Read The Mystery of the Moonlight Murder Online
Authors: Roderick Benns
The Mystery of the Moonlight Murder
Leaders & Legacies Series
This book is fiction but many of the characters and events are based on real people and actual historical events.
Text © 2009 Roderick Benns
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ISBN 978-0-9812433-0-6 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-9812433-1-3 (hc)
ISBN 978-0-9812433-3-7 (eBook)
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Benns, Roderick, 1970â
The mystery of the moonlight murder : an early adventure of Prime Minister John Diefenbaker / by Roderick Benns.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-9812433-0-6
1. Diefenbaker, John G., 1895â1979âChildhood and youthâJuvenile fiction. 2. Prairie ProvincesâHistoryâ1905â1945âJuvenile fiction. 3. Prime ministersâCanadaâJuvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8603.E5598M98 2009
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jC813'.6
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C2009-903715-7
Cover, book design and illustrations by riad
eBook development by WildElement
www.WildElement.ca
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to acknowledge the assistance of the Diefenbaker Canada Centre and in particular Rob Paul, who was unfailingly helpful in my requests.
For Canada, its leaders and the legacies they left behind. For Canadians, who in their wisdom and diversity chose them.
For young Prime Ministers in waiting, who may one day give of themselves to their nation.
â Roderick Benns
For my wonderful wife, Joli, whose love and unwavering support had made this project possible.
Thank you for being my first editor, life partner and friend.
â Roderick
For Eric and Ali, my children. Thank you for enriching my life. May each of you listen to your heart and follow your path.
â Dad
“I do not care what language a man speaks, or what religion he professes, if he is honest and law-abiding, if he will go on that land and make a living for himself and his family, he is a desirable settler for the Dominion of Canada ...”
Clifford Sifton
Minister of the Interior,
House of Commons in July 1899
The author uses the term âIndian' in this book, rather than âFirst Nations' or âAboriginal' person. It is what a First Nations person was called at the time of this story. The author and publisher discussed what term to use in the story since âIndian' is outdated and its use is in decline. Great effort was made to be historically accurate throughout this book and so we decided to use âIndian' only to help put the reader in the time period of this story.
The reader will note that the tone of the book, through the characters and plot development, is meant to acknowledge the historical wrongs made against First Nations people and to support their important legacy. It is the author's hope that once parents, teachers, and children read this book they will have a greater understanding of the challenges faced by First Nations people in Canada a century ago.
Summer, 1908
On the prairies,
near Borden, Saskatchewan
Chapter 1
The Killing Field
John Diefenbaker couldn't have known that his neighbour had only twenty-two more seconds to live.
His younger brother, Elmer, had finally stopped his nearlyendless chitchat about a quarter of a mile back. As they rode their horses along the well-worn prairie trail, John knew that this wouldn't necessarily last, so he enjoyed the silence while he could. A full moon shone across the endless Saskatchewan prairie, while green Northern Lights danced ablaze in the summer darkness. It was a night to remember.
Sixteen seconds.
The Diefenbaker family had run out of water unexpectedly after a small fire erupted in the kitchen. With their well not working properly, getting water meant going to the river a few miles away or bartering with a neighbour. The boys' father, William, sent them to the Petersen farm a mile and a half up the road. Old bachelor Petersen was always willing to trade his water for some of Mary Diefenbaker's home cooking.
John and Elmer had bundled up a supply of breads, butter, and a large tub of rabbit stew to trade for the water. They had tied it to Elmer's bronco, old Blue, for the journey to Karl's and now the same horse carried containers of water tied to saddlebags for the trip back home. John's horse didn't have a saddle, since the Diefenbakers could only afford one and John was a strong enough rider to ride bareback. Soon they would be past the Schneider farm and nearly home. “John?”
“Yes, Elmer?” John knew the silence couldn't have lasted much longer.
“Remember that time we built the wooden wagon and tied Mother's parasol to the back, thinking we could fly it off the second floor of the barn, like the Wright brothers?
Eleven seconds.
“Of course I do. Remember how we almost killed Tip by making him the pilot? It was foolish, Elmer. We almost killed our dog! I'm twelve and you're ten now. Anyway, that was two years ago. We were just kids.”
Four seconds.
“Yes, but do you think it would have worked if the dog had been smaller?” Elmer asked, as if that had been the single flaw in the plan. John sighed.
“Elmer, it never ⦔
BANG! The sound of a gunshot shattered the stillness and was followed by a rasping scream. John's horse jerked up onto its hind legs and tossed him from its back like a rag doll. He still held onto the reins but hit the ground hard with a grunt. At the same time Elmer's horse bolted, aiming its nose toward home with Elmer gasping and holding on for dear life.
John looked up just in time to see a shadowy figure scurry into a dense grove of poplar trees far off in the distance behind the Schneider farm. The Northern Lights continued their dance as John achingly got up, his heart racing. He wanted to shout out toward his younger brother who appeared smaller and smaller as Blue carried him down the road at breakneck pace. But it was obvious that Elmer was long gone, thanks to the survival instincts of Blue. John only hoped that his brother was able to hold on until he got homeâand that the water got there, too.
John, his heart still pounding, climbed back onto Skipper now that the horse had calmed down. He wasn't sure whether to head in the direction of the gunshot or his house. After pausing briefly, John decided to proceed toward the sound, convincing himself that Mr. Schneider had shot at a coyote, which was going after his chickens. But then why did he hear someone cry out? Wasn't it the sound of a man in pain? As his mind raced to make sense of what had just happened, he saw a figure on foot fleeing the tiny farm house and racing toward the
fence line. A woman's scream pierced his ears, which was followed by a sustained whimpering as John bolted toward the sounds.
“Oh my Lord! Hans! Hans!”
Mrs. Schneider was now in view as John rushed his horse to the scene. He found her cradling her husband in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably. There was blood on her hands and clothing as she hugged Hans Schneider close to her. He wasn't moving.
“Mrs. Schneiderâ¦is Mr. Schneiderâ¦is he⦔ John began.
She looked up briefly and stared mournfully into John's eyes and then the sound of her cries carried across the prairie fields. It was a night John would never, ever forget.
Chapter 2
The Rebellion
“About how far away were you from the place where Mr. Schneider was shot, son?”
John looked away from the Royal North West Mounted Police officer's eyes as he searched for the right measurement in his mind.
“I'd say we were about five hundred feet away, sir, Elmer and me,” said John quietly. Elmer nodded affirmatively, though he was unsure of his brother's estimation skills.
In the background, John's mother, Mary, busied herself in the tiny, three-room homestead. She was making coffee for the two officers, who were clad in their trademark red uniforms. They had arrived early to piece together the events of the night before. John's father, William, sat near the officers. Elmer and John were both on the floor, cross legged. John's uncle, Ed
Diefenbaker, stood in the home's single doorway, his lean frame half in and half out. There just wasn't room in the cramped, tiny kitchen for so many people. Like many settlers in the area, the Diefenbakers earned enough to get by but not much more, and their home's size reflected this.
“And Gertrude Schneider tells us that you saw something,” Sergeant English continued. He was the lead investigator, a man William and Ed had gotten to know somewhat, and he looked every bit his forty-five years. The heavy lines around his forehead suggested someone who had seen all sides of prairie life.
“She thinks maybe you got a look at who did this?” John swallowed. Normally he was excited when officers from Borden, the closest town to the Diefenbaker homestead, stopped by to chat while on their patrols. But this was anything but normal. This was the day after their neighbour, Mr. Schneider, had been shot.
“It was dark, Sergeant. I didn't see anything except a shape running off. Everything happened so fast.”
“What kind of shape?” Constable Wood joined in. At twenty-four, the constable was obviously the junior partner. He was tall and athletic looking, with short reddish hair.
“It was the shape of a man, sir,” said John haltingly. “I fell off my horse when he reared up and as I sat up and looked in the direction of the gun shot, all I could see was a figure. It
looked like a man, but I couldn't tell you more than that.”
John wished he could. He prided himself on his excellent memory and attention to detail. Even in school his Uncle Ed, who was also his teacher, marveled at John's ability to recall facts and dates, especially when he had to defend a point he was making.
“Wasn't there a full moon last night?” pressed Sergeant English in his deep voice. “And I remember seeing the Northern Lights fired up when I stood outside the station. Are you sure you couldn't make out anything else, with all that extra light?” John felt like he was letting them down. “There were a lot of shadows, sir. Maybe he was tall, but I couldn't tell anything else. He moved pretty fast.”
“Tall,” repeated Sergeant English while he wrote it down in his notebook.
“Tall and moved fast.” Then he looked over at his partner. “That could have been you out there, Constable Wood,” he said with a wry look.
“Except for the fact that I was trying to get some sleep,” said the young officer, who looked slightly irked at his partner's attempt at a joke.
Ignoring this, Sergeant English took his coffee from Mary with thanks, his large hands smothering the hot mug. Constable Wood did the same.
“Well, we know old Hans was outside working in the moon-
light,” said Sergeant English. “That man wouldn't have known how to slow down if you paid him to. But what were you two young pups doing out that late anyway, if I might ask?”
John's father, who was a thin and hollow-cheeked man, very much like his brother Ed, cleared his throat.
“I sent them to fetch water from the Petersen farm. The well's been acting up again and we ran out after we had a small kitchen fire. I knew the boys could handle it. They're both good riders. Of course, who would have thought anything terrible like this was going on?” William asked.
Sensing his discomfort, Mary placed her hand on his shoulder. The sergeant nodded.
“I'm sure they're fine riders,” he said, nodding to the boys, as John and Elmer sat up straighter. “It's not every day horses hear gun shots around here, let alone at night,” Sergeant English added. “It's normal they'd get spooked.”
“Tell me,” said Sergeant English, continuing, “what do you know about River's Voice?” William looked puzzled.
“He's a member of the Cree Indians, the band just west of here. We've known him for three years, ever since we've been in the Borden area. He stops in from time to time to do some trades and he usually leaves his daughter, Summer Storm, with us while he travels around. She's almost like a sister to the boys. I'd consider him a good friend.”
“What does he like to trade?” asked Constable Wood. “Usually rabbit and venison. In return he likes milk, eggs, and butter for his family,” said William. “Always fair trades, if you ask me. We also throw in some apples from time to time, since my brother in Ontario, Duncan, often sends a few barrels of them,” he said, gesturing to the corner of the cramped homestead where they stood.
“Apparently you aren't the only one he tries to trade with,” said Constable Wood. “Oh?” said William.
“He's also paid a couple of visits to your neighbour, Hans, in the past.”
William shifted uncomfortably. “Well, like I said, he makes his rounds. It makes sense. There are quite a few farms around here that might be interested in what he has. It's not always easy for farmers to get meat, especially when most of us are working dairy cows.”
John and Elmer glanced at each other, wondering what the sergeant was getting at.
“Well, Hans Schneider wasn't interested. Apparently they were having words,” said Constable Wood. William stared at the officers.
“Surely you don't think River's Voice had anything⦔ began William.
“We're not thinking anything at all at this point,” Sergeant
English interrupted. “In fact, everyone knows Hans Schneider had words with pretty much everybody. He was a heavy drinker. Easy to set him off. It seemed to be the nature of the man to make enemies, that's for sure.” He smoothed his thick, sandy moustache.
“You know, this area has been pretty quiet around here in the last few years and that's the way we like it. We've thrown a couple of whisky smugglers out of town before, and rumour has it there's another one or two pushing his luck. Like I said, it's no secret Hans himself wasn't above hoarding a few bottles.”
Mary shook her head. “Land sakes,” she muttered under her breath. If there was one thing Mary Diefenbaker didn't appreciate, it was alcohol.
“So, other than a couple of suspected whisky smugglers in the area,” Sergeant English went on, “it's been pretty quiet. Of course, it wasn't that long ago when we used to hear gun shots all the time. And we don't want those times to return.”
“What gun shots? What times?” Elmer piped up.
His father looked irritated. “He means the rebellion. And I hope you remember at least some of this, considering we covered it last year.”
William was Elmer's teacher, although school was out for the summer. John went to school in a different district with his Uncle Ed each day. With two teachers in the family, there was
always a heavy expectation on learning.
Ed was nodding in agreement. “Both of you should have at least some idea what the sergeant is talking about.”
“We know about the rebellion,” said John, taking care to defend his brother, too. “It was in 1885.”
The sergeant nodded and looked thoughtful. “That's right. And this being 1908, I guess I was⦠what?... about twenty-two or twenty-three years old? Pretty much the same age as Constable Wood over here,” he said, nodding to his younger partner. “And I was one of about five hundred men sent to Battleford, once things began. We had already lost three good officers. We didn't want to lose any more.”
“You were in the rebellion?” asked John excitedly.
“Tell us more!” said Elmer eagerly.
“Elmer Diefenbaker!” said his mother, embarrassed by his request.
“It's fine, it's fine,” said Sergeant English, who was as close to smiling as ever today. “Kids love to hear a good story and this one's as true as the day is long. It's one thing to learn about it in school and another to hear about it from someone who was really there.”
He took a sip of his coffee before he continued.
“Well, you know how it all started. This area was all part of the Northwest Territories just three years ago, not Saskatchewan as it is now. The Métis leader, Louis Riel and his military
general, Gabriel Dumont, led a revolt against the federal government for all kinds of reasons.”
John had studied a great deal about the challenges of the Indians and Métis, who were half Indian and half European, mostly French. They weren't treated fairly by the federal government. Their land was handed out to settlers from the east. Worse, commercial hunters hunted their main source of food, the buffalo, almost to extinction. The federal government's response was to encourage the Indians and Métis to switch to farming. But the change was too hard and they were still living near starvation.
The Northwest Rebellion happened because the Indians and Métis grew more desperate. Riel and Dumont had a list of demands that they wanted answered for their people. Ed spoke up to prod John's memory.
“You'll recall Riel tried to form alliances with the Cree Indians and even the white settlers,” said Ed. “Many of the settlers were ticked off that the railroad was built so far south from where they were living. He brought anyone on board who would help him take on the federal government.” Sergeant English nodded his agreement.
“My uncle says Gabriel Dumont was one of the best fighters in the West,” said John. “We've met him, you know.” Ed gave an awkward smile.
“Is that so?” said Sergeant English, raising an eyebrow
dramatically. “I think your uncle's right. Mr. Dumont was indeed an exceptional soldier for the Métis. I thought I had heard he visited you from time to time, back when you lived in Carlton.”
There was a slight accusatory tone in the sergeant's voice. William bristled. “Yes, and the Royal North West Mounted Police would visit us too. We've always opened our doors to everyone,” said William defensively. “You know that.”
“Yes. Too bad Dumont was on the wrong side of the law,” the sergeant said.
There was a tense silence before the sergeant continued. “Like I said, there were about five hundred of us and we marched up from Swift Current to Battleford to try and stop the raids. First we got the news from Duck Lake that nine civilians and three officers had been killed in March by Dumont and Indian rebels. Then we got word Chief Poundmaker had a bunch of his men on the move, ready to attack.
“But Chief Poundmaker just wanted to talk, didn't he?” pressed John. “He even sent a message ahead of him to say so. His tribe was hungry and they were angry that the government wasn't helping them, like they had promised,” said John, always ready to defend the underdog.
John's mother looked like she was about to say something, but the sergeant caught her eye as if to say “Let it go.”
“I can't say things were perfect for the Indians,” replied Ser-
geant English, “but everyone was struggling. Most everyone's still struggling.” He paused, as if attempting to figure out how to best tell his story.
“You see, some of the Indians had begun to break into farm houses. They carted away supplies from the general stores, killed cattle and took folks' horses. Now I have to admit, the Cree pretty much returned to their reservation. They had left Battleford before our force arrived. But some of them weren't innocent and they continued to loot the towns. A few days later, we marched west up the Battle River in pursuit of the Cree, near their own camp.”
“The battle of Cut Knife Hill,” said William quietly. “Exactly. I have to admit, they counter-attacked fairly well. We were ordered out of there.”