The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  Brian spent the next hour on the Internet, looking for information on the minister’s interest in fishing. There turned out to be a lot. He scrolled through links to stories about the minister’s propensity for expensive fishing lodges and steelhead. After reading a dozen stories, he found what he was looking for.

  In the fall the minister had entertained “old friends and new” at an exclusive fly-in resort in Quebec for a weekend of fishing. There was a picture of the minister in hip waders, holding a massive steelhead, a broad smile on the man’s face. Beside him were his friends, former senator Thompson and another man whom Marriott immediately recognized as Ban Sun Lee, China’s ambassador to Canada.

  “MARRIOTT, AEG,” HE answered, picking up the phone. Brian was preoccupied with the image of the minister with the former senator and the Chinese ambassador.

  “This is Derek McGrath calling. Joe Firstlight gave me your name and number.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, it’s more what can I do for you, actually. I run a guiding company out of East Glacier Park. I saw Joe the other day. He mentioned that you were working together. I thought maybe I could show you around the area if you’re looking for a guide.”

  “It’s an amazing coincidence that you and Joe chatted,” said Brian. “I was thinking about going for a hike.”

  TWENTY

  PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. AUGUST 1.

  COLE LEANED ON THE FENCE beside the barn and watched the sunrise. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and was wearing a blanket-lined canvas coat and a pair of faded blue jeans. The sun crested the low hills that sheltered the Blackwater Ranch to the east and lit up the forested ridge of the Porcupine Hills to the west. The shadows were long and soft so early in the morning.

  Cole hadn’t slept. The turmoil that raged within stood in sharp contrast to the tranquil dawn. The screen door on the back porch opened, and he turned and saw Nancy walk down the steps, a coffee in her hand. She wore pyjamas, a man’s robe, and a pair of Cole’s mom’s rubber boots. He couldn’t help but smile at her.

  “Go ahead, Blackwater, say it.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “That’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.” His smile faded, and he turned back to look at the honey-colored light on the hills.

  “You didn’t sleep.”

  “No. I’m sorry if I kept you awake.”

  “It’s okay. I felt you get up sometime around 2:00 AM.”

  “I went to try and sleep on the couch, but that didn’t work. Tonight I’ll just pull a cot out onto the porch. I might do better outside.”

  Nancy slipped an arm around his waist and pressed her face to his shoulder. She sipped her coffee, and Cole could smell the fragrance of her hair entangled with the aroma of the brew.

  “Perry will be here later this morning. Maybe we’ll have a few more answers and that will help,” she said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Cole, we’re going to beat this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “This isn’t about what I did. It’s about what they can make stick. They’ll make this stick. We’ve been working on this for two weeks and we’re not getting anywhere. It all comes down to me having a history that adds up to murder.”

  “Don’t let this ruin all the work you’ve done over the last year, Cole. Don’t let them do that to you.”

  “I feel like I haven’t made any progress at all, Nancy. All that time with Dr. Grady, all that time with Denman, and I still feel like I’m going to explode. I feel like all that work was for nothing. I’m right back where I started.”

  “You’re not. You’re so much further ahead.”

  “I’m angry, Nancy. I’ve always been angry. Now it’s caught up with me.”

  AT 9:00 AM Perry Gilbert called to say that that FBI had been in contact with him and had a suspect in custody related to the case. He was at the ranch two hours later.

  “Is it just me, or is Calgary getting closer every day?” he asked when he stepped out of his car and was greeted by Cole and Walter.

  “No, it’s getting closer,” said Walter. “I keep telling Mom we have to move the Porcupine Hills farther south, but she’s against it.”

  “The FBI has a man from the Blackfeet Reservation in custody. They claim he sold you the murder weapon.”

  Cole put his head in his hands. “That’s not possible.”

  “Well, be that as it may, a man is being held in Browning awaiting an appearance before a federal court judge.”

  “Can we talk to him?”

  “You can’t. You can’t leave the ranch. I can. I’ll head to Browning this afternoon.”

  “I should go with you,” said Walter.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I think you need someone with you, someone who can help you and keep your eyes open.”

  “Walter, you do that and Parks Canada will fire you.” Cole put down his coffee cup and looked at his brother. “You’re already on the shit list for coming with me to the bail hearing in Calgary. You can’t be seen to help—”

  Walter silenced him with his large hand. “I meant to tell you this morning, but there’s so much else going on. I quit last night.”

  “You can’t quit!” Cole protested.

  “I can and I did.”

  Cole stood up and walked to the sideboard. “You can’t. Not because of me. You’ve been a park warden for fifteen years.”

  “What happened?” asked Nancy.

  “I got called on the carpet. The chief park warden called me in at the end of my shift yesterday. He told me that I couldn’t appear to compromise the investigation. He suggested that I take an unpaid leave. I told him to shove it up his ass.” There was no hint of anger or malice in Walter Blackwater’s voice. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “You could have taken the leave.” Nancy spoke quietly.

  Walter shook his head. “No way. No way am I going to work for an outfit that wouldn’t support me. Besides, if I took leave they would still have insisted that I not get involved. Now I can do what I like. I put my sidearm and badge on the chief’s desk, just like they do in the movies. I think it scared the hell out of him, to be honest. I don’t think he’d ever seen anybody unholster their weapon before.”

  “This is just great.” Cole paced across the room. “Just fucking great. I’m going to the big house, and you lose your job. What’s going to happen to this place?”

  “This place was paid for twenty years ago, Cole. The cattle pay the upkeep and taxes. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Of course I’m worried about it!”

  “Let’s beat this murder rap; then we can think about the spread. We had better cowboy up and get to work. Perry, give me a few minutes to pack some things and we’ll head south.”

  THEY MADE THE border by the middle of the afternoon. Despite Walter’s offer to take his sturdy F-150, they drove Perry’s new Lexus. An hour later they were in Browning, on the Blackfeet Reservation. The high upland plains that rose and fell around them withered in the scorching heat. Dust devils swirled across the fractured blacktop. They drove into the ramshackle town, which had the typical casino and gas bars. Their first stop was a meeting with Joe Firstlight.

  “Cole tells me that Mr. Firstlight and Brian Marriott worked together. He might be a good person to give us some context to what is going on.” Perry angled his Lexus toward the Museum of the Plains Indian on the northern side of town, where they had agreed to meet as Joe volunteered there a few days a week.

  When they arrived, Walter pulled himself up out of the car. The glare and wind forced him to shield his eyes. “I didn’t think there was a windier place on Earth than Waterton Lakes, but I believe I just found it.”

  The two men went to the museum information desk and inquired after Firstlight. A moment later Joe appeared. Walter and Perry introduced themselves.

  “Is there a place we can
talk in private?” Perry asked.

  “Why don’t we just walk through the museum?” suggested Joe. “We can talk and nobody will pay us any mind.” Perry agreed, and the three men started their stroll. “Mr. Blackwater—”

  “It’s just Walter.”

  “Walter, you aren’t with the Park Service anymore?”

  “I quit.”

  “And Cole is in some trouble,” said Joe.

  “He’s been arrested for the murder of Brian Marriott.” Perry spoke in a hushed tone. Groups of senior citizens and a few families were clustered by the exhibits.

  “Has he confessed?” asked Joe.

  “He’s innocent. We’re trying to build our case,” said Walter.

  Perry continued, “The FBI is holding a man who says he sold Cole a gun. He’s an enrolled member of the Blackfeet tribe. I’m hoping to interview him in the morning. We hope you might be able to provide us with some information that we could use to understand what’s going on.”

  “What is the man’s name?” asked Joe.

  Perry pulled out a notebook. “Charlie Crowfoot.”

  “I know him. He’s just a kid. I taught him at the high school a few years ago.”

  “Well, it appears as though he’s graduated.” Perry closed the notebook.

  “He’s been in some trouble around the res. Petty theft, burglary. I think he might have stolen a truck a few years ago, just to take it for a joyride.”

  “The notes I have from the FBI say he claims that Cole approached him and asked about procuring a handgun,” Perry said. “Charlie says he met Cole the next afternoon at Charlie’s home and sold him a handgun for five hundred dollars.”

  “I guess it’s possible for Charlie to have done this.”

  “Mr. Firstlight, let me ask you this.” Perry had stopped in a quiet corner of the museum. “We don’t believe that Cole killed Brian Marriott. We’d like to talk to Charlie’s family. They must be very concerned about the boy. If Charlie is convicted for the illegal sale of a handgun, he’s likely going to jail for some time. It’s possible that he’s a victim in this crime too. Do you think that you could introduce us to his family?”

  Joe was quiet for a long time. He sighed. “We could go there tomorrow. Let me make some phone calls tonight. In the morning, you meet me at the Junction Cafe, and we’ll go and talk to them after you’ve seen Charlie. Okay?”

  WALTER AND PERRY took rooms at the same hotel that Cole had stayed at and in the morning made their way to the Blackfeet police station. A pack of dogs chased Perry’s Lexus as they drove through a neighborhood of collapsing, garbage-strewn trailers. The police station was an unmarked building that Joe Firstlight had told them was under construction. If it was, it had been in that state for some time. Walter and Perry exchanged glances as they considered the building: sheets of plywood were nailed over walls, and plastic appeared to patch several rents in the structure.

  “Where’s the front door?” asked Perry.

  A door slammed open and closed in the wind. “I think that must be it.”

  Walter and Perry stepped inside. Exposed drywall, unfinished rooms, and a cement floor greeted them. “Hello?” called Perry. Nobody answered.

  They stepped around a pile of drywall materials that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in months. They found the dispatch center. The ceiling was just open joists with wires running to a bank of computer screens. Two women sat in front of terminals, answering 911 calls. A heavyset man in a uniform swiveled on a third chair.

  “We’re here to interview Charlie Crowfoot,” Perry said, handing the officer a faxed letter from the DA giving them access to the young man.

  The officer looked confused. “Mr. Crowfoot isn’t here,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  The officer looked up at them. “He’s not here.”

  “He was arrested on weapons offenses by the Blackfeet Tribal Police. I understand you have jurisdiction over enrolled members on the reservation. I was told that he was being held here.”

  “We arrested him, but he was transferred by the US Marshals Service to the Cascade County Regional Detention Center in Great Falls two days ago.”

  Perry turned to Walter. “That was when I received notification that he was here and that I could talk with him. How far to Great Falls?”

  “A hundred and thirty miles or so,” said the officer.

  “Someone is yanking our chain,” said Walter.

  Perry turned back to the officer. “Can you please call the Great Falls office and ask if we can see Mr. Crowfoot at the end of the day?” He looked again at Walter as the officer picked up the phone and placed the call.

  “Don’t you think this is a little odd?” asked Walter.

  “More than a little.” Perry spoke loudly enough that the officer could hear him. “I’m going to call McCallum at the FBI as soon as we’re done here and demand an explanation.”

  “I don’t want to sound like my brother,” said Walter, “but it feels as if we’re being given the runaround. They fax you permission to come down and interview this guy, and when we get here, he’s gone.”

  The officer hung up the phone. Perry could see that he was in shock. “What is it?” he asked. “He’s been transferred to Wichita?”

  The officer said, “Charlie Crowfoot committed suicide last night. He’s dead.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. AUGUST 1.

  COLE WATCHED WALTER AND PERRY drive down the gravel road and around the bend and out of sight. Trick, one of his brother’s border collies, stood panting at his side. He reached down and scratched her head and turned toward the house. Trick followed at his heel, then set off in search of something to chase. Cole watched her disappear behind the barn. He wondered if he’d ever make peace with that place. Despite all the work he had done over the last six months, he had barely been inside the barn since arriving at the ranch. His only visits had been to the stables on the lower floor to saddle a horse.

  “Whatcha doing?” Nancy sat on the porch behind him. “You want to get some work done? The house is cool.”

  “I don’t, but I know we should. Perry left us a to-do list two pages long. We should get at it.”

  They went inside and Cole poured them both glasses of iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge. “Here’s what bugs me about this.” Cole stared at the two pieces of paper. “We’re trying to refute what the FBI and the RCMP say I did. I think that if I’m going to get out of this mess, I should try to figure out who really killed Brian Marriott. That would be a better use of my time.”

  “Don’t you think Perry knows what he’s doing?”

  “Sure he does. But at best, I buck the charges and don’t end up with a needle in my arm.” Cole’s face darkened at the thought of what was at stake. “But until someone else is behind bars for this, everywhere I go people will point their finger at me and say I’m a murderer. My career is done. My life is pretty much over one way or another. I can see the headlines now: ‘Cole Blackwater finally comes unglued and kills someone.’ I’ll never live that down. I don’t just need to beat these charges; I need to make sure that whoever killed Brian ends up in jail.”

  “You might be right, but I think we need to start by doing what Perry asked us to do. That will hopefully keep you from being extradited. I think you’ll fare better in a Canadian court.”

  “Alright.” Cole sighed. “Where do we start?”

  “We need to establish a list of people who saw you while you were in East Glacier and Browning in the days before the hike. Everybody. Hotel clerks, waitresses, gas station attendants. Perry wants an ironclad alibi for you for when the FBI says you were buying a gun.”

  “Okay.” They spent an hour going over Cole’s every waking minute for the three days before the hike. Cole told Nancy he had spent the better part of one afternoon driving around the western part of the Blackfeet Reservation, looking at potential hydraulic-fracking sites.

  “Why the hell were you doi
ng that?”

  “Brian told me he had worked with Joe Firstlight on the fracking issue. I wanted to see for myself what was going on. I wanted to see the place with my own eyes. It’s one of my rules. Never give anything away—”

  “That you haven’t seen for yourself. Yes, I remember. I quoted you once in the Globe saying those exact words. Back when I thought they were noble.” Cole looked hurt. “Oh lighten up, Blackwater—they’re still noble. I just got to see behind the curtain, that’s all. So did anybody see you out there?”

  “No. I stopped for gas in Heart Butte at about one and went back to East Glacier for dinner around eight. I passed lots of trucks on the back roads but didn’t really talk with anybody.”

  “Okay, so nobody saw you, and that’s when the FBI claims you were procuring a gun.”

  “Why a gun? Why not just push him?”

  “What?”

  “Why shoot him?”

  “I don’t know. Why not?”

  “If you were going to kill Brian, why not just push him over the cliff? It was five hundred feet down. There was no way he would survive. There was no risk. Why go to the trouble of shooting him as well? I mean, you’d be taking a hell of a chance. Even with a silencer, someone might hear. You couldn’t expect people to think it was an accident. It would be obvious that he had been murdered.”

  “I don’t know, Cole. Let’s get back to your list. You didn’t talk to anybody that—”

  Cole stood up abruptly. “Unless the point was to make sure everybody knew Brian Marriott was murdered.”

  “Cole—”

  “No, listen. They had to shoot him. They didn’t want it to look like an accident. They wanted it to be obvious. That way, the FBI would have to get involved and they would have to look for evidence. If they just pushed him off the cliff, or hit him on the head and threw him over, there wouldn’t be much in the way of evidence. Shoot him and you’ve got a murder weapon. Shoot him and they’ve got gun powder.”