Crooked River (12 page)

“Mr. Carver,” he said slowly, giving my Pa a look that could have withered a cornstalk in July. “I don't give one damned fig what everybody in this town knows or doesn't know. This is a court of law. You tell the jury exactly what you know. Do you understand?”

Right at that moment, I felt a small flicker of hope for Indian John and Peter Kelley I didn't dare to look over at Laura, but I could hear her give a soft whisper under her breath. Maybe Peter Kelley was right about the judge being more powerful than any of the men in our settlement. I had never seen anybody
stand up to my Pa. He was feared on both sides of the river. But Judge James R. Noble didn't seem to take any notice of that fact.

In the silence after the judge scolded my Pa, I watched as Mr. Root patted a handkerchief carefully across his forehead and blew his nose loudly. I figured my father was supposed to be on the same side as him, and my Pa was not acting according to his plans. But then he didn't act according to anyone's plans except his own.

Mr. Root took a long while to fold his handkerchief into a small, neat square and tuck it back in his frock coat before beginning again. I guessed he was trying to give Pa time to stop stewing in his chair.

“To continue,” he said finally, giving Pa a small, encouraging smile. “Please tell us, Major Carver, in your own words, what happened earlier this spring and how you came to capture the Indian before us today.”

My Pa crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He fixed his eyes on Mr. Root and didn't look once at the crowd or the jury and especially not the judge. Just spoke straight to the lawyer, as if he was the only other person there.

“In the month of April, this year,” he said, “me and my men got word that a poor trapper named Gibbs had been found dead—kilt by Indians at the end of March.”

“And where was the trapper found?”

“Other side of Crooked River.” Pa waved his arm as if he was standing right on the river's edge. “Over there, the western side.”

“And what did you do after hearing about the dead trapper?”

“Well,” Pa said, sending a hard spit of tobacco to the ground. “I got all my men together, maybe ten of us there was, and we went 'cross the river at the end of April to hunt for the three Indians who done it.”

“I see.” Mr. Root nodded slowly and rubbed his chin, as if he was pretending to think hard. “You say Indians did this,” he repeated. “But how did you know that for certainty, Major Carver?”

“Whether or not Indians kilt the trapper, you mean?”

“Yes.” Mr. Root nodded solemnly.

Pa gave a little snort. “He had an Indian tomahawk stuck into his skull, that's how.” He paused and added, “Reckon that would kill jist about anybody, now wouldn't it?”

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd and the judge leaned forward to say something. But before he did, Mr. Root hurried on with his next question.

“How did you know which particular Indians did it?”

“Folks around here and over there told us,” Pa said. “They ain't dumb.”

“What folks?”

“Do I gotta go and name them all?” Pa scowled. “I ain't got all year to set here for this trial.”

“Just a few of them,” Mr. Root insisted, taking out his folded handkerchief again. “If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Carver, please.”

“I'll see if I can recollect them all,” Pa answered
with a loud sigh. “We talked to blacksmith Nichols, who made the Indian's tomahawk… the man who found the fellow dead on his land … 'nother trapper who hunted with the dead man… a fellow whose barn got burnt down by the same Indians last summer …,” he said, counting them one by one on his fingers as if to show how many there were.

“And all of them told you the same thing?”

“Yes sir.”

“What was it that they told you, exactly?”

“That the murder had been done by three particular Indians who had been giving them trouble for a while.”

“Three Indians,” Mr. Root repeated loudly.

My Pa nodded. “One of which”—he pointed—“is sitting over there.”

The crowd hushed as everybody leaned forward to look in the direction of Indian John, who was seated in a chair near the front. I was pleased that his chair didn't face the crowd. All anybody could get a glimpse of was the back of his head and the brown cloth of his plain shirt. The white blanket that I had often seen folded next to him in the loft was draped over his left shoulder. Only the judge and jury could see the fierce stripes that my Pa made.

“When you say ‘trouble,’ of what sort do you mean?” continued Mr. Root.

Pa leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “Augustus, you know as well as me that we have been bothered by these hostile, savage Indians for years. I don't got to name all the troubles they cause.” He spit loudly and wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand. “We try to clear our land, plant our fields, raise our families in peace, and they kill our women and children, steal our food, burn down our barns. Ain't no secret who's doing it if you live around here.”

Folks all around me were nodding and agreeing as if it had happened to every last one of them. To be truthful, I didn't know anybody it had happened to. Nobody in the Crooked River settlement had ever been kilt by Indians. Not in my memory. Only thing I had ever heard were stories from other places.

“Enough,” the judge said loudly, pinning a glare on Pa and Augustus Root.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Root said quickly. “That's all.”

There were some hoots and shouts from the men in the crowd, but I couldn't tell the meaning exactly. Regardless, the judge didn't appear to pay them any mind. He just turned toward the other side of his table. “Your questions, Mr. Kelley.”

As Mr. Kelley stood up and walked toward the witness stand, it seemed that a dark cloud was cast over the sun and the air got suddenly colder. Folks leaned back and crossed their arms as if they had caught a chill. I heard a loud whispering start up all around me. Maybe the judge heard it, too, because he gave the crowd a long, sweeping stare.

“Mr. Kelley,” he repeated loudly. “According to the law, it is now your turn to question the witness, Major Carver—as he is popularly known.”

My heart pounded as young Mr. Kelley walked slowly toward my Pa's chair.

One time, we had a little brown dog who was kilt one morning trying to fight off a wild bear. If you have ever seen that happen, you know the sickening feeling that comes from watching the terrible scene unfold and being helpless to do a thing about it. That's exactly how I felt as Mr. Kelley stood in front of my Pa.

“Mr.—Major Carver,” Peter Kelley said, in a voice that was full of nerves. “You say you were told—or, well, heard—that three Indians were responsible for this crime, correct?”

“Yessir,” my Pa shot back. “That's what I said.”

“So, you didn't see the dead man yourself?”

My Pa leaned forward ominously, and just out of pure habit, I moved back in my seat. “You trying to tell me that the poor trapper weren't dead?” he said real low.

Peter Kelley's face turned a shade of red, and he stumbled over his answer. “I'm only trying to find out what you saw so the jury knows exactly—”

“I don't need to see a dead man to know he's dead,” my Pa spat.

From behind them came the judge's voice. “Answer the question, Mr. Carver. Did you see the dead man with your own eyes?”

“No.”

“The witness says no,” the judge repeated, giving Peter Kelley a stern, fatherly sort of look. “Move on to your next question.”

I could see the lawyer's shoulders go up and down as he took in a trembling breath of air. He shuffled through the papers in his hand, and when
he started up again, it seemed to me that he spoke with a trifle more courage and conviction.

“Would you describe the three Indians you tried to catch?”

“There was two grown Indians and one real young boy, maybe seven or eight years of age.”

“And what happened to them?”

“Well, the boy run off from us before we could catch him. We were told by that Indian”—Pa motioned toward Indian John—“that the boy was known by the name of Semo.”

“Pardon me?” Mr. Kelley said, and I saw his eyes dart over to Indian John.

“I said SE-MO,” Pa spat. “You listenin’ or not?”

There was a peculiar silence before Peter Kelley continued. His eyes flickered in the direction of Indian John again and then he coughed a little and returned to his questions. “And what do you remember about the other two Indians?” he said.

“The other Indian was older. He run off before we caught him and shot himself with his own gun.”

Mr. Kelley squinted at Pa, as if he was pretending to be confused. “While he was running, you say? He shot and killed himself with his own gun?” You could tell by the way his voice rose that he didn't believe a word my Pa said.

Mr. Root leaped up to shout an objection and the
judge leaned across the table. “Mr. Kelley,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “This is a case about a dead trapper, not a dead Indian, am I correct?”

Mr. Kelley nodded and repeated his apologies twice. Around us, everyone seemed impatient to move and the children in the back were fussing loudly. A man in the crowd stood up and hollered something about Mr. Kelley that doesn't bear repeating. It was already well past the noon mealtime.

“Have your questions for this witness been concluded, Mr. Kelley?” The judge sighed.

“Yes sir, that was all, I think, yes,” Mr. Kelley said. Even though from the downcast look on his face, I don't imagine that they were.

Standing up and wiping a cloth across his shiny bald head, the judge told everyone that the next witness would have to wait until the court had some refreshments and its noonday meal. Although I daresay from the weary expressions on the faces of the judge and jury, none of them were very anxious to return to the Indian's trial again.

As we walked back to the cabin, Mrs. Evans huffed, “That miserable lawyer has nothing but lies in his mouth. Just full of outright lies. I don't see how he can stand up there and say those things to your Pa.”

I didn't breathe a word, but while we walked, I kept on wondering about Mr. Kelley's question. How could a man be running and shoot himself with his own gun?