Crooked River (19 page)

As I sat by the hearth the next morning, the question of whether to free Indian John spun around and around in my head. To defy my Pa and my settlement—and perhaps even the whole state of Ohio—seemed an act of madness. And what if I was caught? The punishment for setting a prisoner free was something I could not even bring myself to imagine. No one, not even Laura, would ever forgive me for doing such a thing.

I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn't even hear the soft knock on our cabin door. Laura was the one who called my name and waved her arm impatiently. Her hands were dripping wet from washing Mercy's mop of hair. “Go on,” she said. “Reb, go on and answer the door.”

Outside, I was struck speechless to see Peter Kelley
and an Indian woman waiting in our dooryard. The Indian woman was nearly as tall as Peter Kelley, and she stood to one side of him, leaving a wide space between them. Clusters of small tin cones dangled from her ears, and strings of colored necklaces hung from her neck like webs.

I stared at her as if she was a spirit come to life.

“I have brought Rice Bird, Amik's wife,” Peter Kelley said in a voice that seemed close to tears. The woman's hands tightened on the white blanket she wore around her shoulders, but she did not look up. “Could we”—Peter Kelley's voice wavered—“come in for a moment to pay a visit to Amik?”

As they stepped into our house, Laura came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. “Rebecca and I are filled with sorrow and pity about what happened at the trial,” she stammered. “Truly we are.”

Peter Kelley didn't answer Laura at first. He looked down at his feet, as if he was thinking hard about something.

“I never believed the trial would end as it did,” he said finally. “In the depths of my soul, I didn't. I thought that they would be fair, even with an Indian man. But I have learned something this week, Miss Carver.” He glanced at Laura. “I have learned that all of the lawyers, and all of the courts, and all of the judges in the world will never change the hearts of men.”

“Mine was changed,” I said stubbornly.

Laura added that hers was, too.

But Peter Kelley just shook his head and didn't answer a word.

Turning to Rice Bird, he gestured at the steps to the loft, and she moved softly toward the stairway. It seemed that she didn't so much walk as float, like a lonely autumn leaf blowing across the floor, that's what she looked like to me.

Peter Kelley followed a few steps behind her. The hopeless way they appeared—the Indian woman by herself and Peter Kelley with his downcast shoulders—brought tears to my eyes.

As Rice Bird reached the loft, a dreadful sad wail began.

Me and Laura had to leave the cabin. We carried Mercy all the way to the springhouse and rolled a clay marble on a square of dirt, back and forth to her. Even from that distance, you could still hear the mournful, wailing cries of Rice Bird, and it was enough to break your own heart to listen to them.

When Peter Kelley said goodbye to us that day, I knew we would never see the likes of him again. As Rice Bird waited at the edge of the woods, with her back turned toward us, he made his way to where we stood by the springhouse. Even little Mercy was still and silent, watching him.

“I wanted to tell you before I left that I was grateful,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “For what you did. Even in spite of your own Pa. Even in spite of all the others. For showing some human decency and kindness”—he waved his arm in the direction of the house, and his voice broke—“to him.”

Seemed like none of us knew what to answer. We looked away as Peter Kelley wiped his arm across his eyes.

Finally, Laura spoke. “Rebecca took him all the food and such. She's the most softhearted one.”

“Bird Eyes,” Peter Kelley said, looking up and smiling in the smallest way.

“What?” I replied.

Peter Kelley pointed at me. “Bird Eyes—for your quick, darting eyes.” Then he turned to Laura. “Tall Girl Who Follows,” he said. “That's what Amik calls each of you.”

I had never thought of myself as being anything but plain and ordinary Rebecca Carver. Nothing worth noticing. To think that Indian John had given me a name when no one else called me anything much more than fool-headed and addle-brained made my insides ache. And how did he know that Laura was Tall Girl Who Follows? That she had been that way ever since Ma died. That she had stepped right into Ma's own footprints and left her own.

What had we given to Indian John? That's what my mind asked. I had left him foolish acorns and ribbons and paltry small things. When Pa wasn't watching, Laura had tried to give him extra helpings of our food. None of it amounted to very much.

“Isn't there something more that can be done?” Laura's voice rose. “With the judge or the laws, perhaps?”

Peter Kelley rubbed his eyes. “I would give away everything I have if I could save Amik. Everything I have,” he said in a voice choked with tears. “Amik believes the thunder will save him. On the day of the hanging. The thunder,” he cried, sweeping his arm
toward the sky. “What could I tell him? I couldn't say that it wouldn't. I couldn't tell him that there isn't a thing that can be done for him. Not one thing to save him.”

Peter Kelley put on his hat and turned away. “Thank you again,” he whispered over his shoulder, and was gone.

If I was hoping that Peter Kelley would find a way to save Indian John, my hope was lost with him. As I watched his narrow shoulders and ill-fitting coat disappear into the woods, I had to brush the stinging tears out of my own eyes. I didn't dare to look over at Laura. She ran toward the cabin without a word, leaving Mercy and me behind.

Fine.

That's what I thought as I stood in the silence.

A thirteen-year-old girl without much courage or brains would go ahead by herself and find a way to free Indian John. Maybe the thunder couldn't save him, but I could. I would save the life of Amik, no matter what harm came to me.

That's what I decided.

The idea for freeing Indian John came from a most unlikely place.

My brother Lorenzo.

A few days later, Lorenzo was sitting at the supper table, talking loudly with Cousin George and Amos. “You know what?” he was saying. “Me and Benjamin Evans climbed up and carved our names on that Indian's gallows yesterday morning.”

I stopped my work near the hearth to listen.

“You know the gallows where they is going to hang the Indian, Amos?” Lorenzo kept on babbling. “That's right where me and Ben put our names. Right up there.” He grinned. “All the boys is carving their names on the gallows. Never had a real Indian hanged here before, have we?” Lorenzo shoveled more pork and beans into his miserable mouth. “You
gonna climb up there and carve your name, too, Amos, huh?”

“No.” Amos shook his head while Lorenzo jabbered on.

“How 'bout you, George?”

George shrugged. “Don't know. Mebbe.”

“You know that the hanging rope is already up there on the scaffold, George. It's three ropes twisted together, did you know that, George?” Lorenzo said. “So it won't break when he falls.”

I caught my breath.

Break when he falls.

All this time, I had been trying to think of a way to free the irons that held Indian John in the loft. I didn't see how I could work them loose with my own small hands, not without a blacksmith, and even if I did manage to free Amik, I didn't know how he would ever escape from the loft without being seen.

Now a different sort of idea had come to me, though. What if I climbed onto the gallows and cut the rope to pieces? Or perhaps not cut it to pieces, but just enough for it to break when Indian John was hanged? Maybe he could escape into the woods surrounding the settlement and run. If I cut that big rope and folks weren't expecting him to fall, he might just get away before anyone realized what had been done.

But how could I slip onto the gallows without being seen?

From what Pa and the boys said, I guessed that the men had built the gallows on the open square next to Mr. Perry's store. But two taverns and
Nichols's blacksmith shop stood just on the other side of the street, a short ways down from the store.

So, if I climbed onto the gallows, I would be within eyesight of any soul passing down Water Street. A girl climbing a hanging scaffold in her dress and bonnet would surely catch everyone's attention. Unless—I stepped back so quickly from the hearth that I nearly knocked over Mercy, who was standing behind my skirts—unless the girl was dressed as a boy.

I looked closely at my brother as he kept on talking through his food. “That big rope would kill just about anybody, don't you think so, George?” he rattled on.

I wasn't much taller than Lorenzo or Benjamin Evans, and my legs and arms were just about as stick-thin. If I wore some of Lorenzo's clothes and one of his hats with my hair hidden underneath and climbed the gallows in the early morning, when everything was cast in shadows … perhaps no one would pay me any mind.

The rest of the evening, I rolled the idea over and over in my head. It was a plan with more things that could go wrong than right. But after several days of thinking, it was the only idea that I had.