The Glacier Gallows

“Legault's mysteries—no matter which series—are admirably well researched.” —
Library Journal

“First-rate . . . keeps readers wondering whodunit until the very end.” —
Mysterious Reviews

“Stephen Legault has proven himself to be one of the most versatile writers currently working in Canadian crime fiction.” —
National Post

“It's Legault's excellent research that makes this novel work. Think Canadian history is dull? Think again.” —
The Globe and Mail

“Legault does a good job developing this rich character while never allowing the suspense of the story to flag.” —
Quill & Quire

“A whopping good tale . . . a riveting and winning mystery.” —
The Hamilton Spectator

“A suspenseful plot that draws us in and keeps us hooked.” —
Alberta Views

“[Legault] created a believable man for his time, a passionate believer in justice who will go to great lengths to ensure it.” —
The StarPhoenix

“Legault knows there's a fine balance between developing rich characters and leaving enough mystery to maintain interest until the next adventure.” —
Calgary Herald

“A riveting narrative.” —
Avenue Magazine

“Legault is proving himself to be a writer with an ability to create increasingly complex storylines . . . without sacrificing story.” —
Rocky Mountain Outlook

A Cole Blackwater Mystery

Stephen Legault

For Jenn
For Rio and Silas
For the Blackfeet, whose struggle is epic
For all my friends who fight to make things better

Gallows

PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. AUGUST 10.

HE SAT ON THE PORCH
of the single-story ranch house watching the morning's first light color the folds in the hills that rose all around. From the perfect darkness of a starless night the dawn grew in timid increments, first gunmetal gray and finally a rose blush that signaled the start of morning.

Cole Blackwater was wrapped in a heavy quilt he had taken with him in the early hours of morning, retreating from the nightmares and the pressing walls of his childhood room. He sat in his mother's rocking chair and watched the day begin, his face drawn tight, his eyes scrutinizing but not seeing, his ears listening but not hearing the world coming to life around him.

His dawn watch had become a regular occurrence. That's when all of his doubt pressed on him and he began to wonder if there was some way that maybe he
had
done what he was accused of.

Cole searched back through his memory to determine when all of this trouble had started, but the exploration led him too far back. Years: how many? Six, seven, more? A lifetime, really. The accumulated anger had boiled over again and again, and now his reputation had caught up with him. It was ironic that for the last six months he'd been working so hard to get a grip on his rage; now it would be his undoing.

In a few hours he would drive to Calgary and appeal to a Court of Queen's Bench judge not to allow the Government of Canada to extradite him to the State of Montana to face the charge of murder. Cole Blackwater watched the green Porcupine Hills but instead saw only dark layers of malevolence and icy black fear.

GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. JULY 10.

COLE BLACKWATER AWOKE BEFORE FIRST
light. He lay there and listened to the sounds of the approaching morning. A pika—a small, gerbil-sized member of the rabbit family—squeaked loudly. In the craggy summits along the international border between Waterton and Glacier National Parks, the wind began to stir.

Cole pulled his sleeping bag more tightly around his ears. It was cold outside, just above freezing, and the wind at eight thousand feet made it feel colder still. It might be summer in the valley below, where dense blooms of wildflowers carpeted the meadows, but in the alpine of the Rocky Mountains it was still early spring.

Cole donned his wool hat and without opening his sleeping bag shuffled awkwardly into his pants. When he quietly unzipped his tent, Cole could see that the eastern horizon, beyond the rise of serrated mountains that flanked the camp, was the color of a ripe peach. Cole checked to make sure his backpack, tucked inside the vestibule of his tent, was fastened tightly against rodents and then pulled on his boots.

Cole checked his watch: 5:00
AM
. It had been many years since he had been awake at that hour for any reason other than the plague of nightmares that had troubled his recent past. To be alive in the mountains, breathing fresh air and working hard to climb steep trails, inspired Cole to go to bed early, sleep deeply, and rise and greet the sun. It felt good, and Cole was determined not to sabotage his own happiness.

By the faint glow in the eastern sky, and aided by the circle of light from his headlamp, Cole reached the camp's kitchen and soon warmed his hands by the blue gas flame of the camp stove as his small single-cup espresso maker worked its magic. When it had finished, he poured the elixir into his stainless steel mug, added powdered milk, and turned off his headlamp. He looked back at the other tents; none of the other hikers or guides had stirred. He walked east from the camp—careful to steer clear of the precipitous five-hundred-foot drop that plunged toward Crypt Lake—and ascended the far eastern edge of the ridge. The Wilson Range straddled the border between Waterton and Glacier National Parks. The team was camped on a mile-long and nearly flat unnamed peak. In ten minutes he was another two hundred feet above the camp's lofty perch and had an unobstructed view over the rough breaks of limestone that fell like collapsing waves against a rugged beach.

Cole arranged a few slabs of stone to make a seat and drank his coffee. From where he was seated, he could see the box-like formation of Chief Mountain, one of the holy pillars of the Blackfeet Nation. The peaks of the Rocky Mountain Front were sheared off like torn paper where they collapsed into the gentle foothills and the undulating prairie.

For five days Cole had been busy with his fellow hikers' questions, concerns, and inexperience. From 5:00
AM
until Derek McGrath of East Glacier Guiding awoke to brew large pots of coffee was Cole's time. The morning's enchanted light crept up the peaks that flanked Cole's roost. This was the old Cole; he felt a passion in his belly and wonder in his heart. He wished that Nancy Webber and his daughter, Sarah, were with him to appreciate the scene, though he doubted that either would share his zeal for a predawn hike.

Cole watched for another hour. When the peaks around him were the color of golden wheat, he walked down off the ridge and returned to the camp. The three guides from East Glacier were up to prepare breakfast.

“Morning, gentlemen.” Cole refilled his coffee cup. He spoke quietly out of habit.

McGrath, a broad-shouldered man who wore a wool cap day and night, said, “Off for another morning adventure?”

“Time enough for sleep when you're dead,” answered Cole.

The other two guides remained taciturn. Tad Thomas was a veteran of many outings with East Glacier Guiding. He prepared pancake batter with dried berries for the crew. Blake Foreman was new to Derek's team, having just signed on before this trip, but had proven capable of leading the group over the trails of Glacier. Cole marveled at how much all three men resembled one another, down to their beards and wool hats. He grabbed a handful of dried fruit from a plastic bowl and made for his tent. He munched as he walked and as he unzipped the fly and pulled out his pack. Cole noted that he must have forgotten to tighten the bag's cinch straps that closed the lid. While all of the food in camp was sealed in bear-proof containers, he had to remember to keep his pack closed tightly so that rodents didn't find their way in as they searched for the salt on Cole's sweat-stained clothing tucked inside.

Cole pulled a ziplock bag of topographic sheets from the top of his bag and returned to the kitchen. A circle of stones had been arranged to create a makeshift dining area. Two other members of the hiking team were awake, and he greeted them. Cole unfolded a topo sheet and took a drink of his coffee.

“Where are we off to today, Cole?” asked a lanky man with a hooked nose. Dr. Peter Talbot worked for the United States Geological Survey and was an expert on the impacts of climate change on alpine environments.

Cole pointed to their location on the topo map. “We'll make our way along a goat trail around these cliffs, past Crypt Lake, and down the valley toward Waterton.”

“So that's it? A return to civilization?”

“Afraid so. Eventually we have to rejoin society.”

“Says who?” asked the scientist.

“Says my boss.”

“I thought you were your own boss,” said Talbot.

Cole laughed. “I have an eleven-year-old daughter, a girlfriend, and an assistant who pretty much runs my business. I've got at least three bosses. Plus an ex-wife who keeps expecting child support, so make that four.” Cole held up four fingers. “Even Brian Marriott
thinks
he's my boss, so that's five.”

The second man in the kitchen area, Joe Firstlight from the Blackfeet Nation, studied the route. “This stretch of trail looks good”—he pointed to the area just north of the international border—“but this area looks a little nip and tuck.”

“It's fine.” Cole indicated the pinch point on the topo map. “I hiked it once years ago when I was a kid. There's a place where we can fix a rope for those who are faint of heart. Besides, my brother, Walter, is coming to meet us. He can carry anybody who's nervous.”

“Sounds like a regular Grizzly Adams.” Talbot grinned.

“Moves mountains, wrestles cougars.”

More sleepy faces emerged from tents, found coffee, and joined Cole to review the day's itinerary. In total there were eight hikers and three guides. Cole noted that a few members of the party were sleeping in.

“Where is Brian?” asked Tara Sinclair, the science reporter for the
Globe and Mail
who was based in Ottawa.

“I haven't seen him yet this morning.” Cole looked around.

“If he thinks he can skip out after dragging our butts all the way up here just to talk about climate change, he's got another thing coming.” Tara sipped her coffee.

“He's around.” Cole rose to go and wake the trip's main organizer, Brian Marriott.

Cole walked to Brian's bright orange tent. “Knock knock.” He rapped the tent fly with his knuckles. There was no response. “Brian, your flock awaits your presence.” Still nothing.

“Brian?” Cole unzipped the outer fly and peered inside. The tent was dark and smelled of body odor and sweaty boots. “Brian, time to hit the dusty trail.” Cole unzipped the inner fly and saw that the tent was empty. Brian's sleeping bag was there, as were several personal items, including a worn copy of the book
The Weather Makers
, but Brian Marriott was not. Cole closed the tent and returned to the kitchen.