The Third Riel Conspiracy

by Stephen Legault

  “Are any of our suspects former Mounted Police who served at Fort Walsh?”

  Durrant considered. “I don’t believe so.” He slumped a little in the saddle.

  “You know”—Charlene broke the silence—“there is a possibility that Stanley Block and Sub-Inspector Dickenson could have killed Wake. When men are entangled in a conspiracy to murder a man such as Riel, things go wrong. Wake sounds as if he were the sort of man who could arouse anger and resentment in even the gentlest soul. You told me yourself that even the priest Lefèbvre called him the devil. Maybe his fellow conspirators knew something that we do not. Maybe Wake had threatened them, or was going to spoil the chance to kill Riel, and they killed him and framed La Biche.”

  “That is a possibility, Charlene.”

  “And if Dickenson is involved, then there is nothing to say that other Mounted Police are not. Dickenson could have come to Sun River following the Wakes and when Persimmon stepped out of line, killed him. There’s nothing to say that they didn’t try and fail to kill Reuben then, too.”

  “We must sit this long time with all of these questions. It may be that Garnet and Saul have answers to them that we cannot know. This ride will be the longest.”

  “At least you have my charming company.”

  He looked at her. She was dressed as she might when masquerading as a stableboy, but she was smiling broadly, her hair touching her shoulders and the morning sun on her face. The light caught in the blue of her eyes was mesmerizing.

  DURRANT WAS AWARE that they had been followed since leaving Sun River. In view of the note scrawled on the newspaper scrap, he suspected now that they had been since Fort Calgary. Somewhere, just past the curve of his vision, a rider had always been there. Durrant had caught glimpses from time to time of one and sometimes two horsemen on the distant southern horizon. Had he been alone, Durrant would have doubled back along one of the creeks that they forded and taken their shadow by surprise, but with Charlene with him, he dared not risk an open confrontation.

  Instead, each night he lay down to rest with his armament at his side and waited in the dark for trouble. The shadow never grew closer; it was as if the riders following them were phantoms content to watch, wait, and trace their path across the plain.

  FORT CALGARY EMERGED like a mirage in the desert. Durrant and Charlene were simultaneously hot and soaked to the skin when they finally reached their destination. The weather had alternated between sun, rain, and snow as they rode the Macleod Trail north into Canada to the confluence of the Bow and Elbow Rivers.

  “Has it grown since we’ve been gone?” asked Charlene.

  “I believe it has.” Durrant rode with the Winchester across his lap.

  They made the fort’s parade ground by sundown. As they rode into town, the shadow that had drifted behind them seemed to evaporate into the business of the boom town. Durrant inquired with the fort’s commander and secured the guest quarters for Charlene. He simply was not about to let her out of his sight while they were in the city. Next, he himself went to the non-commissioned officers’ quarters, where he hadn’t slept more than a night over the last two months, and washed, shaved, and found clean clothing. His face was white and raw after two months of whiskers were shorn, but he feared he had started to look like a ruffian.

  The truth was, he wanted to do what little could be done to make his appearance more presentable. The scars from frostbite still cut across his cheeks and jaw, and there was no disguising the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, the result of riding into the sun all these years. His was a dishevelled face, but it would have to do.

  He regarded himself in the mirror for a long moment. He looked at his hair, thick and dark and with a pronounced wave. He ran his left hand through it and then set his Stetson firmly on his head and went to the main hall, where the telegraph machine sat unattended.

  Durrant found the strongbox located in Sub-Inspector Dewalt’s office and opened it using the combination. He found a stack of correspondence intended for him in an envelope with his name on it. He sat down at Dewalt’s desk and read.

  To Durrant Wallace.

  From Garnet Moberly.

  May 31, 1885. Arrived in Regina. La Biche safely in custody, as is Riel. Regina alive with rumour. Suspect that Regina Group has grip on city. Determining likely prospects for surveillance. Will keep you informed.

  The next was from Saul Armatage. It was from the station in Prince Albert.

  Durrant: As feared. Farm of Terrance La Biche in ruins. Girl badly hurt. Passed on information to Crozier. Has ordered an investigation. Am proceeding to Regina to rendezvous with Moberly.

  A week later there was another wire from Garnet.

  Located a cell of men from Regina Group. Keeping watchful eye. Am not only one. Others shadowing as well. Saul arrived and doing double duty.

  Garnet’s final correspondence was dated just a week previous.

  Now believe an attempt on Riel’s life will be made when moved from NWMP barracks to courthouse. Guard has been doubled per Crozier’s order. Regina Group has tentacles in ALL aspects of power here. Confirmed others are watching. No ginger-haired men seen. No sign of Dickenson. Come as soon as able.

  The next wire was from Sam Steele.

  Durrant. Big Bear surrendered. Resistance is over. Proceed at once to Regina to aid in protection of Riel. Complete investigation into murder of Wake. Open fighting complete. Political fallout not done. Tread carefully.

  Durrant folded the sheets of paper and, taking a box of matches from his pocket, opened Dewalt’s stove, set them afire, and closed the door.

  PART THREE

  REGINA

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE FAMILIAR SENSE OF FALLING

  JUNE 23, 1885. FORT CALGARY.

  “You will come with me to Regina,” he told her in the morning. They stood outside the fort commander’s residence.

  “Is that an order, Sergeant?” she asked with a wink.

  “Ms. Mason, it is a request to be sure, an order if necessary.”

  “And what shall we do in Regina?”

  “Catch a killer. Prevent another murder. Possibly keep the fragile peace.”

  “The usual fare. We shall have to get a change of clothing. I can’t travel as your stableboy any longer. It simply won’t do.”

  They caught a cab from the fort to the home of Charlene’s employer. Durrant sat in the kitchen while Charlene prepared a travel bag. Before they left, she explained her situation to the Lloyds. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to return,” she told them.

  Durrant went out the back way and around to the front of the house to survey the scene on the street. He peered up and down but all seemed in order. The city was coming alive as men rode down the avenue toward work and children hurried to school. Durrant bid Charlene to hurry so they could catch the nine o’clock train for the east. They rode the cab down to the station with Durrant giving Charlene instructions as they went. “If he knows we’re back in the city, then this is where he might try something.”

  Charlene was composed. “The station will be busy. He’s a coward, Durrant, and must know that you will protect me. He’s not like you at all. He’ll avoid an open fight.”

  “We’ll wait in the station master’s office until the train is ready to depart. We should be safe enough there.” They reached the station, and Durrant stepped out of the carriage and helped Charlene down. She was dressed in a practical yet beautiful travelling dress and clutched a small bag. Durrant shouldered his satchel, his Winchester wrapped in burlap inside of it. Awkwardly, he clomped along the platform to the entrance to the station.

  There were scores of people, and Durrant kept Charlene close at hand. “Do you see him?” he whispered as they entered the station.

  “I don’t.”

  Twenty minutes later, the train arrived from the west. Most of those who detrained in Calgary had been to the mountains to take refreshment and rejuvenation in the hot springs at Banff. Many more were boar
ding for the journey east. Just before the conductor blew his whistle, Durrant and Charlene made for the pullman car where they had purchased seats. Durrant scanned the platform as they went. Nobody barred their passage onto the train; nobody called out from the platform in anger. The whistle blew and the porter took their tickets and showed them to their seats. They sat side by side; two well-dressed men in beaver-felt hats across from them read newspapers. Charlene leaned close to Durrant and he could smell her delicate fragrance. “I think we’ve made a clean getaway,” she said with a nudge.

  He looked out the window at the platform as the train slipped out of the station. The city was soon speeding by. They crossed the Bow River and climbed up out of the valley and within a few minutes had left the shacks and tents of the sprawling city behind. The prairie stretched before them, long and slow and flat. Durrant breathed out heavily.

  “All is well,” Charlene said and patted his arm. The task of leaving Fort Calgary now safely behind them, Durrant turned his attention to what lay ahead. He thought of his two friends working together in Regina, and realized how much he was looking forward to sharing their company once more. It had been nearly a month since they had parted in Batoche. Durrant considered the content of the wires he had received at Fort Calgary. Garnet’s principal responsibility over the last month had been to work with Tommy Provost to keep Terrance La Biche safe, and to watch the movements of the Regina Group. Garnet had suggested that he was not alone in this undertaking. Others appeared to be watching the Regina Group as well. Did members of the conspiracy to free Riel have the Regina Group in their sights even now?

  With men like Stanley Block, owner of the most influential newspaper in the West, involved, this much was obvious. Durrant wondered if the murder of Wake might be attributed to something as simple as another member of the group wanting Wake dead. If this was the case, Durrant wondered why.

  “You need some rest, Durrant,” whispered Charlene. “I know how little you’ve slept these weeks.”

  “Someone may be watching us still,” he said quietly.

  “That may be so, but I think we’re safe enough. Sleep a little.”

  He let his hands drop to his sides. “All right, for a moment. But stay close.”

  “I will venture only so far as the WC and then hurry right back.”

  Durrant glanced at her and then closed his eyes. Questions swirled in his mind. He leaned his head back against the well-appointed seat. The sound of the train and the rhythmic clack of the sleepers beneath hastened his slumber.

  IN HIS DREAM he was in motion. It wasn’t cross-ties creating the clatter beneath him but the cobblestone streets of Toronto. He was riding pell-mell through the city once more, his coattails flying behind him, the whip in his hand coaxing the horses on. But there was no thrill in this; he knew what fate awaited him. He drove up before the home and then was at the door and then the stairs. The world passed in a dull grey montage of images blurred at their edges. He was in the room; there was the iron smell of blood. Mary and the child lay motionless on the bed. They were both swaddled in white, their faces pale as ghosts.

  HE AWOKE. HIS hand was on the Enfield, and he brought the pistol up to the face of a porter. The men across from him recoiled. Durrant struggled to get his bearings. Charlene was not beside him. He felt the uneasy motion of the train swaying on the tracks as it rounded the bend. Medicine Hat? Soon they were crossing the South Saskatchewan River far below. The porter swallowed. Durrant looked at his weapon, then lowered it. “What is it?” His voice was raw.

  “Are you Durrant Wallace?”

  “Yes, I am. Sergeant Durrant Wallace. North West Mounted Police,” he said for the sake of his seatmates.

  “Sir, would you come with me, please?” asked the porter.

  The porter was sweating, and Durrant wondered if the beads of perspiration had been there before he drew his weapon on him. “What is it?”

  “Would you accompany me to the front of the coach please, sir?”

  Durrant holstered the Enfield and reached down for his cane. He followed the porter, who was already walking down the aisle. Durrant reached out and grabbed the man’s left arm. “Where is my travelling companion?”

  The porter looked around at the men and woman in the first-class car. “She’s in the water closet,” he whispered. “Please come this way.” Durrant felt a sense of relief. He allowed himself to be led down the aisle of the car to where the WC was located. The porter pulled him in close to the luggage, a few feet from the head.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Durrant.

  The porter’s eyes seemed much too large, and sweat still glistened on his ebony skin. “Sir, there is some trouble.”

  Durrant felt his pulse quicken. “What is it?” He looked around, his hand tightening on the handle of his cane.

  “Well, you best be reading this.” The porter handed him a piece of folded paper. Durrant opened it. It was written in Charlene’s hand.

  Durrant. He has me. We are in the WC. He wants to talk with you. He has a gun and will kill me if you try to come in.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SKILL OR BLIND LUCK

  DURRANT TOOK THE ENFIELD IN his left hand and used the head of his cane to rap on the door. He tapped quietly and then quickly stepped to the side. The porter watched from behind the adjacent storage locker.

  There was no sound. Durrant looked at the porter, who nodded to indicate that this was the right door. Durrant knocked again. “It’s Durrant Wallace.”

  “Wallace,” said a deep, angry voice from behind the door.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve got my wife in here.”

  “Has she been harmed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Will you let her go so you and I can talk?”

  Durrant heard a laugh that sounded like the bark of a dog. “You must think I’m some kind of fool, Wallace. I ain’t letting my wife out of my sight. Not ever again.”

  Durrant looked around him. The space was quite small: he estimated only two feet between the door of the WC and the outside wall of the train—not a big-enough space in the lavatory for Charlene and her abductor be confined without being on top of one another. “Mr. Mason, how do I know that Charlene is all right?”

  “She’s my wife, Wallace.”

  “How do I know that your wife is all right?”

  The man laughed. “I’ll let you say hello.”

  There was rustling, and then he heard Charlene say, “Durrant, I’m all right.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “See?” said the man. “She’s fine. Now, you and me are going to have a talk.”

  “Charlene, do as he asks. Don’t try to fight him.”

  “Sage advice, Red Coat. I’ve got my pistol pressed to her forehead. She fights, she dies.”

  “Why don’t we put the pistol away?” said Durrant. “The train is liable to bump over a sleeper and you might make a terrible mistake.” He felt his hand tightening on his own weapon.

  Durrant looked up to see a man making his way down the aisle to retrieve something from the storage locker. He motioned to the porter to cut him off. As the porter did so, the gentleman looked alarmed to see Durrant, pistol drawn, talking to the lavatory door. Within minutes, thought Durrant, everybody on this train is going to know what is happening here. “So let’s talk.” His face was pressed close to the door.

  “Why have you stolen my wife from me?”

  “I haven’t. Charlene and I are just friends, nothing more.”

  “That’s hogwash!” shouted Mason, and several of the passengers now turned in their seats to look. Durrant motioned for the porter. “That’s complete and utter bullcrap!” Mason yelled again.

  “I tell you, it’s true. I’ve never so much as laid a hand on her. She’s still very much your wife.”

  “Then why she run off?” His voice was quieter now.

  “I think you know why.”

  “Wha
t did she tell you?”

  “She told me that you were too hard on her.”

  “That’s a goddamned lie!” There was a sound like a fist hitting the door of the lavatory.

  “Mr. Mason?” Durrant stepped back and raised his pistol.

  “What?”

  “We’re just talking here. Have you hurt Charlene?”

  There was a long silence. “No.”

  “Please don’t, sir. If you do, it will make things very difficult.”

  “For who? For you?”

  “And you, sir.”

  Durrant looked away from the lavatory door. There were two dozen people crowded around the storage locker, all pressed together and staring wide-eyed at him. Durrant motioned the porter over. “You’ve got to keep these people back. They may get hurt, and if they spook this man . . .”

  The porter nodded and began warning people away. Durrant turned and spoke again to the man inside the WC.

  “Sir, we’re coming up on Medicine Hat. Why don’t you let Charlene go? You and I can step off the train and discuss this.”

  “No goddamned way,” yelled Mason.

  “Then what are your intentions?”

  “I’ll get off in Swift Current and we’re going to ride north again to our place.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be such a good idea.”

  “Why the hell not?” he yelled.

  “First off, there will be those who won’t like what you’ve done here. We have laws in the Dominion of Canada against this sort of thing.”

  “You mean kidnapping?”

  “Yes, that and other laws.”

  “It’s not kidnapping if she is my wife.” The train started to slow. “It’s not kidnapping if I’m married to her.”

  “When you use a pistol and take her with force it is.” Through the windows next to the lavatory door Durrant could see the town of Medicine Hat coming into view. He motioned for the porter and whispered to him, “When the train stops, go quickly to wire the Mounted Police detachment. Tell them what’s happening. Tell them to send as many men as they can spare, but not to interfere. Do not let this train start again. Understood?” The man nodded his understanding.