“No, Durrant, just making a good show of it.”
“Show’s over. I need you with me.”
Provost stood up, pushing down hard on the “corpse” next to him.
“Easy now Tommy, got to keep up the façade,” cautioned Durrant.
“I’d say he’s lost his stuffing,” said Provost. Next to him were the scattered remains of the mannequin’s head and the false beard that had been glued to it.
“Yes, I fear that the good doctor will be none too pleased. Hell of a shot.” Durrant snatched his cane from the bed of the wagon.
“It’s a good thing. At that distance, one of us might have been zipped,” said Provost.
“All right, let’s get a move on. He’ll be halfway to the stable by now.” They mounted the buckboard, and Durrant cracked the reins and drove it hard down Broad Street. People pressed to the windows of the shops to see them ride by.
They rounded a sharp corner onto Victoria Street, and Wake’s stable came into view. “How do you know he’s got a horse stashed here?” asked Provost.
“There was fresh hay here last night when Charlene was snooping around. There was tack laid out by the door. When she was there the night before, there was nothing. It’s a good bet this is where he’s stashed his mount.”
They stopped two buildings away from the stable, and Durrant motioned for Provost to cover the front of the building while he slipped into the alley between the stable and the adjacent structure. Though Provost outranked Durrant, they had come to the understanding that Durrant was in charge of this undertaking. Durrant reached the place where the crates were stacked and carefully climbed onto them. He put his cane down and reached up to open one of the windows, just as Charlene had several nights before. Then he hoisted himself up and quickly slipped inside.
The stable was dark, but Durrant knew at once that there was a horse there. He could hear it breathing. Steadying himself with his left hand, he lowered himself down to a carefully placed box and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. As he did, he quietly drew his Enfield and held it at his side.
There was a noise, and it wasn’t the horse. Durrant could hear wooden wall boards being pried open. He crouched next to one of the empty stalls and watched one of the boards at the back of the stable being dismantled. The assassin would have made this preparation beforehand, ensuring that he had a way to get into the barn unseen. A dark shape moved through the opening in the wall. The boards were left open, allowing some light into the room. Durrant could easily see the figure move through the darkness.
The man found his horse saddled and waiting near the front of the barn. Durrant stopped when he was just one stall away from the horse. He raised his pistol and waited. The moment would come when the shooter opened the door to make his escape. Tommy Provost would bear down on him, Durrant would catch him by surprise, and the final trap would be sprung.
The horse didn’t move. Durrant began to feel uneasy. Then the barrel of a pistol pressed into the back of his head. “Sergeant Wallace.”
“Mr. Dickenson,” said Durrant.
“It’s still Sub-Inspector to you.”
Durrant straightened. “You’re not fit to wear the serge.”
Dickenson laughed. “No, but then neither are you. I could hear you clomping along with that peg leg of yours the moment I walked in here. Toss your pistol.”
Durrant threw the Enfield, too hard, and it skidded across the floor and hit the stable doors with a dull thud. “You’ll not ride out of here alive,” he said.
“Who says I’m to ride?” asked Dickenson, and Durrant was silent. “Let’s go. Back the way I came.”
Dickenson guided Durrant toward the opening in the rear wall. Durrant said, “So, you have been part of this Regina Group since the beginning. Holding La Biche was merely a ploy to stay close to the prisoner. You knew that sooner or later Riel would come, and you would have your shot.”
Dickenson laughed, and Durrant felt the barrel of the pistol clip the side of his head. His ear burned with the pain of it. “If you think you’re going to get any sort of explanation from me, Wallace, you’re a bigger fool than I imagined.”
They reached the back of the stable, and Dickenson pressed the pistol hard into Wallace’s back. “You first. If you try to run with that gimp leg, I’ll cut you down. Killing you would make no difference to me.” He shoved Durrant, and as he did Durrant tripped on the floor joist. He tumbled through the opening and landed in the dirt in the back alley. The sun blinded him, but he managed to turn as Dickenson came through the opening, his pistol held out before him. It was the missing Colt .45, the one that had been planted on Terrance La Biche.
“The great Durrant Wallace, lying in the dirt like a dog.” Dickenson carefully stepped closer and extended his pistol toward Durrant. He thumbed the hammer.
“Drop it,” said Tommy Provost. He stepped into the alley and held a Remington shotgun just a foot from Dickenson’s head.
Dickenson wheeled on the man and the shotgun exploded, the blast blowing a hole in the side of the stable. He grappled with Provost for the weapon, the two men careening into the wall. From his prone position Durrant reached for his British Bulldog. He fired as the two men before him struggled to take aim at each other.
Dickenson wheeled against the stable, spinning and collapsing, his face twisted in agony. His pistol landed in the dirt, and he clutched at his leg. “You shot my goddamned knee off!” he screamed. Provost was breathing hard beside him, his gun aimed at Dickenson.
Durrant struggled to his feet, the Bulldog still trained on Dickenson. “We’ll see if we can’t get you fitted with a stump, Mr. Dickenson. See how you enjoy it.” He bent down and picked up the Colt and put it in his pocket. “Evidence,” he said, patting his coat.
TOMMY PROVOST HAD turned the wounded Dickenson over to Saul Armatage. Now Provost and Private Norman stood with Durrant behind the newspaper office.
“All right, lads. I don’t know what we should expect here, but let’s go and find out.” They stepped through the back door of the two-storey building and went up the stairs to the large copy desk. The room was empty. All of the reporters were chasing the various storylines of the day. They made their way to Block’s office and stopped outside the door. Durrant counted in a whisper, “One, two, three!”
Provost kicked in the door, and with guns drawn the three men stormed the room. Block was behind his desk. His mouth was gagged and his hands were bound in front of him with a white lace scarf. Durrant saw him first. “What the Blue Jesus . . . ?”
“Hello, Durrant.” Charlene was standing against the wall, Block’s four-barrelled pistol in her hand and aimed casually at the man at the desk.
“Charlene! What in God’s name are you doing?”
“He caught up with me and insisted that I join him for a celebratory drink. I thought I’d save you the trouble.”
Durrant looked at the others and back at Charlene. He shook his head. “All right, lads . . . and lady. Let’s wrap this up and deliver this fellow to the magistrate.”
THERE WAS A line of NWMP officers around the courthouse. On the street, a crowd stood in the afternoon heat, awaiting some word on the opening day of the trial of Louis Riel.
Durrant, Norman, and Provost ushered a shackled Stanley Block to the back door of the courthouse in time for the first recess of the day. There was some hullabaloo out front as reporters came to the door to share the news of the trial’s first hours. Durrant, taking pains not to be seen by the crowd of scribes, approached a familiar-looking constable and identified himself and the others. He asked that they be allowed to escort the prisoner to his appearance before the magistrate and then to the town’s makeshift jail in the building’s basement.
The four men were granted access through the courthouse’s rear doors, and Durrant led them into the vestibule at the back of the judge’s chambers. They sat on a bench, awaiting the opportunity to present the prisoner. Durrant caught Block regarding him scornfully.
“You have something to say?” Durrant asked him. Private Norman looked from Block to Wallace.
“You seem to have found yourself on the wrong side of history, Sergeant,” sneered Block.
“I’m a North West Mounted Police officer, Mr. Block. I don’t have a role in history. My only aim is to ensure justice is delivered.”
“Time will tell, Sergeant, but I can say with certainty one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“That your so-called justice won’t be delivered anytime soon.”
Provost jumped to his feet, drew his pistol, and pushed it into the stomach of Private Norman. He pulled the trigger. The explosion was muffled by the constable’s serge; he fell forward onto the floor. Provost then turned the gun on Durrant, who had begun to stand, and held it to his forehead.
“Tommy, don’t do this.”
Block stood up behind him. “Shoot him, Mr. Provost.”
“That wasn’t part of the plan, Block,” protested Provost.
“He knows too much. He’s seen all of our faces. Shoot him. We can say it was Norman.”
“Tommy, why are you doing this?” asked Durrant.
“He can’t get away with it,” said Provost.
“Riel? He’s going to go to trial. That’s the way we do it in Canada.”
“Yes, he is. He’ll create sympathy in the press for his cause. He’ll make Macdonald look like the killer when he himself is a homicidal maniac.”
“Tommy, it’s not our job to pass judgment. Our job is to uphold the law.”
“Still believe all that tripe that Sam Steele has been feeding you, Durrant?”
“You believed it too. You saved my life on the Cypress Hills.”
“Yes, Durrant, but that was long ago. Much has changed quickly in this young nation.”
Durrant leaned forward as he spoke his next words, his forehead pushing the pistol back toward Provost, who took a step back. “Nothing has changed, Tommy. We’re still Mounted Police.” Provost backed into Block, and flinched. Durrant seized the moment and swung his cane for Provost’s hand. The pistol clattered to the ground. Provost lunged for Durrant, who stepped aside and used his cane to spear his attacker in the neck. Provost dropped to the floor, his hands on his throat, his face turning red as he gasped for breath.
Durrant scrambled for the Enfield pistol, but Block, his hands manacled before him, dove for him, and Durrant’s prosthetic gave way. They crashed to the floor. Block sat astride Durrant and pressed the shackles of his bound hands into Durrant’s neck. Durrant reached for his cane with his right hand as he felt the chains cutting into his windpipe. He started to gasp for breath.
“All of this,” grunted Block, “for a goddamned half-breed!” Durrant pressed his left leg into the floor and gave a tremendous push, leveraging his body just enough to free his left hand. As he did, the Enfield came out from under him, and he felt it catch in the soft fabric of a body beside him. He had little time to look, but with his strained peripheral vision he could see the barrel pressed into the side of Tommy Provost, who was clutching at his shattered windpipe. He struggled to free it. Then Provost seemed to roll away, and the weapon came up in a neat arc and connected with Block’s temple.
Block’s grip on Durrant’s throat slackened a moment, and oxygen once again found its way into Durrant’s lungs. Block struggled to renew his grip. Durrant swung his pistol and the butt of it connected with his assailant’s temple again. There was a cracking sound, and Block’s eyes went glassy but his chains remained tight against Durrant’s throat. Durrant hit him a third time. This time, Block’s body turned and his hands fell to the floor. He lay motionless on his side.
The door burst open and he heard a voice. “What in the name of God is . . . Blue Jesus!”
Durrant awkwardly stood up, using the wall for support, and faced the judge. His leg was askew and he had the blood of Private Norman on his waistcoat and face. His own throat was red from where Block’s chains had cut into it. There were three bodies on the floor at his feet.
“Sergeant Durrant Wallace, sir, of the North West Mounted Police,” he sputtered.
The judge was in his robes. His mouth opened and closed twice before he found the words he was searching for. “What has happened here?”
Durrant looked around at the three bodies on the floor. “I think it’s time my commanding officer, Sam Steele, and I explained things to you, sir.”
THIRTY-SIX
THE FINAL BETRAYAL
TOMMY PROVOST DIED THAT NIGHT. Durrant sat next to him in the infirmary at the North West Mounted Police barracks. Saul Armatage had performed surgery to repair the man’s windpipe, but by the time he had completed the task, Provost was dead. Durrant never got to ask him the questions that burned at him nor did he tell him how grateful he was that Provost had once saved him. He would never understand how it was that such a good man had come to deceive him. When Saul told him it was over, Durrant simply got up and walked out of the barracks and out onto the dry prairie, where he watched as the sun sank low in the west. The long, slanting rays of light coloured the rough grass with streaks of red and gold and then, as the sun was eclipsed by night, a deep blue.
For Durrant, Provost’s disloyalty and death was the final betrayal in the third Riel conspiracy. In the wink of an eye the sun disappeared, and the world plunged back into night. Too brief was the day, thought Durrant, and so long the endless sleep.
Then Charlene was beside him. She put her hand on his arm, and he didn’t withdraw it. “You might consider getting yourself cleaned up.” Durrant realized he was still dressed in Dire’s clothing, and it was caked with dust and dried blood. He looked down at himself and shook his head and wondered what was to become of this new world.
HE WORE HIS scarlet serge, as the uniform was the only article of clothing he had in Regina that was not bloody. He walked to the magistrate’s private chamber via the courtroom, unable or unwilling to face the antechamber where he had been betrayed by and then killed his long-time friend. The judge’s chamber was the only place where they could be assured of privacy.
The court was empty at 10:00 pm, but Durrant could feel the tension still in the room. The first day of Riel’s trial had electrified the new nation. Reporters from as far away as England were in Regina to cover the events.
Durrant knocked on the magistrate’s door. When the door opened, Sam Steele stood before him. “Good to see you, Durrant.”
“Likewise, sir.”
“Come in.”
Durrant stepped into the chamber. It was a small, unpretentious office. There were several men seated there. “Of course you know Assistant Commissioner Crozier,” said Steele. Leif Crozier stood to shake Durrant’s hand.
“And this is Sir Edgar Dewdney, lieutenant-governor of the North West Territories.” Dewdney was seated in an overstuffed chair. He had wavy grey hair and thick chops and wore a stern expression.
Durrant stood at attention and said, “It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”
“Yes, yes,” said the lieutenant-governor. “Sit, and let’s hear what you have to say.”
“As you know, sir, I was originally called to Batoche to help with peacemaking after the conflict. With the murder of Reuben Wake and the incarceration of Terrance La Biche, my efforts took a different direction. Mr. La Biche had every motive to commit the murder of Mr. Wake, but he was not the only one. Others also had cause. I felt it was simply too convenient that La Biche should be found with the dead man’s pistol in his pocket and arrested for the crime. What I did not grasp from the start, though he was always a suspect, was that the man who claimed to have found the pistol and arrested La Biche was in fact Wake’s killer.”
“That would be Jasper Dire,” said Crozier.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what motive did he have?”
“Well, sir, that’s where things get complicated.”
“Make it simple for us, would you, Sergeant? It’s late and I still must info
rm Ottawa of this debacle,” said Dewdney.
“Very well, sir. It seems as if there were layers of conspiracy in this case. The most elemental conspiracy was that of Father Lefèbvre, who was caught today at the North West Mounted Police barracks trying to free Riel. He has held since the start that should the effort at Batoche go poorly for the Métis, they would not rest until Riel was freed and returned safely to Montana.
“The second conspiracy involved Stanley Block, Sub-Inspector Dickenson, Reuben Wake, Tommy Provost, and others. They called themselves the Regina Group. They wanted Riel dead before he could be given his day in court.”
“Why kill Riel now? He is going to hang.” Dewdney spoke matter-of-factly.
“To protect Macdonald, sir.”
“That is Prime Minister Macdonald to you, sir.”
Durrant continued, “They feared what he will say on the stand. Riel uses words as a mighty weapon. Their belief is that Macdonald will suffer terribly when Riel has his say in court. The handling of the complaints of the Métis and the Indians has been a catastrophe. If Riel testifies in his own defence, and then hangs for his crimes, a schism will be driven into this young country that will further divide French and English, Catholic and Protestant, east and west. It might take generations to heal, if at all.”
“I think you overestimate both the power of Riel and the memory of the inhabitants of Ontario and Quebec, Sergeant,” said Dewdney.
“This was the belief of the Regina Group. My colleagues and I have made extensive notes on the others involved in this conspiracy, and we will be turning them over to Superintendent Crozier to follow up on. I believe arrests can be made of a good number of men involved with the conspiracy to commit murder.”
“And you think this is why Wake was killed?”
“While I have no proof, I believe it’s why the man we have discovered to be his brother was murdered as well. The body we found in Sun River had been shot in the head. I believe that Jasper Dire followed Wake when he went with Gabriel Dumont to Sun River last year, surprised the Wakes when they were camped above the river, and killed Percy. We have a witness that says a man riding a horse bearing the Box D brand was in that country at that time. That’s Dire’s brand. Dire may have tried to kill Reuben Wake as well.”
The Third Riel Conspiracy Page 23
