The Mystery of the Moonlight Murder (4 page)

Chapter 5
Run-In at Borden

The fields of swaying golden wheat waved silently as the Diefenbaker Schooner rambled the seven miles towards Borden, while Summer rode her horse alongside the wagon. John was glad that it wasn't harvest time quite yet or there would be no time to think about anything else. Once harvest comes, getting the wheat threshed and to market is all that matters to anyone who farms. It takes many weeks of hard, intensive effort with every single family member contributing from sunrise to sundown. It's always an exciting time, but they were full days that left no extra minutes for anything else.

“Father,” inquired Elmer, interrupting John's thoughts, “what did Mrs. Schneider mean when she said she had all that land but didn't have anything at all?”

“What do you think she meant, Elmer?” asked William, turning the question back on his youngest boy like any good teacher would.

“Well, did she mean she was all alone now?” Elmer asked.

William nodded. “That's certainly a big part of it, Elmer. The government gives you one hundred and sixty acres and they call it ‘free.' But free is a mighty strange word when it takes every ounce of strength and determination one has just to make it work, especially in the beginning. Gertrude doesn't have any support now, so it's going to be even more difficult for her to get by.”

Elmer nodded. Just then his father pointed off to the right, where a tiny, sod shack was collapsing under its own weight.

“There's another one of those free farms, son. Doesn't look like the people were able to do much with that gift, does it?”

Elmer and John's eyes traced over the sod shack, built with layers of grass and roots cut into strips. These were often temporary homes for settlers before they built something stronger. One side of the north wall had fallen in and prairie dogs scampered around it, rodent masters of the abandoned home. It was another homesteading failure, cause unknown. Cruel, hot summers were difficult enough and the winters that followed were colder than the imagination could stir up. There was unspeakable loneliness, disease, hunger. John knew his father was silently saying “Be thankful. We're doing alright.” The prairies were certainly not for everyone. They were a gamble, a great roll of the dice by Canadian leaders to carve something—anything—out of a great unknown.

John squinted at Borden's familiar buildings, just now com-

ing into view. The small but lively village was always a welcome break from the sameness of the homestead. Yet today, he didn't have the same excited feelings as the wagon carried William, John, and Elmer into town. Instead, he was anxious, wondering how to uncover the truth of a murder that the police had already determined was solved.

John's mother and uncle had been dropped off at the homestead after the funeral. He knew that he and Elmer would have double the usual work when they got back but it was worth it just to be able to go to town and do something different. The routines were very boring. It was a treat to take advantage of the opportunities to do something different as they came along. If they didn't find Summer's grandparents in Borden, William had told Summer he would take her directly back home to her Long River reservation. Summer's horse, Prairie Dancer, walked calmly alongside Skipper and Blue, who were doing wagon duty. The majestic Pinto, with its paint design of distinctive brown and white patches, easily stood out from the two chestnut brown broncos. The horses got along well together, given how often Summer had visited in the past.

“Are you sure your grandparents are in Borden?” yelled William over the wagon noise to Summer.

“I think so, yes. Or maybe there are others from the village, since my grandparents do not feel well. Someone must be there to help my father,” answered Summer intently. “Thank you for

letting me ride with your family, Mr. D.,” she added.

William grinned at Summer. When they had first met, he had given her permission to call him ‘Mr. D.,' since Summer had a great deal of difficulty pronouncing the family's last name. While she had no problem with the pronunciation now, it was a term of affection that had stuck.

Summer, far more quiet than usual, watched the clouds flit across the sky. John tried to imagine what it must feel like to see your own father taken away by the police. He wasn't sure how he could help Summer but perhaps they would get some answers from the police.

As they entered Borden, William called out “Hello!” and tipped his well-worn hat to people that they passed. With few exceptions, he was cheerful and friendly, whatever was going on. William pulled the wagon off the road so that it was in front of the livery stable, where horses and wagons could be rented. The folks of Borden were proud of the livery stable because having one meant that the town was important and busy enough to keep such an establishment in business. Sometimes in the winter, when the local farmers went into town for the afternoon, they would park their horses at the stable to keep them warm and have them fed and groomed.

As he looked around, John could feel the village alive with activity. Women chatted near storefronts. Children stirred up clouds of dust as they chased each other in between buildings,

their laughter hanging in the humid air. What John couldn't miss was the pungent smell of horse droppings scattered in foul piles all over the street.

The Diefenbakers and Summer parked several small buildings away from the Royal North West Mounted Police office, which also served as the local jail. John knew his father was trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves and didn't want anyone to guess that he was going to the police station. There were other horses nearby, all tied to posts, as well as a few more wagons parked along the street.

William hopped off the wagon and looked around. “Do you see your grandparents' wagon?” he asked Summer, who was tying Prairie Dancer to a tethering post.

She looked around and shook her head, perplexed. William considered what to do next. “You three wait around here. Look around if you want but don't go far. I'm going to talk with the sergeant and find out what's going on.”

“Mr. D., I want to come! I want to see my father,” she pleaded.

William's eyes conveyed understanding, but he was firm in his statement. He lowered his voice as he approached and glanced around. “I don't want you in the jailhouse, Summer. It's no place for a young lady. I won't be long.”

Summer nodded reluctantly and looked anxious as William walked away.

John felt sad for her. “Maybe Father will find out that your grandparents already got him released. Maybe he's back home right now.”

But even John didn't sound convinced of this possibility, and it did nothing to brighten Summer's mood.

Elmer was deep in thought about visiting the jail, wondering what a real one looked like up close. As he shuffled around on the dirt road, he saw a small stone and kicked it, aiming for the open space of the middle of the street. Instead, the stone veered left, mistakenly striking a wooden post not more than a few inches from a tethered horse. Startled, the large brown horse took several steps back until it reached the end of its rope. The owner of the horse was just coming out of the livery stable and cast his gaze toward Elmer.

“Sorry, sir!” offered Elmer. “I didn't mean to do that.”

“Indeed,” the young man replied as he approached calmly, his dark facial hair obviously recently thinned at Svenson's barber shop. “You know, if my uncle were alive today, he would say children as old as the three of you should be put to better use, rather than wasting your days about the town.”

John wanted to assure him that wasn't the case. “We're not wasting our days, sir. We're here because our father needed to come to town.” John fixed his intense, dark eyes on the stranger. Everyone agreed that John's eyes were his most noticeable feature because of their intensity. As he looked into the eyes of

the stranger, John thought the same thing could be said of the man dressed in black. The man had a magnetic presence.

“I see,” replied the man, pleasantly. He was tall, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and he stared at all three of them with an amused look. His dark clothes drew the warm summer sun. Although he was a stranger, John felt comfortable because of his easy nature.

“And where is your father?” he asked, glancing around. John paused. “Father is at the printing shop, buying a copy of the
Langham Times
,” he responded hastily, hoping his fib was the right thing to do. He knew that his father didn't want any embarrassment to come to the family by being connected to the police station.

The stranger looked more closely at Summer, taking in her deerskin jacket, braided hair and facial features. His eyes brightened.

“Did you know that my uncle was fluent in Cree?” he asked, obviously recognizing her as Plains Cree.

“He knew the Cree language?” she asked, impressed. The man laughed and nodded. “My dear, my uncle made it his business to know all of the Indian languages on the prairies, including French. He was Métis, you see. We were very close.” Métis, thought John. He would not have guessed the man in front of them was Métis. He wasn't dressed in the typical Métis fashion, which was a blend of European and Indian heritage

clothing. Often they combined animal hides, like deer or elk, with flamboyant, colourful cloths. But nothing was certain any more—times were changing, John realized. This man was dressed plainly, in European-style clothing. In this case, he was dressed in black from head to toe. “Who was your uncle?” asked Summer.

“My uncle,” claimed the stranger with flourish “was Gabriel Dumont.”

John hit Elmer in the arm to get his attention and his eyes widened. They had just met the person Sergeant English had been talking about!

“My name is André Dumont. It is a pleasure to meet you,” he stated, now extending his hand. The children stood gaping-mouthed and shook his offered hand. “And just who might the three of you be?”

“I'm John Diefenbaker, this is my brother, Elmer, and our friend, Summer Storm,” John replied, wondering if he should have identified everyone to Mr. Dumont.

“I met Mr. Dumont, your uncle, a few years ago,” John continued, “when we lived in Carlton. I was sorry to hear that he died a couple of years ago.”

André blinked down at them and seemed to consider something for a moment. “Thank you, thank you indeed. He was a great man.”

“Your last name is odd. German, I guess. Tell me,” André

directed at John, the obvious leader of the youngsters. “Has anyone ever made fun of it?”

John looked to the ground briefly and nodded. “Yes, at school.”

André nodded. “The treatment of folks not from Great Britain in this country is a terrible thing. The only thing worse is the treatment of the people who were here first. And Laurier does so little,” he told them, referring to the Canadian prime minister, Sir Wilfrid Laurier. “Who will help change the attitudes of the people if not the leadership of the country?” John wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer.

“Perhaps, people like us,” André uttered, answering his own question.

“But hasn't Prime Minister Laurier opened the West to plenty of immigrants? There're folks from all over the world here,” John pointed out.

“Bringing people is one thing,” began André. “But you know that all these people are disturbing the lives of those who were here first.”

John agreed with what André was saying. Through his studies with his father and uncle, and being friends with Summer, he had learned a lot about the changes endured by the Cree, other Indian tribes and the Métis on their way of life. André seemed to read his mind and looked at Summer. “It is dreadful the way the Cree and Métis have been pushed

around so much by the government. I know you are too young but your elders must miss the old ways.” Summer looked downcast. “Yes, they talk about it a lot.” An older Indian man walked slowly by and André glanced his way briefly and then continued more loudly.

“Everything has been mismanaged by the government. The Indians and Métis remember when the buffalo ran freely across the prairie, so thick that the herds were like great moving walls,” he described, gesturing boldly. “What a proud time in our history, to remember the freedom we once had to do what was needed for our families and for our villages.”