The Third Riel Conspiracy (5 page)

“It's too simple to lay the blame on this La Biche fellow. I should like to know at least what his motive was before we go and hang him.”

“I should like to find this Jacques Lambert and ask him of his whereabouts this afternoon. Where are these men now?” Durrant asked.

“Terrance La Biche is locked in a makeshift stockade here in the compound and under guard. Sub-Inspector Dickenson won't let you see him.”

“Who is this Dickenson?”

“He's with F Division out of Regina; he's taken control of the prisoner and won't let others near the man. Refused me access to assess his health.”

Durrant rubbed his whiskers, wondering what it was that made a man turn into a horse's ass as soon as he reached the rank of sub-inspector. “What of Lambert?”

“He's in the infirmary. This man I
have
attended to. He was captured yesterday along the banks of the river, below our camp. I believe he may have tried to kill himself.”

“First I'll look in on La Biche, and then you and I will visit Lambert.”

Saul shook his head. “I suppose it wouldn't be the first time you've tried to pull rank on a superior officer, Durrant. Be careful. Powerful emotions have been stirred up with this rebellion. The fighting might be over at Batoche, at Duck Lake and Fish Creek, but the feud smoulders all around. There is something in the death of Reuben Wake that makes me fear that all of the blood over Riel's rebellion has yet to be spilled.”

The conversation returned to a congenial tone as the men began swapping stories of their adventures. Saul slapped the side of his leg. “I almost forgot to mention it, Durrant. Garnet is here!”

“He is!”

“He arrived two days ago. He's formed up with the Surveyors Intelligence Corps, a bunch of men from the Dominion Land Survey who took up the call at the outbreak of trouble. They have proven themselves quite useful in a pinch, helping out today at La Jolie Prairie, and then on the final charge into the village.”

“Is Garnet safe?”

“Who knows? When Riel and Dumont fled during the last minutes of the battle, Garnet took a group of men in pursuit. He could be halfway to Montana by now for all I know.”

“It will be good to see him once more. I hope that I shall.”

“You know how Garnet is; one moment he's there, the next he's gone. He'll be glad to see you, I'm sure. And he'll be very interested in the discovery of this body in the zareba today. You know how he is: all questions of means, motive, and opportunity.”

FOUR

MAY 13, 1885. BATOCHE.

He was there when Durrant awoke. Durrant lay curled in a blanket on the cold ground inside the zareba. There was a fire kindled and Garnet Moberly was sitting on an upturned crate, his Martini-Henry rifle cradled in his lap and his twin Webley revolvers holstered over a thick canvas coat. His face was partially obscured by the wide-brimmed hat favoured by the Surveyors Intelligence Corps.

“There's coffee,” he said when Durrant stirred. “It's fresh.”

Durrant was cold through to his bones. He'd been sleeping rough with just a pair of wool blankets for the last ten nights, having travelled light since leaving the train at Swift Current. If he was surprised to find Garnet at his side that morning, Durrant didn't show it.

“Coffee would be good.” Durrant sat up stiffly. Garnet used a rag to lift the blackened pot from the flames and poured a cup of thick coffee for Durrant, who let the heat of the tin cup warm him. “It's good to see you, Garnet.” Durrant placed his Enfield and his snub-nosed British Bulldog revolver next to him as he pulled his prosthetic from under the blankets. “Mind if I warm my leg before I put it on?”

“Not at all, lad.”

“I take it you and your men didn't locate Riel last night?”

“We were close. We tracked his party north, but around two o'clock we were relieved by a group of Scouts who know this area better. If he's not in our hands by nightfall, my men and I will take up the hunt once more.

“I fear I might be getting a little old for this sort of thing. When Art Wheeler put out the call for men I couldn't help but join up. I was at Rogers Pass proving out the line that Rogers surveyed. A wire was sent to Eagle Summit and one of the lads came up the pass to report the news, and I made for Fort Calgary.”

“When did you pass through Calgary?”

“May 1.”

“I had just left. Did you see Charlene?”

“I wasn't there but a few hours while Wheeler formed us up into a company and we were on the tracks once again.”

“I'm worried about her.”

“She's fine,” Garnet said paternally. He watched as Durrant slipped from under his blankets, rolled up his left pant leg and affixed his leg. “You're looking quite well, Sergeant.”

“The prosthetic fits better now. It doesn't worry the nub so much anymore. I can walk without the crutch much of the time. I use that cane you gave me most days.”

“You've discovered its secret?”

“I have indeed, though I've not had call to use it.”

“Not yet, but knowing you, I suspect you will.”

Saul Armatage arrived, holding a heavily laden cloth and wearing his wool travelling suit and overcoat. They sat by the fire and ate potatoes with the skin on them and slabs of bacon with biscuits and drank more of Garnet's coffee.

“Is what I hear true? There has been a murder in the zareba, and a Métis deserter has done the deed?” asked Garnet while he finished his breakfast. Durrant and Saul retold what they had learned of the deceased man the previous evening. When they finished, Garnet said, “This Reuben Wake character certainly sounds like he was worth the bullet.”

“It's all just conjecture at this point,” cautioned Durrant.

“
You're
going to investigate,
aren't
you?” Garnet's tone suggested both amusement and inevitability.

“I should like to get to the bottom of some things.”

“Such as what, if any, motive did this Terrance La Biche have? Who else besides the father of the molested girl might have wanted Reuben Wake dead?” said Saul.

“How was it that this La Biche, who was supposedly under guard, managed to sneak away at the height of the battle, find Wake's very own pistol and kill him with it, and then sneak back into the cookery?” added Garnet.

Durrant agreed. “I'm very curious about what motive Mr. La Biche might have had. If he hadn't taken up arms but was merely tending to his cattle, as we have heard, one might assume that he didn't hold with Riel and Dumont. If that was the case, then why kill a teamster under the command of the Dominion?”

“And why this
particular
teamster?” asked Garnet.

“If the rumour of . . . rape . . . is true”—Durrant looked down at his hands uncomfortably—“and if this girl's father is here in this very camp, also under guard, did he slip his bonds?”

Saul added, “The murdered man was shot in the head at point-blank range. How is it possible that a Métis who was a foe of the deceased was able to walk right up to him and pull the trigger?”

Durrant had been sitting on a crate. He stood up now, taking his crutch and tucking his armament into holsters and pockets. “These are all good questions, gentlemen, and I am grateful that you have deputized yourselves as aides in this investigation. I must go and face the unpleasant task of requesting an interview with Terrance La Biche from my superior, Sub-Inspector Dickenson. I should hope he is as not as obstreperous as all accounts suggest.”

“And if he is?” asked Saul.

“Then I shall have to persuade him to the best of my ability.”

DURRANT WALLACE FOUND
Sub-Inspector Damien Dickenson inside a makeshift detention centre that had been fashioned inside the zareba. He was sitting on a round of wood, smoking a pipe and cleaning his Winchester.

“Good morning, Sub-Inspector,” Durrant said as he made his way into the tight enclosure of wagons. He stopped and stood at attention.

Dickenson looked up. He was a ginger-haired man with a broad moustache and small blue eyes set close together on his round face. “Good mornin'.”

“My name is Sergeant Durrant Wallace.” He stood stiffly before the seated man.

“You're Mounted Police?”

“I am. Fort Calgary, sir.”

“You don't wear the serge?”

“No, sir. I haven't in some time. The kind of work I do, it's better to conceal my purposes.”

Dickenson looked at Durrant. “I know who you are—the infamous Sergeant Wallace.” Dickenson stood and offered his hand. Durrant glanced down at his own game right hand, and Dickenson awkwardly switched to his left so that Durrant could shake it. “I didn't think you'd been assigned to the campaign, but here you are.”

“Indeed, here I am, sir. It's a clandestine effort that's led me here to Batoche.”

“Care for a seat, Sergeant?” Dickenson turned up another round of wood for Durrant to sit on. Durrant accepted, lying his rifle and crutch down beside him. “Did you see any action, Wallace?”

“Not to speak of. I made haste to reach Batoche, but didn't arrive in time to get into the fray. How did you fare?”

“Very well. I was able to do my part on the Mission Ridge. I was with Van Straubenzie and the others yesterday afternoon when the charge was ordered. We went hard for the Mission Ridge and swept all resistance away.”

Durrant listened in silence.

“I don't care to seem rude, but what is your business here in the stockade?” asked Dickenson.

“I understand that you have a man named La Biche here in custody?”

Dickenson drew on his pipe. “The assassin? Yes, he's in that wagon there.” He pointed with his chin.

“He got caught red-handed?”

“He was in possession of Reuben Wake's pistol.”

“Did you catch the man yourself?”

“A man named Jasper Dire did. He's a volunteer in Major Boulton's Regina company.”

“You've interviewed him?”

“I have.”

“What did you learn?”

Dickenson regarded Durrant with a cool eye. He drew on his pipe, the smoke circling around his features a moment before he spoke. “He's a rebel. A half-breed. When it looked as if the battle was going against the Métis, he broke away from the cookery and sought out a man to kill. Even the score, I suppose.”

“This is what he told you?”

“It's what happened. It's a simple matter of facts.”

Durrant studied Dickenson's face. “How many others are being held here in the stockade that were arrested that day?” asked Durrant.

“Twelve men. Some others were captured and released after they laid down arms.”

“How many men are being held here that were
not
captured in the fighting? Are there others like La Biche who surrendered?”

“One other—a Métis—who was found in the willows along the riverbank. He had a knife on his person.”

“And what was he doing?” asked Durrant.

“He says he was just sitting. His name is Jacques Lambert. He's not well in the head. Cut his own wrists there on the banks of the river. Middleton's doctor had to bandage them. The man is under guard in the infirmary.”

“Where is the murder weapon, Inspector?”

“We have it under lock and key. If Wake has any family, they'll get it after the trial.”

Durrant knew from experience that, descendants or not, Wake's pistol would in all likelihood end up a trophy of Dickenson as soon as the gavel was dropped on Terrance La Biche.

“Would you mind if I spoke with La Biche?”

Dickenson took the pipe from his mouth. “I don't think that would be appropriate, Sergeant.”

“As I see it, the case needs strengthening, sir. I don't want to tell you your business, but I fear that when this case goes to court the judge will throw it out. We need to establish a clear motive for this man's involvement in the death of Mr. Wake. We have to prove that there was some reason he sought out Reuben Wake instead of any other man in the zareba that day. Why not simply kill the cook? Why go to all the trouble of searching out Mr. Wake?”

Dickenson was regarding Durrant through a pall of pipe smoke. “I don't think we'll have to worry about the judge.”

“If we get a
Regina
judge, that is.”

Dickenson's small eyes narrowed so that they were mere slits in his round face. “You can have ten minutes.”

TERRANCE LA BICHE
was chained to the seat of a covered wagon. He was lying on his side on the floor, his hands shackled above his head, and was feigning sleep. “Mr. La Biche, I'm Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police. I'm here to ask you some questions.”

“Then ask your questions.”

“Would you rather not sit up here on the seat and talk like civilized men?”

“There is nothing civilized about this situation, Red Coat.”

“Sir, you are under arrest for the murder of Reuben Wake. If you're found guilty, you will hang from the neck until dead. I thought you might appreciate a moment or two to plead your case.”

The man looked up. He was dark-skinned, with a thick head of curly back hair and piercing eyes. He wore a thin coat over workclothes. He stood up, pulling on the chains, and sat on the bench. There was no blanket in the wagon.

Durrant stepped up into the wagon and sat down on the spring-loaded seat next to the Métis man, considering him for a moment. “Mr. La Biche, did you kill Reuben Wake?”

“You're the first one to ask. The others, they did not bother to ask this question.” La Biche's accent had hints of both French and Cree.

“Did you kill him?”

“I did
not
. Doesn't mean that I didn't want to.” La Biche leaned toward Durrant so that his face was just a few feet from the policeman's. “In fact, I was looking for a chance since getting myself caught on the very first day of fighting. But no such opportunity came my way.”