The Third Riel Conspiracy

by Stephen Legault

  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

  THE INQUIRY BEGINS

  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.”

  “Let’s back up a moment, Mr. La Biche. Tell me what happened on May 9, the first day of fighting.”

  “It wasn’t the first time that we gave hell to General Middleton and his men. I was at Fish Creek, yes? That was the twenty-fourth of April. It was cold as hell. That’s where this all started, this business with Wake.

  “I was with General Dumont when we ambushed Middleton’s men there. That old fool split his troops and had half of them marching up the west side while the other half marched on the east of the creek. It was easy for us to bear down on one column of his men without much risk to ourselves. General Dumont assigned me to lead a company of men who would pick off Dominion troops from the hillside. We worked our way around to try and flank these soldiers and that’s when I saw Wake.”

  “You knew this man?”

  “Of course I knew him. I had known him for many years. Known him and come to hate him!”

  “After you saw Wake, what happened? Where was he?”

  “He was minding the horses, just like he always done. Just with the horses. I recognized him right off, as he had been up to Batoche several times over the years. That is how I have come to know him: his trips here to Batoche. He had come in the guise of a friend, but soon we were to learn that it was all trickery.

  “I simply couldn’t believe my luck it was him. I wanted to kill that man right then. I broke off from my companions and made my way along Tourond’s Coulée, trying to get close enough that I could shoot him right between his eyes. But I couldn’t get a good shot at him, and I didn’t want to reveal myself and miss. By the time I was in position, Middleton had found a scow and his second column was crossing the river. We’d killed ten and wounded more than forty, so the day belonged to us. Dumont ordered a retreat. I was the last to leave. Dumont ordered us to retreat to Batoche. It took General Middleton more than two weeks to pull himself together again.” La Biche grinned.

  “When Middleton finally reached Batoche, I was dug in just near a ravine and had a good shot at your Dominion soldiers as they came up through the trees. The whole time I was looking for Wake, but because he was with the horses, I couldn’t find him. I knew I would have to do something if I was going to get close to him, so when the soldiers started to fall back to take their supper, I slipped out of my trench and headed up the Humboldt Trail. I got a bit of luck there and come across some cattle that had been spooked, so when I gave myself up I looked just like a farmer. Told the Dominion soldiers that took me that I was tired of Riel’s religious ranting and that I didn’t want to fight for him any longer. What do you think they did?” He laughed. “I think they were happier to see those cows than they were a deserter such as myself.

  “They marched me back here and made me dig trenches all night, and the next day I got put in with the cooks. I kept trying to get away to find Wake, but he was always out tending to his horses. Until that last day.” La Biche was suddenly serious.

  “I saw that he got his arm shot up at La Jolie Prairie, and I knew that was going to be my chance. I had even put away a meat hatchet I was going to use to do the job. The battle cry went up and all the men were charging this way and that. I lost track of Wake. The next thing I know, there are these two men on me, dragging me away from the pots I was scrubbing and putting me in chains. Now here I am. And Wake is dead, but I didn’t kill him.”

  “When they took you a
way, they said you had Wake’s Colt in your possession.”

  “I didn’t have a gun. How could I have gotten a gun? When I gave myself up they searched me. I was unarmed. I had the hatchet hidden in one of the stores, but like I have told you, I didn’t get a chance to use it on the man.”

  “Where exactly did you stow it?”

  “I had it hidden under a sack of flour in the cookery. Go and see for yourself.”

  “Sub-Inspector Dickenson has told me that you had Wake’s pistol in your coat and that there were two rounds fired.”

  “I didn’t have the pistol when the men came for me.” He made an “empty” expression with his hands. “They took my coat from me when I was arrested. I slept last night with just this,” he said, his fingers holding the light fabric of his tunic. “No blanket. Not even a hot meal, just one of those terrible biscuits. I didn’t even get to eat that damned cow!”

  “You knew Wake from before. You said that he’d been here over the last year?”

  “He had been here several times. In fact, he was here when General Dumont and his companions went to Sun River, south of the Medicine Line, to bring our father, the prophet, home.”

  “What did Reuben Wake have to do with the business of bringing Riel back to Batoche?”

  Suddenly Dickenson appeared in front of the wagon. There were two men with him, wearing the uniforms of the Regina volunteers of French’s Scouts. “That will be enough questions, Sergeant. We’ve orders to move this man.”

  “I’ll need just a few more minutes with him, Sub-Inspector.”

  “No, Sergeant, you’ll not need just a few more minutes. He’s my prisoner, and I will interrogate him now in my own way. I aim to learn what I can from this man about the whereabouts of Gabriel Dumont and Louis Riel and see what I can find out about further plots to assassinate our proud Dominion boys. Then he’s for Regina and the noose.”

  “I assume, Sub-Inspector, that this man is to be transported to stand trial?”