The Third Riel Conspiracy

by Stephen Legault

  “That’s correct,” Dickenson answered, stepping forward and unlocking La Biche. He grabbed the man’s arm so hard that Durrant thought he might break it.

  “Will you see that he is properly cared for? He hasn’t had a meal or a blanket to sleep under. This man is your prisoner. You are responsible for his care. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sergeant, if you don’t show respect for my rank I’ll see that you are in irons too. This man is a traitor against the Crown and a murderer and will hang for his crime.”

  “That may well be so, but he will stand trial first or his blood will be on your hands. Mark my words.” Durrant stayed seated on the bench of the wagon as Dickenson and the volunteers marched La Biche away.

  FIVE

  REASONABLE DOUBT

  “DID YOU EXAMINE THE BODY of Reuben Wake, Saul?” Durrant was standing in the hospital tent where Saul Armatage was about to operate on a man’s leg. The soldier was propped up on his elbows, watching the undertaking. Saul was using what looked like a pair of pliers to pull a nail from deep in the man’s shin.

  “They ran out of ammunition, so they started shooting nails or anything else they could load in their guns,” he explained. The patient winced as Saul pulled out the nail. A jet of blood followed, and Saul quickly applied pressure to the wound and dressed it. When he had finished, the soldier pulled on a pair of trousers and, using a stick for a crutch, made his way out of the tent.

  “I saw the body. Pronounced him dead. Saw that he had a head wound, but there were ten others who were alive that I needed to attend to, so I didn’t do an autopsy. You think something else killed Mr. Wake other than the bullet wound in his head? To me it seemed pretty obvious—”

  “I don’t know, Saul. But I can tell you this: I doubt very much that Terrance La Biche killed him. He wanted to, and that was his purpose in surrendering—to get close enough to Wake to murder him. I don’t believe it was him that killed Wake. If La Biche had done the deed, he’d be telling everybody he met.”

  Saul took off his apron, hung it up, and walked to where Durrant stood at the door. He was still rubbing his hands.

  “I don’t suppose the body is still in your morgue?” asked Durrant.

  “It should be. We’ve buried the dead from May 11, but not yet from yesterday. They’re being sewn into blankets to be laid to rest today.”

  “Can we have a look?”

  “Of course, Durrant. Shall we fetch Garnet first?”

  DURRANT, SAUL, AND Garnet entered the morgue, a drab tent behind the hospital. There were five bodies laid out on the ground, and two young soldiers were sewing blankets over them. When the three men entered the tent, the soldiers looked up and then returned to their work.

  “Which one of these is Reuben Wake?” asked Saul.

  “Not sure,” one of the soldiers replied.

  Saul muttered under his breath and went to inspect the tags affixed to each corpse’s shroud. He went through all five and then turned and looked at his colleagues.

  Garnet stepped forward and withdrew a knife from his coat, bending to slit the stitching on the blankets. The soldiers looked on in disgust. “What the Sam Hill are you doing?”

  Garnet looked up at the boys. “You’re addressing a lieutenant in the Surveyors Intelligence Corps, gentlemen. I suggest you keep quiet until asked a question.”

  “He’s not here,” Saul said when all five mantles had been slit.

  “Then where the hell is he?” asked Durrant.

  “GENTLEMEN,” SAID DURRANT as they left the tent, “I need to attend to a matter in the cookery. When I spoke with Mr. La Biche an hour ago he claimed that his coat was taken from him when he was arrested, which is where Wake’s pistol was found. La Biche says he had put aside a meat hatchet of some sort to use on Wake. While I look into its whereabouts, I wonder if the two of you might make some discreet inquiries around the compound as to what might have happened to the corpse of Mr. Wake.”

  They agreed to gather again after they had completed their assigned tasks. Durrant found his way through the labyrinth of wagons and tents to where the central kitchen had been set up. While many of the regiments had their own cooks and kitchens, General Middleton’s mounted infantry, and several other companies, shared a common scullery that occupied a tent set close to the general’s quarters.

  It was midafternoon as Durrant approached, and the kitchen was beginning to prepare the evening stew. Half a dozen men were cleaning pots from the lunch meal in a vat of water simmering over an open fire. Nearby three more were chopping onions, potatoes, and carrots, and another was butchering a cow. Durrant stepped into the gloom. The cook who was doing the rough work with the cow looked up.

  “You missed lunch. Come back in two hours.” He hacked at the carcass.

  “I’ve eaten, thank you.”

  “What do you want? I got eight hundred mouths to feed—”

  “I’m Sergeant Durrant Wallace of the North West Mounted Police. I want to ask you about Terrance La Biche.”

  The cook stopped hacking. “I’ve already told the other Red Coat about La Biche.”

  “I thought that I might save some embarrassment and clear up some of the facts. You had him working here with you?”

  “He was there, with the other half-breeds, cleaning up.” The cook pointed with his cleaver at the men washing pots.

  “Did he do anything other than wash up?”

  “Sometimes he helped with the meals.”

  “Yesterday, after the noonday meal, there was a general charge sounded. What was Mr. La Biche doing around that time?”

  “He was doing the pots.”

  “It’s been said that at about that time he was able to leave your watch and make his way across the compound and kill Reuben Wake.”

  “That’s what they said when they come to take him away.”

  “Did Mr. La Biche not leave the kitchen around that time?”

  The cook was silent.

  “He did,” said one of the men cutting potatoes.

  The cook glared at him, then looked back at Durrant. “He said he had to use the lavatory. I’m not going to make him soil his trousers.”

  “I’m not here to question how you manage your kitchen or how you watch over those whose charge you have been given. I’m trying to establish if Mr. La Biche had the opportunity to kill Mr. Wake.”

  “He left for a moment. He’d been well behaved the last three days. Never tried to run off so I let him go to the lavatory. I didn’t think nothing of it.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “Just five minutes, if that.”

  Durrant looked around. The man cutting potatoes had returned to his work. Was five minutes long enough to cross the zareba, find the Colt pistol, and then find Wake and shoot him in the head? “Had he had other unescorted absences the day before yesterday?”

  “He didn’t,” said the cook quickly.

  Durrant looked around at the others. “Any of you men notice Mr. La Biche sneaking off?” They all shook their heads. Durrant turned back to the cook. The carcass next to him was nearly cleaved clean to the bone. “I wonder if you might show me your stores. I want to inquire after something Mr. La Biche has told me.”

  Behind the kitchen was a heavily laden wagon, its forks lying on the muddy earth. The cook, who stood six inches taller than Durrant, put a meaty hand on the box. “We keep most of the stores here.”

  Durrant scanned the contents. Laying his crutch against the side of the wagon, he used his left hand to haul himself into the wagon. The cook watched as Durrant disappeared inside. There were tins of coffee and crates of canned peaches and huge sacks of corn, flour, and beans. Bags of onions and potatoes were piled high. Durrant started shuffling the sacks about. The cook poked his head into the back of the cart. “Sergeant, what’re you doing?”

  Durrant shouldered a fifty-pound sack of flour aside and retrieved something that had been beneath it. He held it up for the cook to see and blew hard on it. A cloud
of flour enveloped the back of the wagon. Durrant waved a meat hatchet back and forth in his hand. “Missing something?” he asked.

  DURRANT WALKED ACROSS the zareba to the familiar compound where the teamsters managed the company’s stock. There were several hundred horses mustered in the makeshift corrals, creating a giant open-air barn. Men shouting and horses whinnying made for a tremendous din. The air was rich with the tang of manure, which had been raked into a massive pile near one end of the corrals. Though the temperature was just above freezing, a cloud of flies buzzed over the steaming dung.

  Durrant walked among the rows of stalls, minding his footing on the churned earth. After a few minutes of searching he asked one of the teamsters for directions, and with a sideways glance he was pointed to where Wake’s body had been found.

  Durrant knew he was in the right place: a tight grouping of wagons bore the same insignia, WAKE LIVERY AND BOARDING. He stopped and considered the scene. Here the wagons were configured in a tight square, creating a compact enclosure five or six yards across. Between two of the wagons a narrow passage led to the rest of the stables. Wake must have arranged his wagons in such a manner to provide the perception of protection, even within the walls of the zareba. The actions of a man who knew he had enemies? Or just a precaution during a time of war?

  Durrant studied the ground in the narrow passage. He quickly found the place where Wake had fallen. Though the weather had been mostly grey over the last twenty-four hours, no rain or snow had sullied the earth, and he was able to see where the man had bled. Durrant stooped and examined the spot, looking beneath the wagons for anything the killer might have left behind. He could see nothing. He straightened and went inside the enclosure. There was a fire ring in the centre, and Durrant could easily see where several men had regularly bedded down. Some dirty dishes, a heap of cast-off bedding, and a few faggots of wood had been pushed under one of the wagons. Durrant examined the wagons and soon located a latch to a compartment above the running board of one. He popped it open and found little of interest—just a few personal items, including a comb, a straight razor, and a Bible. Durrant opened the book to see if there was an inscription, but there was nothing. He put the items back. He stepped on a small stone and looked down at it. It was a polished river rock, nothing out of the ordinary.

  It seemed obvious that someone had known where Wake kept his personal effects, including his pistol. The killer had simply snuck into the enclosure, taken the Colt, and surprised Wake. Reports claimed that two cartridges had been fired from the Colt. Why two? Durrant wondered. Saul had mentioned only a single hole in the man’s head. Without the corpse to examine, the question remained.

  Why go to the trouble of stealing the man’s pistol? With so many arms about, why not just use what was close at hand? Even Terrance La Biche had been able to secret away a sizable hatchet. Whoever had killed Reuben Wake must have intended on placing the pistol on La Biche, and that the plan from the start had been to frame him.

  Durrant concluded his search having found more questions than answers.

  SIX

  FOG OF WAR

  MAY 14, 1885.

  It felt warmer to Durrant Wallace when he awoke for the second morning inside the zareba. Now he was meeting with Saul and Garnet over a morning meal. “While you slept the morning away”—Saul sat down on a stump and passed a plate of food to each of his friends—“I was able to ascertain that some of our host of men will decamp today. The company will send a contingent of men to join up with General Strange and Durrant’s very own Sam Steele. They are to rendezvous with the general at Fort Pitt. Most of our company will remain behind to root out further troublemakers around Batoche.”

  “That gives us a little more time.” Durrant drank his coffee and warmed his prosthetic by the fire. “Has La Biche been dispatched to Regina?”

  “No. It’s as if he were the pea in a shell game, though. He’s being kept apart from the other prisoners. I have asked to see him to administer medical care, but have been told he’s to be seen by General Middleton’s personal surgeon and none other.”

  “Seems as if Sub-Inspector Dickenson is acting more than a little suspicious,” said Durrant.

  “Indeed. As of this morning, La Biche has been stowed in a wagon near to where the Regina companies have pitched their camp, close to the rank little pond that serves as our water source,” said Saul, his eyebrow pitched at an angle to illustrate his displeasure with the prospect.

  “This means we yet have an opportunity to learn more about our murdered man and those who may have wanted him dead,” said Durrant.

  Garnet winked at Saul. “My good Sergeant, it’s as before. You simply can’t accept the simple explanation, can you? Why not accept that this man La Biche had it in for Reuben Wake and found a way to do him in? You told us yourself that he’d gone to the lavatory at the very time that Reuben Wake was killed!”

  “Surely you of all people would understand my reluctance to accept the simple explanation, Mr. Moberly. Wasn’t it you who taught me to seek out a man’s means, motive, and opportunity when making such an inquiry?”

  “Did this man not have all three?” asked Garnet.

  “He said that while he had the intent of killing Mr. Wake, he was not able to seize it.”

  “So there is some skulduggery afoot, then?” suggested Garnet.

  “Do you believe the true murderer had access to La Biche’s garment after his arrest?” asked Saul.

  Durrant took a mouthful of breakfast and set his plate down on the grass. “If this man had killed Wake, why would he not simply confess to it, if he is so honest about his intent? He went to the trouble of putting aside a meat hatchet. We must determine what La Biche’s motive might have been for allowing his own capture in the first place. He was on the verge of confessing this to me yesterday when we were interrupted. I aim to have another go at him this morning. Then we must set about learning who else wished to undertake this brazen act.”

  “There could well be many.” Garnet dug his pipe from his pocket and packed down a plug of tobacco.

  “This is certainly the case, my friend. We’ll need to work together to learn all we can while we are still at the scene of the crime. Saul, are you able to free yourself of your service in order to help us out?”

  “I don’t see why not. All but the most minor wounds have been attended to now. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, there is the matter of the physical evidence that we must consider,” said Durrant. “We’re going to need to find out where Mr. Wake’s body is. We may have to track down, amid these eight hundred soldiers, who it was that disposed of the body and in such haste! We’ll need to examine Mr. Wake’s pistol to determine if in fact this was the weapon used to kill our man. Can you be of assistance with either of these tasks?”

  “I have, despite my isolation in Regina before this endeavour, kept abreast of some new insights into the forensic sciences that may be of assistance. Matching the make and model of the weapon with the wound hasn’t been perfected, but some advances have been made. Mind you, we don’t have access to the records of the weapon’s manufacturer here, and that will complicate matters. I can certainly tell you whether the bullet that caused the death of Mr. Wake was fired from a shotgun, a rifle, or a small- or large-calibre pistol. Durrant, we’ll first have to find the body and get access to the weapon, currently under the watch of your overzealous colleague Sub-Inspector Dickenson.”

  “I will find a way to wrest it from Dickenson’s grasp,” said Durrant. “We have several angles to explore to find the body. We shall go to the cemetery at our earliest convenience and look to see if Mr. Wake has been consigned to that place. If need be we will go straight to the source and find the men who committed the corpse to the grave. Garnet and I will handle that. In the meantime, I aim to parley with Mr. La Biche, and others in the stockade, in order to learn all that I can about what motivated his course of action on the first day of battle. Let’s convene again at the
lunch hour. Gentlemen, we must use our wits here. I suspect that there is more to this murder than we can see at this time. There are those about our encampment who will interfere, possibly roughly, with our investigation.”

  IN THE EARLY morning light Durrant made his way across the zareba to where Saul Armatage had told him he might find La Biche. It was still cold enough that the muddy earth underfoot was nearly frozen. He located the spot near the squalid lake where La Biche was being held. Determining that the detainee was being guarded by a single man, he approached the wagon. “Good morning, Constable.” Durrant stepped close to the wagon. The bleary-eyed young constable looked down at him from the seat. Durrant had had the foresight to fill a coffee cup before he walked over, and he handed it up to the tenderfoot. The constable gratefully accepted it. “I’m Sergeant Durrant Wallace. I’d like to interview the prisoner.”

  The young man straightened. “I’m sorry, sir, but Sub-Inspector Dickenson says that no one is to talk with the killer except his self.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s his orders to me.”

  “You pulled the morning shift, son?” Durrant changed tack. “Still cold enough last night—could see my breath this morning.” The young man only nodded. His face was pale. “There’s bacon this morning. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a square meal? I’d be happy to sit in your stead for a few minutes while you found a plate. It was going fast last I looked.”

  “But—”

  “Son, I’ve been Mounted Police for twelve years now. I’ve guarded more than my share of prisoners.”

  The young constable wavered, looking as if he might begin to drool at the prospect of bacon. “Anything happens to this man and it’s my head that will be on the block.” He looked around to see if he was being observed.

  “I take responsibility.”

  “An yer not to have words with him,” said the young man, and then added, “Sir.”