The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  “My brother told me that that was what he had to do,” Mary Crowfoot chimed in.

  “Did he say who told him that?”

  “No. He didn’t tell.” Mary looked down at her feet.

  “Did you know that Charlie worked for a man in East Glacier for a while? A man named Derek McGrath?”

  “He the one who is the mountain guide?” asked Mrs. Crowfoot.

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, our Charlie used to drive people from the airport in Kalispell or Great Falls up to East Glacier for him,” Mrs. Crowfoot said.

  “When was that?”

  “He done it for the last couple of summers.”

  “This past summer?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Charlie got some other work this past summer.”

  “Mrs. Crowfoot, when you went to Great Falls the last time, after Charlie died, did the marshal give you any of his things?”

  She looked at Mary and the girl went into a bedroom at the front of the trailer and came back a few minutes later with a brown paper bag. “This what you mean?” asked Mary.

  “I think so. May I?” Mrs. Crowfoot nodded. Cole opened the bag. There was a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. A pair of running shoes gave the bag a distinct odor. A baseball cap was tucked next to the jeans, and under it was a brown manila envelope.

  “What’s in here?” Cole asked, holding up the envelope.

  “Some letter or something.”

  Cole opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper in it. “You haven’t read it?”

  “It’s in Blackfeet,” said Mary. “I don’t read Blackfeet.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “She reads it but said she didn’t want to look at his things.”

  Cole unfolded the paper and looked at the note. It was only two lines long. “Do you know if this is something that Charlie wrote?”

  “I don’t know,” said his sister. “He was practicing to learn Blackfeet, but I don’t know if he ever did. I don’t think he knew how to write it, because he didn’t know too much how to write English neither.”

  Cole studied the note. “May I take this to my friend Joe Firstlight and see what he says?” Mary looked at her grandmother, who was crying again. She nodded her agreement. “I promise to get this back to you.”

  “I think you should go now.” Mary sat back down next to her grandmother and put her hand on her arm.

  Cole stood up. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

  “He was a good boy, Charlie,” Mrs. Crowfoot said.

  “I’m sure he was.” Cole showed himself out of the house. When he stepped into the yard it was dark and cool, and he drew a deep breath and held it a long time. Cole knew, in a way that he could not explain, that he was still being watched.

  FORTY-NINE

  BROWNING, MONTANA. SEPTEMBER 15.

  “THANKS FOR SEEING ME ON such short notice, Joe.” Cole sat across from Joe Firstlight in the Junction Cafe in Browning. They were near the window, and Cole saw that the truck he had noticed in Great Falls was parked across the street in the Museum of the Plains Indian parking lot.

  “It’s not like there was a lot going on in town tonight.” Joe watched Cole sip his glass of water. “You okay? You look really pale.”

  “I just went to see Charlie Crowfoot’s grandmother. I can’t believe the poverty here, Joe. What’s going on with the council and the fracking issue?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’m waiting to see what kind of truck the swing vote on council shows up with at the next meeting.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s no worse here than anywhere else.” Joe sipped his coffee. His hands looked large and dark against the white porcelain cup. “But because we’re Indians, we get people saying we’re corrupt and are selling out our people.”

  “And did Brian know that? Was he digging into something he shouldn’t have been?”

  “Yes, he was, but so was I. And here I am.” Joe sounded hurt. “You think because I’m an Indian and he was white, he’s the one that got killed? I lived out here in the middle of nowhere and couldn’t do anybody any harm but he could and that got him murdered?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Joe. I really don’t.”

  “I don’t either, Cole.”

  Cole gave him a thumbnail sketch of his run-in with Lester Thompson. “The more a man insists he doesn’t have anything to do with something, the more I’m inclined to think that he does.” Cole touched the fresh stitches on his face. With so many scars criss-crossing his countenance, he was beginning to wonder if his life had gotten a little too rough. Maybe it was time to back off. “So besides you, who is leading the fight against the fracking?”

  “There are a few of us here on the reservation.” Joe listed them, counting them off on his fingers. Cole had never heard any of their names before. “And on the white side of things, the people from the Glacier National Park Association are leading the charge.”

  “What about Derek McGrath?”

  “He seems to stay out of the politics on the res.”

  “How does he feel about it personally?”

  “I don’t know one way or another.”

  “You’ve never seen him at a meeting?”

  “Nope. Why, Cole? You think—”

  “Joe, I swear I don’t know what to think.”

  “Why not just let this go?”

  “A man is dead—”

  “I know. But this isn’t going to bring him back. I mean, look at you. No offense, Cole, but you look like shit. You got shot. Someone beat the hell out of you.”

  “They threatened my family.”

  “Right. So go home. Leave this to the cops. They’ll sort it all out.”

  Cole rubbed his face, which made both his shoulder and his bruised cheek hurt. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. It’s ancient Indian medicine.” Joe smiled mischievously.

  “Before I do, can I ask you to read something for me?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  Cole took out the manila envelope Mrs. Crowfoot had given him and handed the sheet of paper to Joe. Joe unfolded it and read the note. His face became drawn as he did.

  “What’s it say, Joe?”

  “It’s in Blackfeet, but not the sort you’d read here on the reservation. It’s awkwardly written but the basic meaning is, I’m going to kill myself so my family doesn’t get hurt anymore.”

  Cole felt a wave of nausea swell up, and he drew a deep breath to suppress it.

  “Where did you—” Joe began.

  “It was Charlie Crowfoot’s. It was with his things.”

  “He didn’t write this.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, Charlie couldn’t write Blackfeet. Not unless something has really changed in the last couple of years. When I knew that boy, he couldn’t even say his own name in Blackfeet. Look, this isn’t how Blackfeet would write it anyway. The syntax is wrong. Someone found an online translator and typed this in, and this is what they got.”

  Cole looked at the sheet of paper. It was a plain piece of notepaper that could have come from just about any pad of writing paper bought at any office-supply store in North America. “I’m going to have to hand this over to the feds. Obviously, someone has missed something.”

  “You think that someone gave this to him?” asked Joe.

  “I think that whoever killed Chip Prescott and Brian Marriott likely also killed Blake Foreman, and then got this to Charlie Crowfoot. I think this was a message to Charlie: kill yourself or we will kill your whole family. When the authorities found it, they just figured it was his suicide note.”

  “Who is doing this, Cole?”

  “I’m pretty close, Joe. Maybe too close. Thanks for this. This,” he said, taking the sheet of paper, “was helpful.” Cole stood and extended his hand.

  Joe smiled. “Let’s go for a hike again sometime. That was really something. Right up
until Brian got killed.”

  COLE DROVE EAST toward the darkness of the mountains. He didn’t see the Land Cruiser pull out and follow him, but he knew it was there in the black night. Thirty minutes later he parked Walter’s truck in front of the Dancing Bears Inn. He asked for a room away from the highway and got one that backed onto the local school. He paid for his room using his credit card and took his key. He walked out to his truck, collected his things, and, once inside again, inspected his room.

  Cole sat on his bed for a while, just staring at the wall. He didn’t like what he was thinking or the way things were adding up. Something had been missed, and it had nearly cost him his life. Cole turned on the TV and tuned it to a basketball game, turning down the volume. After an hour he switched off the light but let the television play. He went to the window and carefully opened it, then, taking his bag, climbed through. The night had turned cool, and Cole could see his breath. He crouched below the window for a moment and surveyed the darkness that circled him. He could see nobody. He closed the window behind him.

  Cole made his way to the residential part of town and, keeping to the shadows, circled widely to the south and found his way back to the main road after ten minutes. At one point, he had to cross the street where his rented room was, and as he did, he made out the Land Cruiser parked next door to the hotel, behind the Trailhead Saloon. Cole crossed quickly through the shadows.

  He had scoped out another motel as he entered town, and after watching the road for a few minutes, he entered and rang the tiny bell on the counter. It was midnight. A man in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms appeared, and Cole apologized and asked for a room. Wordlessly the man gave him a key, and Cole paid in cash.

  Finding his room, he checked again to see if he was being watched. He didn’t turn on the light. He sat down in a La-Z-Boy recliner next to the bed and, without undressing, fell into a fitful sleep.

  FIFTY

  EAST GLACIER, MONTANA. SEPTEMBER 16.

  COLE AWOKE FROM THE SAME troubled dreams he’d had for the last few weeks. He surveyed the room in the half-light of dawn. He was stiff from the beating and the gunshot wound and from sleeping in a well-used La-Z-Boy chair all night. The orderly room appeared to have been unvisited. Cole arose and stretched, feeling the pull in his shoulder. He went to the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. The bruising was healing and the cuts on his face looked raw and angry. He showered quickly and changed into clean clothing. Then he squatted by the window next to the door to survey the road.

  He couldn’t tell if anybody was watching it. Feeling like an idiot for sneaking around and crawling out windows, he opened the door and walked to the front office and dropped the key in the mailbox. Cole walked toward the hotel where Walter’s truck was parked. When he rounded the corner, he stopped in his tracks. There was a cruiser and an SUV from Blackfeet Law Enforcement Services parked in front of the hotel, their lights flashing.

  He walked to the front office and found the manager. When Cole dropped his key on the desk, the man said, “Hey, there you are!”

  “Here I am.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “Someone busted up your room last night.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t think it was. Whoever it was broke the door off the hinges getting in. The Blackfeet cops are going to want to talk with you. Where the hell did you go last night, and why is someone messing up my place?”

  “I went for a walk. Didn’t make it back.” Cole looked around nervously. He turned and walked down the corridor to where his room was. There were two Blackfeet police officers standing in the room, talking.

  “Oki,” Cole said when they saw him standing at the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “This was my room.”

  “You weren’t here?”

  “No, I slept at another motel.”

  “Then why did you rent this room?”

  “Because someone was following me.”

  “I guess we need to talk to you.”

  “Can we make it quick? I’ve got a breakfast meeting.” Cole’s cell phone rang. The call display said it was his brother. “Do you mind if I take this call? I think it’s important.”

  DEREK MCGRATH WAS eating breakfast at the front counter of the Two Medicine Grill. Cole approached and took a stool next to him. “Cole!” Derek said, a forkful of eggs poised near his mouth. His face registered surprise at seeing Cole.

  “Good morning, Derek.”

  “When did you get into town?”

  “Late last night.”

  Derek put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just came for breakfast.” Cole ordered the breakfast special.

  “No, I mean in East Glacier.”

  “I love it here in the fall. The colors along the Front are amazing.”

  Derek took a drink of his coffee. “I guess you’re right about that. It’s good to see you!”

  “Is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just feel like the harbinger of death these days.”

  “Jesus, Cole, don’t say that.”

  “Well, take you, for example.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, you’ve lost two of your guides. That can’t be good for business.”

  “No, it really isn’t. Fortunately, we’re getting into the quiet season. Not so much going on.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out who killed Brian and likely Chip and Blake.”

  “Jesus Christ, Cole. Leave it to the FBI.” Derek looked over his shoulder to see if any of the other locals were watching.

  “Why does everybody keep telling me to leave this to the FBI? These are the same people who locked me up! They don’t have a clue about this.” Cole started in on his breakfast. Between mouthfuls, he said, “What do you know about fracking on the Blackfeet Res?”

  “What?”

  “Fracking on the res. What do you know about it? It’s not a trick question, Derek.”

  Derek seemed perplexed. “I don’t know much, really. I know that there are plans to drill some wells. I don’t really know what fracking is, except that it’s got people pretty upset.”

  “Hydraulic fracturing: drill a well and then, using high pressure, pump water, sand, and a slurry of toxic chemicals into the hole to break up rock that has trapped gas deposits. You force the gas out, and the water and the chemical soup wash out through your drinking water.”

  “I know what I read in the papers,” Derek said. “That’s about it. I’m a mountain guide. I run a business. It’s been a tough year. Even before this thing with Brian, it was tough. Things have picked up some in August and September, but I think I can see the writing on the wall.”

  “Lots of people want to go out with the guide who found the body. I wonder, Derek, have you been back up to the site since Brian was killed?”

  “No. I doubt I’ll ever go there again.”

  “Really? My brother Walter and I were there recently. We went up to see if we could find anything that might help us figure out what happened to Blake and Brian. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know that. Blake fell. It happens, Cole.”

  “I don’t think Blake fell.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “I think this mountain goat was hit on the head.”

  “Cole, are you okay? I think maybe you ought to see the doc. I can drive you, if you want.”

  “In your Land Cruiser, Derek? First I want to tell you this story. Walt and I, we went up onto the bench above Crypt Lake to see if the FBI missed anything. Somebody needed to have a look at the place not like an Evidence Recovery specialist, but like a mountaineer. Someone needed to look at the place the way you do, Derek.”

  Derek was silent. Cole continued. “We found a place where someone had a stash. At first Walt and I thought that m
aybe this was where the killer camped out, you know? We thought the person who popped Brian climbed up to Crypt Lake from Waterton the night before. Blake Foreman’s job was to get to know the pattern in the camp. We figured the killer slept out on this little bivouac ledge that Walt and I found below our final camp. Walt climbed up to it and found a plastic baggie.”

  Derek’s face didn’t change, but Cole recognized something in his eyes.

  “The killer made a mistake. We found this baggie and sent it to the RCMP forensics lab in Ottawa. Walter called me a couple of hours ago and told me that his friend there put a rush on this. The bag tested positive for gunshot residue. The bag held a gun. But the killer didn’t camp there; he climbed up to Crypt Lake and left the gun there before our hike. He didn’t want to risk getting caught with a pistol during the hike, and with a big group like that, people going in and out of other people’s gear looking for sunscreen and extra m&m’s for trail mix, it was bound to happen. He also figured that even the cleanest weapon would leave some trace on his gear. Oil, something.”

  “So you think Blake Foreman stashed the gun—” Derek started.

  “No. Whoever Blake was, he was just the helper. You see, we also found a few strands of nylon from a climbing rope, which means that before Brian was killed, someone down-climbed to that ledge and retrieved the gun and climbed back up. We put that together while we were out there, Derek. Then someone sent us a message to back off. They trashed our camp. I think they were trying to flush us down the Crypt Lake Trail. I think they intended an ambush.”

  “It sure as hell wasn’t me—”

  “There’s more.” Cole cut him off. “I never could buy the story that Blake Foreman, who was out helping look for Brian, tripped and fell to his death. It just didn’t work. I’ve been out in the mountains a lot in my life. I know accidents happen. But this just seemed too much. Why didn’t he come back when he was told that Brian’s body had been found? What was he doing?”

  “He wanted to see if he could find any sign—”

  Again Cole cut Derek off. “That’s a load of crap, Derek. What do you think this is, an episode of Man Tracker ? You can’t track someone over a pile of rocks like the one above Crypt Lake. Not unless they leave a baggie lying around for someone to find, that is. No, it just didn’t add up. What really got me was that Blake supposedly fell a good thirty feet. He landed on his back and split the back of his head open. Blood all over the place. Brains leaking out. A real mess.”