Block considered Moberly for a long moment. “Leave this with me. I’ll see that I have a reporter on the scene to cover this suspicious turn.” Garnet stood and extended his hand. Block shook it. “All right. I’ve got a paper to print.”
“Indeed.” Garnet left and walked out onto the street.
CHARLENE MASON WAS dressed in her one and only fine dress as she stepped into the street and made her way toward Reuben Wake’s empty stable. She had no doubt that Durrant would follow her. She reached the stable in ten minutes and stopped in front of its broad double doors. She could see no lights in the building but guessed that the Shadow Conspiracy men would be there as they had been the previous night. She stepped up to the doors, opened them, and entered the gloom. “Mr. Wake?” she called out.
There was no sound. She could tell, however, that there were men there. Something shifted toward the back of the barn, where the light of a street lamp seeped in through the high windows.
“Mr. Wake? Mr. Wake, I have important news.” Stillness. She turned, left the stable, and hurried down the street. When she passed the town hall, she glanced at the clock. She had just a few minutes to reach the newspaper office. She didn’t look back over her shoulder, and though the temptation was nearly overwhelming, she resisted the urge to stop and tie her boots and peer behind her. She reached the newspaper office in time to see a well-dressed man confidently stride out of the false-fronted building and wink at her.
DURRANT WALLACE WATCHED as Charlene entered the stable, called out twice, and then turned and walked down the street. He waited, almost without breathing, until a man emerged from between the buildings. The figure moved deftly up the street, pausing in the doorways of shops along the way. Durrant observed as Charlene and her follower turned the corner at the town hall, then made his way along the avenue. He checked over his shoulder to ensure that no other member of the Shadow Conspiracy was following. The man tailing Charlene stopped before she got to the newspaper office and slipped between two buildings. Shortly after, Durrant saw Charlene leave the newspaper and head back toward the hotel.
Durrant wished he could catch up to her to inquire as to Block’s reaction but instead went through the dark to the rear of the newspaper building. He carefully crept through the bleakness until he could observe the member of the Shadow Conspiracy, who was standing outside the open window of Stanley Block’s office, listening attentively. Durrant secreted himself among a stack of crates.
“Well, we’re going to have to do something, and fast,” said a voice inside the office. Durrant glanced toward the newspaper building. The Shadow Conspiracy agent was concealed there by a large crate of newsprint.
“Goddamned right we’ll have to do something. This changes all of our plans. This notion that Riel is to be examined is just another ruse by his sympathizers to play to his insanity defence. It’s not going to work,” Durrant heard Block say.
“What do you want to do?”
“Let’s wait until after he leaves the NWMP barracks. It will be easier to take him on the outskirts of town, between the barracks and the courthouse. He’ll be too heavily guarded once he gets to the magistrate’s. Same plan as before. Just a different location. Are you up for it?”
“I haven’t had time to scout the location.”
“Then you had better go now.”
“Very well.”
The conversation ended abruptly. The man listening beneath the window moved quickly away from his hiding place and directly toward Durrant. Durrant held his breath as he passed. It was Jasper Dire.
Dire paused at the mouth of the narrow passage between buildings, his jet-black hair gleaming in the light of the street lamp. And then he was gone.
“YOU KNOW I’M going to get fired if I get caught,” said Saul.
“You can tell them that I ordered you to do this,” said Durrant.
“Why could we not simply ask?”
“That would mean more people would have to know about our plan. I simply don’t know who to trust. With the Regina Group and their shadows firmly rooted in all aspects of the North West Territories, I would prefer that we keep as small as possible.”
“So we’re going to steal the mannequin from the I.G. Baker store?”
“That’s right. Technically, it’s not stealing. I’m a sergeant in the North West Mounted Police, you’ll recall. I am merely drafting it for official duties.”
“How could I forget?”
“HOW IS IT that we ended up with a glamorous job like this?” asked Charlene. She was hiking up her skirt and preparing to climb onto a crate next to a rubbish bin behind a barbershop on Broad Street.
“I’d say it’s a true sign of our good sergeant’s affection for the both of us that we’ve been sent to perform this task,” Garnet laughed.
THE SUN WAS nearly up when Durrant Wallace walked into the courthouse. The wooden two-storey structure at the corner of Victoria Avenue and Scrath Street had been rented two years earlier by the federal government, and come the morrow it would see the start of its most famous trial to date. Durrant opened the door to the magistrate’s office with the key he had been given, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
“Up we go, lads.” Durrant tapped the floor with his cane.
The sound of grumbling could be heard in the darkness. Then a lamp was lit. Five men were asleep on the floor of the magistrate’s office. A sixth slept on the fine leather couch.
“Let’s rouse these men, Tommy.” The man on the couch sat up. “You’ve done a fine job with La Biche since Batoche. Now we have one last bit of business before we can finish this affair with Riel. You and these lads have been selected for a special assignment.”
“Does it involve coffee?” asked one of the men.
“Private, it does indeed. First you need to be briefed. And then you’re for the trail. We have a trap to set.”
THIRTY-FOUR
THE HAMMER IS RELEASED
THE POST WAS QUIET. A wagon hitched to a pair of stout quarter horses rested in front of a long, low building that doubled as the infirmary and bunkhouse for the post’s doctor. Next to the wagon were two members of the North West Mounted Police, dressed in serge, white helmets gleaming in the sun, and standing at the ready with their Winchesters. They watched the road that led from Regina to the barracks.
While most of the barracks’ constables were stationed at the courthouse for the trial, the labourers and non-commissioned members of the force went about their work. A young man pushed a heavily loaded hand truck the size of a wheelbarrow from the quartermaster’s store toward the stables. The Mounted Police standing guard eyed him warily. The truck passed out of sight, momentarily eclipsed by the infirmary. Silently it came to rest near the back of the building. The young man pushing it stopped and scanned the yard. It appeared deserted. He reached down and uncovered his load: a man unfolded himself from the hand truck and stood up. He was dressed in a long black robe, and his head was covered in a hood. At the end of the building was a single door, and the labourer reached into his pockets to retrieve a set of heavy keys. He fumbled nervously and looked at his companion, whose face was hidden by the hood. The young man inserted a key into the sturdy Yale lock. The man in the robe took a canvas bag from the truck, and they passed out of the glare of the sun and into the building.
Father Lefèbvre pulled back his hood. “Quickly now. We don’t have a moment to lose.” He handed the bag to his companion. The man put on a Red Serge. He strapped on a gun belt and awkwardly checked that the Enfield pistol it held was loaded. He looked up at the priest. He was sweating profusely.
“It will be all right, Private,” said the priest.
“I’ll hang if we get caught. It’s treason.” The young constable had a thick French accent.
“The force owes you nothing,” whispered Lefèbvre. “They declared war on your people, and on your religion.” The young man nodded. “Good. Let’s free the prophet.”
The constable took a pair of manacle
s from his tunic and placed them on the priest’s wrists without fastening them. He drew his Enfield, and the priest walked ahead of him. They made their way out of the storeroom and entered a long hallway that ran the length of the building. It was dark even at midday.
“Which room will they be examining him in?” asked Lefèbvre in a whisper.
“Likely the last room at the end of the hall,” said the constable. “It’s the largest, and closest to the exit.”
“Very well. Let’s go.” They reached the door to the infirmary. “Are you ready?” the priest asked.
The constable nodded and knocked on the door. Stepping back, pistol in hand, he held on to Lefèbvre’s manacled arms as Saul Armatage opened the door. “What is it?” asked the doctor.
Behind his shoulder stood a bearded man, his head bowed low and his back to the door. The constable said, “This prisoner was caught trying to reach the courthouse. He was injured. My orders were to bring him here.”
Saul looked skeptical. “Is that so? It’s most unusual. I have . . . a delicate examination under way.”
“May I bring him in? He’s been shot in the arm.”
Saul stepped aside. The constable guided the priest into the room and then closed the door behind him. “Put him there, on that gurney for now.” Saul pointed.
“Riel!” cried the priest, as he shed his manacles and reached into his robes, drawing forth a small, double-barrelled derringer pistol. He pointed the gun at Saul. Saul immediately put his hands up.
“Come, Riel, we have a truck awaiting you!” The priest drew close to his prophet. “Do you not recognize me?”
The man in the beard looked up. “Of course I recognize you, Father,” said Durrant Wallace. At that moment, the young constable turned his pistol from Saul to the priest. Father Lefèbvre gasped in surprise. “Put the gun down, Father. You are under arrest.”
“You have betrayed me!” the priest shouted at the constable.
He shook his head. “It is you who has betrayed your country, Father.”
“All right,” said Durrant. “Let’s get this man locked away.” He turned to the constable. “Well done, Private Norman. Crozier will hear of your good work. Now, follow through and get the father here under wraps. Father, I will need your robe.”
SAUL ARMATAGE STEPPED out of the infirmary and shielded his eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. He addressed the two policemen standing guard. “The prisoner is ready.” They entered the building, and as they did, Durrant Wallace, having shed his fake beard and dressed himself in the robes of Father Lefèbvre, quickly exited from the back of the building, Private Norman with him. A third man was thrown over Norman’s shoulder. He was dressed in common clothing—tan slacks and tunic, and a wide-brimmed hat—and wore a thick beard. When they reached a waiting wagon, the man was gently lowered into it. Durrant got in with him, while Norman mounted the wagon’s spring-loaded seat and quickly snapped the reins. As they drove off, the policemen rushed from the building, their rifles in their hands, and shouted after the escaping prisoner. One of the men levered a cartridge and, taking careful aim, fired twenty feet over the driver’s head.
Saul appeared behind them. “Well done, lads. Now, make haste to your next post.” The men ran for their horses, tethered at the stable.
THE ROAD BETWEEN the NWMP barracks and the town of Regina ran alongside the banks of Wascana Creek and through a narrow draw and then emerged along the flats, where it dissected the town. It was little more than a mile in distance and provided very few places for cover. Jasper Dire knew that the escaping prisoner would not pass this way. If they were headed for the US border, one hundred and twenty miles to the south, they would not risk the passage through Regina proper but instead would cut west and circle the town and then ride hard for the Medicine Line. Dire had set his trap where an old cattle trail passed between a pair of low sod buildings that had been abandoned by homesteaders.
He had been patient, and it had paid off. Now the final payment would come, when he recaptured the recently freed Riel. God have mercy on any man who stood in his way. He looked across the open prairie. A telling rooster tail of dust could be seen on the horizon. As the wagon drew near, Dire gave his signal, and a man hidden behind a low shed heaved a handcart into the road just as the wagon rounded the bend. The driver pulled up hard on the reins. The horses reared and kicked, and the man in the serge stood to try and rein them in. Behind the driver, Jasper Dire saw the priest clutch at his hat; he seemed to be supporting Riel, as if he had been injured.
As the wagon came to a violent stop, Riel appeared to fall to the floor of the wagon bed. Dire rushed from the hut, his Webley pistol in his hand, and shouted, “Stand to! Stand to! Put your hands in the air and I won’t have to shoot!” Another man from the sod hut opposite came forward with a shotgun. The man who had pushed the handcart reached into it for a Winchester. The constable at the reins stood and raised his hands high into the air.
Dire approached, holding his pistol straight in front of him. “Stand, priest.” He aimed his weapon at the back of the black-robed man. The priest stood, his cloak concealing his face. “Now you”—Dire turned to the constable—“unholster that sidearm, carefully, and toss it into the road.” The young constable did as he was told. “Priest, step down from the wagon and turn so I can see you.” Dire noted that the priest seemed to have injured his leg, because he walked with a limp. As he approached, he looked up. “Mr. Dire” —he removed his habit, revealing the face of North West Mounted Police Sergeant Durrant Wallace—“you are under arrest for the murder of Reuben Wake.”
For a moment Dire seemed frozen. He raised his pistol but collapsed forward as he did so, falling into the dust. The man with the shotgun spun to take aim at Durrant, but he too fell forward, clutching his chest. No shots had rung out.
The third man, Winchester in hand, turned as if to run but tripped in the dirt and also fell forward, clutching his leg. He crawled a few feet, clawing at his thigh, where a small spot of blood was emerging, and then lay still. Durrant reached down and picked up the pistol Dire had dropped. He threw it to Private Norman. Garnet rose up from the sod next to the hut. He was covered in dirt and grass. He was smiling broadly and had a long wooden tube in his hands. He came forward quickly.
“Well done, Mr. Moberly,” Durrant said.
“Likewise, Sergeant, Private.”
“Nice choice of weapons.” Durrant pointed to the blowgun in Garnet’s hands.
“Ah, yes, a relic from my time among the Dyaks of Borneo. Very effective. The serum that Doctor Armatage concocted last night should keep these men asleep for several hours. One would hope . . .”
“There will be a company along within a few moments to take care of these prisoners. Now, we must make haste.” Durrant bent down to unbutton Dire’s tunic.
STANLEY BLOCK STOOD in the shadow of a doorway on the main street of Regina. He checked his watch. Soon they would ride into town triumphant. He would have his day, and it would come with great reward: in time, Macdonald might even appoint him to the Senate. Of course, the mumbling drunk must never know the lengths his faithful supporters had gone to in order to shield him from the embarrassment of this trial, but Macdonald’s keepers in Ottawa would know.
Block waited. He checked his watch. He looked up the road, and as he did, the woman appeared on horseback as she had promised the night before. She slowed her horse to a canter and rode past the storefronts, looking for him. He stepped forward, and she drew the sweating horse up alongside him. “You bring good news, I hope?” he asked, and she smiled. “You’ve been most helpful. Tell me, was Dire successful?”
“He was.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay and celebrate with us tonight? I may have to insist . . .”
“I cannot,” she said. “Once Riel is done for, I must take the train for Winnipeg and report our success. The family of Thomas Scott will have some peace, at long last.”
“How is it you have come to be so helpful to u
s so late in the day?”
The young woman with the icy blue eyes laughed. “Someone is always watching.” She pressed her heels into the horse. As if on cue, the wagon being driven by Jasper Dire rounded the corner and entered the town. He sat erect at the reins. In the back sat a man with a Winchester and another with a shotgun. Between them was the bearded Riel, his hat pulled down low, obscuring his face. Block faded back into the shadows.
From down the street came a shout, and several Mounted Police on horseback began to ride toward the wagon. Dire drew up on the reins; as he did, Block looked to the window of a building across from him, raised his hand, and then quickly drew it down.
A shot, clean and crisp, rang out. The driver of the wagon jumped down, landing hard in the road. The two men in the back with Riel dove for cover. A second shot was fired, and the hat on the prophet Riel disappeared and the head of the man seemed to disintegrate. His body slumped into the wagon. The constables rode up hard, their pistols drawn, as passersby in the street screamed and ran for cover.
Dire hobbled to the back of the wagon, his leg obviously damaged from his fall, and yelled, “He’s dead! They have killed him!” The constables dismounted and descended on the building where the shot had been fired as Stanley Block opened the door behind him and disappeared. He knew the shooter would already be gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
AS DURRANT SHOUTED, “HE’S DEAD! They have killed him!” he noticed the dark shape of Stanley Block fade back and disappear. The four policemen dropped from their horses and rushed toward the building the shots had been fired from. Durrant reached down and touched the shoulder of Private Norman. He whispered, “You all right, son?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Okay, you know what to do.”
The lad sat up and, with his shotgun in hand, quickly dismounted from the wagon.
“You there, Staff Sergeant Provost? Planning on taking a nap?” asked Durrant. Provost was dressed as one of the men from the ambush.
The Third Riel Conspiracy Page 22
