The Third Riel Conspiracy Read Free Page A

threatened to flatten him, but he reached the other side.
    The man he was following turned into a boarding house at the end of Stephen Avenue. Durrant picked up his pace and reached the door of the two-storey building in time to observe the man tromping up the stairs.
    Durrant entered and made for the staircase. The crutch was a clumsy and noisy tool, so he set it by the door and limped carefully to the steps. Practice and patience had brought back much of his former mobility, and a recent visit to the NWMP hospital in Regina to have the prosthetic adjusted had given him more trust in the leg’s stability.
    As he mounted the stairs, he reached inside his dripping coat, retrieved his Enfield Mk II, and held it at his side. His thumb worried the hammer. He listened a moment and heard a door close. Quietly ascending the stairs, he peered down the long hallway that ran the length of the building. There were four doors on either side. Enough light reached the hallway through a window at the top of the stairs that Durrant could make out the muddy tracks left by the man.
    Durrant waited. He wanted to catch the man sleeping to avoid the possibility of a violent end to this pursuit. The fellow had arrived from Fort Benton, Montana, a week before with a string of horses to sell. He was known to have a reputation for settling his disputes with a pistol. There were rumours that he was also involved with selling illegal whiskey on the Blackfoot reserve. Drawing a silent breath, Durrant stepped noiselessly toward the closed door, his pistol still pointing at the floor as his right hand tried the door handle. To his surprise, it turned easily: he had expected to find the door locked. With minimal effort he pushed it open and scanned the room, the Enfield pistol levelled at the gloom.
    There was no one in the bed. Durrant could smell tobacco and the sweet stench of whiskey along with something else, a tang that caused him to catch his breath. The sparse room appeared empty. Durrant stepped inside and closed the door, checking to be sure his foe wasn’t hiding behind it. That’s when he saw the armoire resting behind the door, and he quickly brought his pistol back up. He carefully stepped to one side of its double doors and, fearing a blast of buckshot, flipped the latch on the closet and threw the doors open. It was empty.
    Behind him, the bed and its frame seemed to leap from the floor. The room filled with bedsheets, mattress, and steel frame, all colliding with Durrant. As he was thrown forward against the armoire, Durrant caught sight of the man leaping to his feet from beneath the bed and making for the door. The heavy mattress and frame momentarily pinned Durrant against the closet as the man fled, crashing down the hall toward the stairs. With his pistol held before him, Durrant rushed as quickly as he could to the stairs. He caught sight of the man jumping the last six steps and running for the exit door. The flight of stairs was difficult for Durrant and he felt his heart sink when he thought his prey might slip away into the storm.
    Cursing himself, he reached the parlour and hop-stepped for the door. He got there in time to see the pursued man slip in the mud and land on his back on Stephen Avenue. The man gripped a Colt pistol in his hand. Durrant stood in the door, his own pistol aimed at the prone figure.
    â€œPolice! Drop the gun!” he commanded. The din of the rain swallowed up his words so he yelled, “You’re wanted for horse stealing. Drop it!”
    The man was getting to his feet, his body soaked with rain and dripping with mud, but he made no move to throw down his weapon.
    â€œLast chance. Drop the gun. I’ve got you dead to rights.” His left hand level with his eye, Durrant stared down the steel barrel of the Enfield, its forward sight aimed squarely at the man’s heaving chest.
    The man made as if to raise his pistol, and Durrant shifted his sight and pulled the trigger. The