's a bunch of men in this town that are pretty riled up about parting with their cash and getting stolen horses in return. Buck Stilton is one of them. Maybe you don't know Buck, but he's one tough customer. Last year he punched a man in a bar fight so hard that he split the man's skull right open. Buck doesn't like to be messed with. I've told Mr. Stilton that you're here and he's wondering if he might see you about those horses you sold him. Mr. Stilton says he'd like to have a conversation about getting his money back.”

Durrant stepped closer to the bars and dangled a set of keys. He slid one of them into the lock of the cell door and opened it.

“What are you doing?” asked the prisoner.

“You said I got nothing to hold you on.”

“Yeah?”

“So I figured I'd let you go.”

“What the . . .” The prisoner sat down on his bunk.

“Don't you want to go?”

The man looked pale as a winter day. “My name is Bud Ensley. I got a right to a lawyer in the Dominion Territory, I think.”

Durrant's face grew dour. “I know that name—Ensley. You and me, I believe we got history.”

THE SUN ROSE
over the
NWMP
barracks and Durrant Wallace was still sitting in the guardroom. When Durrant had been stationed at Fort Walsh in the late '70s, Jeb Ensley was a notorious whiskey runner who had been running contraband up from Fort Benton, Montana, through the Wild Horse and Onefour region along the Medicine Line and up into the Cypress Hills. Ensley was part of a gang of outlaws, retired Civil War vets, and hired killers. After the arrival of the Mounted Police in 1874, the gang had fled back across the border but hadn't abandoned the lucrative trade in whiskey with the Indians of the Dominion. Bud Ensley, now in Fort Calgary's lock-up, was Jeb's kid brother.

In the winter of 1881, Jeb Ensley and several other men had been trying to take whiskey and rum and other contraband to the Indians throughout the North West Territories. They had already killed one man—a Hudson's Bay Company factor—when he refused to trade with them. The North West Mounted Police were tracking Jeb across the Cypress Hills. Durrant Wallace was closing in and in his customary fashion had thrown caution to the wind in order to pursue his quarry. Ensley and his gang had ambushed him, shooting his horse and wounding Durrant in the gun battle. It had nearly cost him his life; instead, he'd lost his left leg and much of the use of his right hand. Ensley and the others had disappeared after that. It was thought they had left Montana and headed south for Oklahoma, or even Texas. Now Durrant had his best lead in almost five years as to the whereabouts of the man who had attempted to kill him.

There was a knock, and the door pushed open. Durrant saw young John, who had replaced him in attending to the post and wire service. “Sergeant Wallace?”

“What is it, John?”

“A wire for you. From Superintendent Steele.”

“Bring it here, son.” The boy looked at Durrant's hand on his pistol, and Durrant lifted it and waved him over. John crossed the floor and handed Durrant the cable.

“There's been a fight at Fish Creek, sir. Have you heard?”

“Yes, read it in the papers yesterday.”

“Ten men killed and forty-three wounded! Middleton hisself nearly got shot!”

“Middleton walked right into it. If the Métis hadn't run out of ammunition, it would have been far worse.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“Middleton's got good men under his command. He got beat at Fish Creek. It won't happen again, so long as he doesn't split his forces and walk into another ambush.”

“You want me to wait for a reply from you to Superintendant Steele?” the boy asked.

“No, if a response is needed, I'll send it myself.”

“Thank you again, Sergeant Wallace.”

“Everything is going to be okay, John. You'll see. Hell, Steele's Scouts will have restored some peace to the territories before June arrives.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy seemed to brighten. He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Durrant watched him go and then unfolded the wire correspondence. He decoded it as he read:

To Sergeant Durrant Wallace.

From Sam Steele, Commanding, via Fort Edmonton.

Urgent.

Sergeant Wallace, havoc on the trail to Batoche. Disaster at Fish Creek has resulted in delays. Forces stretched thin. In need of men who can parley with Cree. Proceed at once to intercept Middleton's forces to aid in the restoration of peace.

Steele had kept his promise.

DURRANT WAS STANDING
before Sub-Inspector Dewalt. “He hasn't told me where his older brother Jeb is now,” said Durrant. “He has told me enough that I can deduce he's back in Montana, either in Fort Benton or down in the Judith Basin.”

The deputy commander of the fort had shaved and straightened his uniform and was sitting at his desk with a cup of black coffee, regarding Wallace with a weary expression. “You don't expect me to license a trip across the Medicine Line now so you can track down this phantom, do you?”

Durrant felt his pulse quicken. “No, sir—”

“Good.” Dewalt cut him off. “You said it yourself last night. We're stretched thin.”

“Yes, sir.” Durrant was holding the cable from Steele in his hands.

“Then what
do
you want, Sergeant?”

“Hold him. Make sure he's not allowed out on bail. The magistrate will surely see that this man is a flight risk. If he's allowed to post a bond, he'll be on the Macleod Trail before you can take the shackles off him.”

“And just how long am I supposed to hold him?”

“Until I get back,” Durrant said, his eyes betraying some mirth.

Dewalt put his coffee down. “Back from where exactly, Sergeant?”

Wallace stepped forward and handed the cable to his superior. “The Saskatchewan Territory, sir.”

THE MORNING'S PROMISE
was spoiled, as the afternoon began grey and threatened more rain. Durrant Wallace used the hated crutch to make his way through the streets toward a familiar address three blocks east of Stephen Avenue. He was anticipating the visit, but he wasn't looking forward to the parting.

He had already wired Steele, who was riding east with his Scouts and the Alberta Field Force for Fort Pitt. When he arrived, he would learn that Durrant was on his way to Batoche. Durrant guessed he could make double time if he travelled light and alone.

Durrant was eager to be on his way. He'd won his assurance from Dewalt that Bud Ensley would be held for as long as was possible; that was the best he could hope for from the sub-inspector. Durrant felt the tear of priorities in his chest. While he wanted nothing more than to strike out immediately for Fort Benton in search of Jeb Ensley and his crew, he owed his service to the Crown and to the Dominion, and now he had been called back into action. He aimed to fulfill that duty.

He came to a row of houses that bordered a broad woodland along the banks of the Bow River. The homes had been constructed in 1884, the year after the railway came through town. No tarpaper shacks or flophouses for navvies, these homes had porches and parlours and families living in them. He stood a moment on the street, regarding a yet unpainted house. He had to prepare his words carefully.

“What are you doing standing out on the street, Sergeant Wallace?” His preparation was truncated by a voice from a second-storey window.

Durrant looked up to see Charlene Louise Mason, a mischievous smile on her face, leaning on her arms and looking down at him. He recalled the first time he had seen her, disguised as a mute stableboy and hiding from her estranged and violent husband. Fooled by her masquerade, Durrant had taken her on as aide-de-camp when he had travelled to the end of steel the previous spring to investigate a murder there. Despite her deception, which had nearly cost both of their lives, they had become close in the intervening year.

“Charlene, you are nothing but trouble to me.” His face betrayed a smile. “Come down here, please, and let me have a word with you.”

She closed the window and a moment later was at the door. “Do come in, sir.” Her eyes were bright.

“I've got mud on my boots,” Durrant pointed out.

“Well, then, use the horn there to pull them off and be careful not to get any on your trousers.” Durrant did as he was told and stepped into the house. “Is Mr. Lloyd at home?” he asked.

“He's at the I.G. Baker Company store. I expect him home a little later in the afternoon.”

“Very well, I'd like a word with him too—”

“You'll be having words with a great many people it seems,” Charlene laughed. “Would you like tea? Or shall I make you coffee?”

“Coffee would be good, please. I haven't slept yet.”

“Durrant, I swear, you need someone just to make certain you remember to eat and sleep!”

“Well, young John is a help, but he's a poor substitute for my lad Charlie.”

“Well, Charlie goes by Charlene these days, sir, and you're the one who hired me off to the Lloyds to keep house. I would have been just as happy working for Paddy at the stables at the fort, like when you found me. At least then I could have looked in on you from time to time.”

“Didn't seem proper.” Durrant was still standing, watching Charlene grind coffee and put the pot on the stove.

“What do you know of proper, Sergeant Wallace?” Charlene poured him a cup of coffee and offered it with a slice of bread and honey. “What is it that you've come to tell me, Durrant?”

“Steele has sent a wire. I'm to leave for the Saskatchewan Territory tonight. I'll be catching the 6:05 east train.”

“I shall have to get packing!”

Durrant sipped his coffee. “Not this time, Charlene. It's to war I go.”

THEY HAD ARGUED
for nearly an hour. Argued as only Charlene Louise Mason could. She could be the most persistent, stubborn woman in the world, thought Durrant. In the end, by sheer force of his masculinity, he had carried the day, and when they parted she had been distant.

Derek Lloyd had come home before Durrant left and given his assurance that he would keep a watchful eye on Charlene. Without the disguise of a stableboy, she was vulnerable. Durrant's greatest anxiety was that her husband might find her before Durrant Wallace could find
him
.

DURRANT HEARD THE
whistle sound when the train crossed the Bow River, slowing to enter the town. In a moment the platform was filled with steam and a few passengers arriving from Canmore, Banff, and the recently renamed Laggan, formerly Holt City. Durrant gathered his haversack. Wrapped in a tarp, the barrel of his Winchester protruded from the top of the bag. Young John ran up, breathless. The lad had weaved his way through passengers and railway workers to reach Durrant and was now red-faced and bending over to catch his breath. He held out a cable for Durrant.

To Sergeant Durrant Wallace.

From Leif Crozier, Assistant Commissioner, Prince Albert Division,
NWMP
.

Urgent.

Have learned of Superintendant Steele's request of you to lend assistance to Scouts there. Colonel Otter suffered defeat at Cut Knife to Poundmaker. Withdrew to Battleford. All are held up in the
NWMP
Fort. Do not attempt to reach Batoche via Battleford. Poundmaker's Cree control region. Remain at Fort Calgary.

Durrant looked from the paper to John, who was regaining his breath. Behind him the pullman porter yelled, “All aboard!”

“Tell Dewalt the train had already left.” Durrant handed the cable back to John. Then he threw his bag in the door of the train and hauled himself up with his left hand. The train began to move forward, and young John and Calgary slowly disappeared in a plume of steam and black smoke.

THREE

MAY 12, 1885. BATOCHE, NWT.

Durrant Wallace rode north and east from the train depot at Swift Current. He had procured a horse from the
NWMP
detachment and, freshly outfitted, was making his way across country. On the evening of May 12, just at sundown, Durrant came to the place where the Humboldt Trail drove down off the steps of the Saskatchewan and crossed the swollen river. The scene on the far side of the dell was like a dark dream. The town of Batoche lay in ruins. Buildings were pocked with holes and several fires burned in the tall dry grass along the banks of the river. Beyond, on a high sloping hill above the town, more fires smouldered and Durrant could see what looked like a church and rectory amid the grey haze.

Durrant considered the scene. At first he could not determine which side had emerged victorious after what had been four days of fighting, but one thing was clear: the battle was over. He could see soldiers of the Dominion flying their colours from several of the remaining buildings and then he knew that General Middleton's troops had carried the day. While his first impression was that of relief that the bloodshed was over, he also felt disappointed that he had not be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Mounted Police and countrymen.