The Third Riel Conspiracy

by Stephen Legault

  “Are you all right?” asked Durrant.

  “Of course I’m all right. Haven’t you eyes to see?” She was standing now, placing the shotgun against the wall. She was dressed as she was when he had first met her: like a stableboy. Her long hair was tucked up under a cap, and she wore men’s trousers, shirt, and waistcoat. But there was no mistaking her eyes, blue as mountain waters.

  “I was worried—”

  She stepped forward and planted a kiss on his grizzled cheek.

  There was a sound behind them. Durrant whirled, his pistol coming up in a sudden arc. The barrel of it came to the forehead of a man standing there. He lowered the gun.

  “Hello, Durrant,” said the square-shouldered man.

  “Hello, Paddy.”

  “Met my new stable hand?”

  “Yes, we’ve been introduced.”

  “This one talks. Sometimes too bloody much.”

  Durrant looked back at Charlene. “Let’s get you ready to travel.”

  “Where are we going?” Her eyes lit up.

  “Montana.”

  “I LET HIM go. There was nothing I could hold him on.” Sub-Inspector Raymond Dewalt was sitting behind his desk.

  “I had him on charges of horse stealing,” protested Durrant.

  “There wasn’t any evidence. None of the witnesses would come forward. Not without—”

  “Without what?”

  “Sergeant, none of the men who had bought horses from Jeb Ensley would testify to that without the assurance that the Ensley brothers wouldn’t come looking for them.”

  “And you couldn’t assure them that the law in Fort Calgary would protect them?” Dewalt just stared at him. “How long ago?”

  “It’s been three weeks or so, I suppose.”

  “Hell, I hadn’t even reached Batoche!”

  “Mind yourself, Sergeant. You might be the favourite of Superintendant Steele, but you’re under my command at Fort Calgary.”

  The two men glared at one another for a moment before Dewalt broke the uncomfortable silence. “And what is your next assignment?”

  “You mean, in addition to recapturing Jeb Ensley?” asked Durrant as he turned and left the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE MEDICINE LINE

  MAY 31, 1885. THE MACLEOD TRAIL.

  They rode the Macleod Trail for ten days. On the fourth night they reached the trail’s namesake: Fort Macleod. Upon departing Calgary, Charlene had travelled under the guise of stableboy and aide-de-camp, but she happily abandoned the masquerade when they reached the fort and it was announced there would be a dance. Durrant watched as she spun around the compound with the young constables, the flames from a giant bonfire reflecting the light in her eyes. Durrant felt a stab of envy that he could not join in the fun. And then he felt something most peculiar: jealousy.

  In the morning they agreed that she could abandon the disguise for good, given that everybody in the town knew who she was after the long night of merrymaking. They rode out on the prairie once more and made for the Medicine Line. At noon on the sixth day they crossed the demarcation that indicated the border. Charlene commented on the splendour of the country: the blue line of mountains to the west, and the deep valleys where the trail plunged down and forded creeks and rivers and rose up out of the hollows and crested broad plateaus.

  After ten days of riding Macleod Trail, Fort Benton appeared in the distance. Traffic on the road had increased as teams travelled north with the opening of cattle season. The broad Missouri River lay between high banks of prairie. Durrant knew that the fort at Benton had been abandoned now for some time. It had once been the pivotal trading post of the American Fur Company, and later a military outpost, but was now crumbling into ruin. Even the squatters had abandoned it to the rats. The town that surrounded it was thriving, though, and as Charlene and Durrant rode across the bridge and onto Main Street, Durrant began to scan the faces of the men on the wooden walkways and on every buckboard that passed.

  They had agreed to find a hotel for the night and Durrant pressed the horses toward the far end of town where he had been told there was a reputable establishment called The Grand Union that had been built three years before. They tied their horses and stepped inside. Durrant crossed the lobby to the clerk and inquired about a room. “Two beds,” said Durrant.

  DURRANT WALKED ALONG the streets of Fort Benton and stopped into several saloons to ask his questions. Nobody knew where Jeb Ensley was. In the third establishment he entered, he decided on a new tack. He stepped to the bar, rested his arm on the polished wood runner, and regarded the room. Half a dozen tables were filled with men drinking and playing cards. The air was thick with smoke.

  He turned to the bartender. “My name is Durrant Wallace. I’m looking for Jeb Ensley. He been around lately?”

  The bartender was cleaning a glass. “What do you want him for?”

  “Horses.”

  The bartender looked him up and down. “You don’t look like no horse buyer. You look like the law.”

  “Is Jeb in town or not?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Long life and continued prosperity.”

  The bartender stopped cleaning the glass and shook his head. “Jeb hasn’t been in these parts for a month. His little brother got himself in some trouble north of the line, and Jeb has cut town. He’s gone farther west, into the Awahee country in Oregon. He’s trading up and down through the Kootenay. That’s all I know.”

  “What about his brother? I heard he cut loose in Fort Calgary.”

  “If he did, he didn’t come back here.”

  “Any of his known associates still in this neck of the woods?”

  “Hell, I’d be surprised if any of them was still alive.”

  “That good bunch of fellas? Who would want to cause them trouble?”

  CHARLENE WAS SLEEPING when Durrant returned. She sat up when he came into the room. “Did you find what you were looking for?” He didn’t light the lamp. He removed the belt that held the Enfield pistol and hung it over the post of the bed. He took the British Bulldog and laid it on the table next him and sat down, breathing a heavy sigh.

  “Durrant, what is it?”

  “Revenge is a curious motivation.”

  “Did you find the man?”

  “No. He spooked. Remember I told you I arrested his little brother right before this business with Riel?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Word got down here pretty quick. Must have come across the wire. Modern technology.” Durrant shook his head. “A lawman can’t keep ahead of the renegades. Anyway, I feel as if I’m chasing a ghost.”

  “Durrant, we’re here to look into the business at Sun River, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s my duty—”

  “But you thought maybe you might find what you were really looking for here in Fort Benton?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s revenge you’re seeking?”

  “Not much of a lawman, I suppose.”

  “You’re a man first, Durrant.”

  “I am a lawman above all else, Charlene. I’ve seen what revenge does to a man. It will get him hanged from the neck. Revenge is the most basic of motivations for murder.” He slipped off his boots and undressed in the dark.

  “You’re not going to kill anybody,” said Charlene.

  “I don’t know that.”

  “I know you. When the time comes, when you find the men who shot you, you’ll remember that you are a North West Mounted Policeman.”

  SUN RIVER WAS a long day’s ride from Fort Benton. The earth began to rise and fall as they travelled west toward the mountains. They rode the track up out of the Missouri River and at Great Falls started along the trail into the Sun River country.

  “So this is where Louis Riel was hiding all those years?”

  “Not so much hiding as just living. He was a US citizen, taught school, was married and had children.”

  “Re
mind me, what exactly are you looking for?”

  To the west, the Rocky Mountains drove up like torn steel, their spiny backs rising and falling in a blue line that stretched unbroken as far as either of them could see. “I don’t know,” Durrant admitted. “Riel told me there were secrets buried down here. I don’t know if he was being literal or just aggrandizing once again. I guess we’ll just have to do what any lawman would: ask a lot of questions.”

  “I thought that lawmen in this territory rode in guns blazing.”

  “You’ve been reading penny paperbacks again.”

  “Life of a stableboy.”

  As the sun was sinking behind the western wall of serrated rock, the town of Sun River came into view. “Not much to show for itself,” said Charlene.

  “I see a church steeple, and that’s a good sign. We’ll start there and ask about our northern prophet.” They rode the flat expanse of country that bordered the broad Sun River, its banks filled to near overflowing with spring’s meltwater. “It’s good country. I can see why Riel made this home.” They reached the church and gratefully dismounted. Looping their reins over the hitching post, they stood and regarded the tiny village and the vast country around them. Durrant watched cattle on the ridge above the river they had just traversed disperse as an oncoming rider appeared. He watched the horseman drop into the willows along the river. A voice interrupted him.

  “Evening.”

  Durrant turned to see a man in black robes on the steps of the church. “Good evening,” said Durrant.

  “Help you?”

  “I hope so. We’re looking for a place to bed down for the night. My name is Durrant Wallace. I’m with the North West Mounted Police. This is my . . . friend, Charlene Mason.”

  “A little out of your jurisdiction,” said the priest.

  Durrant noted that the man was a Jesuit. “Yes, Father, I am. I’m here to ask about Louis Riel.”

  “Ah . . .” said the priest. “I’ve heard about the business up in the Saskatchewan Territory. I told Riel he should just stay put, let the Indians sort out their own problems, but he said he had a calling.”

  “You were here when the men came to find him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Were there many who saw what went on?”

  “Not so many. There are only about thirty souls who live in town. We serve the farms and ranches for fifty miles.” The priest opened the door of the church, and he, Durrant, and Charlene stepped inside. The room was dark and warm. A woodstove rumbled in the corner. The priest walked to the front of the church.

  “Father, did Riel attend your church?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Was he a regular?”

  “He was here every Sunday.”

  “And what did he do in Sun River?”

  The priest had taken up a post at the front of the church before the altar. Durrant sat down in the front pew. Charlie sat down beside him.

  “He taught school. He was a very well-educated man. He was very good with both the students and the parents.”

  “Did people know about his . . . past?”

  “We did. Some of it. I imagine there are things in Riel’s past that nobody knows for certain, but we knew enough.”

  “You knew that in 1874 Riel incited a revolution at Fort Garry, in what is now Manitoba, and a man, a Protestant named Thomas Scott, was murdered?”

  “We knew this.”

  “You’re a Jesuit.”

  “It’s not about who follows which church, Mr. Wallace. It’s about faith in Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, that may be so, Father, but for Mr. Scott it had everything to do with being a Protestant. There were many reasons why, in 1874, the Métis rose up, just as there are many reasons for the current resistance, now coming to an end in the North West Territories of the Dominion. One of them was the age-old quarrel between the interpretations of God’s word that has formed the rift between Catholics and Protestants.”

  “Am I to take it you are not a God-fearing man?”

  “I have seen too much of this world to fear anything but the frailty of the human spirit.”

  The church was quiet. Durrant could feel Charlene’s eyes on him. The priest shifted. Durrant broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Father. We’re here on urgent business. Riel’s second rebellion is over. Many have been killed. I am investigating the death of one man who was murdered in our own compound. This man was despised by many, and it seems they were all converging on him to cause him harm. I am charged with bringing his killer to justice.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” The priest gestured as if his congregation was before him.

  “I have it on good authority that the murdered man was in Sun River this past July. He came here under the pretext of being friend to Riel and the Métis. He travelled as part of the small company of men with Gabriel Dumont to try and entice Riel to return to Canada. His intent was not to help aid Riel’s return, but to prevent it. He failed, and I don’t know why. We hoped that by coming here we might learn what it was that happened, and how this may have led to his eventual murder.”

  “I remember the party of travellers, and I remember Dumont.” The priest closed his eyes. “There were four men that came into town who approached Riel. Two men tended to the horses and camped up on the ridge.”

  “Two men?”

  “Yes, there were two.” The priest’s eyes were still pressed shut.

  “Did these men not come into town?”

  “I don’t believe so. As I recall, Dumont was very careful about this. He spent several days here to convince Riel that the time was right for his return.”

  “Father, I wonder if I might ask a favour of you. I wonder if you might recommend a place we can board ourselves tonight.”

  “Sun River doesn’t have a hotel.”

  “Might we call on the grace of your church for shelter?”

  “I suppose. Are you man and wife?”

  “No, but I am this young woman’s guardian,” said Durrant. “I am charged with her safety.” The priest nodded his agreement. Durrant continued, “In the morning, would you kindly take us to where these men were camped?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  UNEARTHED REVELATIONS

  JUNE 11, 1885. SUN RIVER, MONTANA.

  Durrant lay awake, listening to the wind beat against the wooden walls of the church. Charlene was stretched out on the floor next to the stove, wrapped in a blanket. Several times he stoked the fire and Charlene opened her glacial-blue eyes and regarded him. In the early hours the wind died and Durrant began to drift toward sleep, but something jarred him awake. The fire in the stove was nearly out and the room was cool. Everything was dead still. Durrant shrugged off his blanket and struggled with his prosthetic. He stood up and looked to see that Charlene remained asleep. As carefully as his game leg would allow, he moved away from the stove and toward the centre aisle of the church. Using the silver-handled cane for support, he slowly went down the aisle.

  He heard a clicking and the sound of wood creaking. Someone was opening the main door to the church. Durrant raised the Enfield. He realized he was holding his breath, and let it out. He took two more steps, stopped, and listened. The sound came again, louder this time and immediately in front of him. He moved to the left side of the double door and extended the Enfield before him. The door opened an inch and Durrant thumbed back the hammer on his pistol.

  The moment was frozen. He aimed at what he imagined would be an intruder’s head, his heart thumping in his chest, his hand sweating.

  The door closed with a thud. The noise caused Durrant to step back, and he bumped the pew behind him; it made a scraping sound on the wooden floor.

  “Durrant?” called Charlene.

  “Quiet!” he whispered. He watched her rise silently and pick up the Remington shotgun from the floor next to her. He held up his right hand, the cane dangling awkwardly from his deformed fingers, and motioned for her to remain still, but she did not. She came
up behind him, the shotgun pointed at the floor.

  He turned to look at her and realized that she was not afraid. “There’s someone outside the door.” He advanced on the entrance and with his cane flipped the fastener and threw open the door. A gust of air entered the church and extinguished their only light. Pistol held at the ready, Durrant stepped out onto the top step, Charlene behind him. He scanned the area. The half moon resting on the western horizon provided enough light to see the country around them. Durrant heard horses running. He raised the pistol and saw, on the road a hundred yards away, two riders galloping away toward Fort Benton. He aimed the Enfield but knew at that distance, and with the riders’ speed, he had no hope of finding a mark. And what if he did? Though it appeared the riders had come from behind the church, there was no way to tell. He lowered his pistol and looked at Charlene.

  “Two men, both with broad-brimmed hats, dark horses,” she said.

  “Maybe they came to say confession.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  They stepped back into the church and together pushed a pew in front of the door. “That ought to do it. The father will be flummoxed to get inside come the morning, mind you.”

  “If he brings a coffee pot we might allow him in.”

  Durrant went back to their sleeping area, got a piece of cordwood, and opened the stove. Charlene rearranged their blankets, and Durrant imagined that she did it in a way that brought them closer together. He was about to put the wood in the stove when he was stopped in his tracks.

  There would be no sleep that night: on top of the stove was a square of newspaper torn from the masthead of the Calgary Daily Herald. It was dated the day that Durrant and Charlene had left the city on their ride south. On it was a note scrawled in ink.

  When you go to the ridge in the morning, bring the gravedigger.

  THEY SEARCHED THE church and found the back door; Durrant cursed out loud at his own foolishness. “So while we were watching the front, someone snuck in and left this right under our noses.”