Crooked River

by Shelley Pearsall

  “I said—it ain't one of mine,” Nichols warned.

  “This one?” Mr. Kelley held up another plain hatchet, and the blacksmith didn't even look at it. Just kept his eyes on Mr. Kelley's face and said, “It ain't mine.”

  “How about this one? Certainly you will recognize this one.” Mr. Kelley held up another tomahawk. It was striped with scorch marks like Indian John's pipe tomahawk, but it had two silver bands around it and a pewter-looking piece on the end of the handle. “Tell the jury which Indian this belongs to, Mr. Nichols. Certainly you remember.”

  My heart thudded inside me as I watched Nichols's face grow darker by the minute.

  “Perhaps you'll remember the owner of this one—”

  As Mr. Kelley reached for another tomahawk, the blacksmith jumped up suddenly and raged, “I ain't answering no more of your questions, you skinny little cuss.” The judge stood up and pounded his mallet, but Nichols didn't pay it any mind.

  “Maybe I don't know every damn savage I made a tomahawk for,” he roared in Mr. Kelley's drawn and fearful face. “But sure as the devil is in hell, I know the one I made for that savage.” He pointed at Indian John. “And I dare—DARE—any man in this room to call me a liar to my face,” he bellowed. “You go on and have your court of fools—but I'm done answering questions. DONE.” He plowed through the crowd of people, pushing a woman and a little toddling child out of his path as he thundered out of our cabin.

  After the door closed behind him, the whole room was as still as the woods after a windstorm. The only sound was the rain hammering down on the roof shingles.

  “The court calls a rest for an hour,” the judge said, breaking the silence. “And we shall discuss how to continue with the testimony—”

  I think everyone was startled when Mr. Kelley spoke up.

  “No. No,” he said, walking toward the judge. “Proceed with the next witness.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door. “My questions for the blacksmith were complete. I only wanted to point out”— Mr. Kelley glanced at the jury men—“the outright lies and untruths in Mr. Nichols's testimony about the tomahawk, Your Honor.” He said the words “lies and untruths” loud enough and slow enough for everybody in the whole room to hear. The other lawyer jumped up to raise an objection to Peter Kelley's statement, but the judge held up a hand to silence him. “No,” he said, impatiently. “We will just proceed. …”

  As the judge wrote something down, I could hear an angry hum fill the room. It sounded like a nest of bees. I don't think anyone was too pleased with the new direction the trial had suddenly taken. Or with the words “lies and untruths.”

  In front of us, Mr. Perry swore loudly. “If they find that savage innocent, I'll take up my gun and kill him myself. You jist watch me.” Heads nodded all around him.

  My mind tossed and turned, trying to understand what I'd heard. Blacksmith Nichols had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, hadn't he? I remembered his big hand resting on the judge's Bible and all of his fierce nods and “yes sir's.” But I couldn't see how he was able to recollect Indian John's tomahawk clearly and none of the others. And why had Peter Kelley's questions sent him into a wild rage? Was his whole story nothing but lies?

  Up in the front of the hearth, the third witness sank down in the chair. He appeared to be about the age of my Pa, but he was more scrawny. One of his thin shoulders stuck up higher than the other, which gave him an odd, crooked appearance.

  The judge's voice called for order. “We will now hear the testimony of Mr. Ezra Phelps,” he announced. “Mr. Root, you may begin your questions.”

  i stare at the man

  who sits

  in the talking chair.

  he is well known to me.

  five summers ago

  he came from a distant place

  to fish in our rivers

  and hunt in our woodlands

  and feed his children

  on that which

  was not given to him.

  when he talks

  the crooked

  gichi-mookomaan

  speaks from three sides

  of his mouth

  at once.

  friend, he calls us.

  friend.

  but his words roll

  like logs in

  white water.

  didibin, didibin,

  didibin,

  roll, roll,

  roll,

  his words

  roll with

  lies.

  “Mr. Phelps, you and your family live on the other side of the Crooked River, am I right?” Augustus Root said, beginning his questions with a too-wide smile.

  The witness bobbed his head in a way that reminded me of eggs in a kettle of boiling water and gave him a polite, yes sir.

  “And you have lived there for about five years?”

  The witness nodded again. “Got ten acres in corn,” he said.

  “And you found the dead trapper? Correct?”

  “Yes sir,” the witness said, sitting up straighter. “Me and my son Asa done found that dead trapper one morning at the edge of one of our cornfields.”

  “What morning was it?”

  Mr. Phelps rolled his eyes upward. “Now, let's see if I can recollect. It was somewhere 'long about the end of March. A Tuesday morning, I believe, because—yes”—he looked at someone in the crowd— “that's right, my wife was washing clothes and she mostly does her washing on Tuesdays.”

  “Could you describe what you and your son saw?”

  “Well, now.” Mr. Phelps scratched his cheek and eyed the crowded room nervously. “Judge, I don't want to frighten all them women and children setting out there. It weren't a pretty sight what I saw.”

  The judge sighed. “The observers will bear that in mind. Continue on.”

  “Well, the body was lying facedown in the snow,” the witness said slowly. “The tomahawk was stuck there in its head. Jist like, you know—” The man paused and blinked at the crowd. “Well, I'm real sorry for describing this, but, well, it had cleaved off part of the scalp,” he said. “And from what we could see, it done tore out a narrow piece of the poor man's skull—”

  I could hear a dozen or more “Lord have mercy's” echo through the cabin. One old woman slipped out the door, holding a handkerchief to her mouth.

  Laura reached over and squeezed my hand. “You want to go on outside?” she whispered. I shook my head no, even though I did.

  The man paused and spoke louder, as if he was trying to stir things up. “There was a river of dried blood all down the man's back and it had even pooled up in the snow. Me and my son nearly keeled over sick at the sight. Didn't we, Asa?” The witness bobbed his head at his son, who seemed to be sitting in the middle of the crowd.

  “Did you know who the murderer was?” Mr. Root asked.

  “Yessir, I did, right away.” The man's head bobbed up and down again.

  “How did you know that?”

  “The tomahawk. Once I saw that tomahawk, I knowed.”

  The lawyer folded his arms and smiled a little at the jury. “And who did that tomahawk belong to?”

  Mr. Phelps turned and pointed at Indian John. “That Indian right over there. He always wore it stuck in a red sash around his waist. I seen it a hundred times if I seen it once.”

  I shook my head. Deciding who was telling the truth was like chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.

  Augustus Root continued. “Anything else that you saw?”

  “Well.” The witness squinted. “We seen tracks in the snow all around the body. Lotsa tracks, like it weren't just one Indian who had set upon him with the tomahawk.”

  “Who did the tracks belong to? Did you know?”

  The witness leaned back. “Yes, I did,” he said slowly. “It weren't no trick to figure out whose tracks they was. There was three sets—two full-grown and one young. Since we knowed that the tomahawk belonged to him”—Mr. Phelps gestured toward Indian John again—“and since we knowed he
always traveled with two other Indians, then we knowed 'zactly whose tracks they was. Weren't no trick to figure out Indian John was the one who kilt the trapper.”

  Mr. Phelps took a deep gulp of air and wiped his ragged sleeve across his face when he finished.

  “No more questions.” Augustus Root grinned and puffed out his chest.

  Fool-headed old rooster.

  “Mr. Kelley,” the judge said. “Any questions?”

  “Just two,” Peter Kelley answered. He walked toward the witness, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “How deep was the snow?” he asked.

  Mr. Phelps blinked. “Snow?”

  “You said there was snow,” Mr. Kelley repeated slowly, as if the witness was half-witted. “How deep was it?”

  “Well now, I don't recollect things like that,” Mr. Phelps stammered. “That was about three months ago. It was winter; we always got snow. Maybe it was six or eight inches deep. Maybe ten. Don't see what the snow has got to do with nothing.”

  Truth to speak, I couldn't see why Peter Kelley was asking about the snow either. Who could remember how deep the snow was on a particular day in March, and what did it matter?

  “You said you saw tracks in the snow,” Mr. Kelley continued. “Could you describe them for us, Mr. Phelps?”

  The witness grinned widely. “I think most folks 'round here has seen moccasin tracks before, ain't they? Just picture a bunch of Indian tracks traipsed around in the snow.”

  “But I'm not sure I know what they look like,” Mr. Kelley persisted. He frowned at the witness as if he was awful confused. “Could you describe what you saw for me?”

  And suddenly, in a flash, I knew why he was being so curious about tracks and snow. Snowshoes. I cast a sideways look at Laura, and she gave me a half smile before turning away.

  “You daft or what?” the witness said, shaking his head and setting the crowd to chuckling. He moved his hands in the air. “It's just a soft print like a foot, only without toes—like a footprint without toes.” He smirked at Mr. Kelley “Anything else 'bout Indians you want to know, Mr. Lawyer?”

  “Just one more thing,” Mr. Kelley said, rubbing the end of his nose. “Were you wearing your boots that morning you found the trapper? Do you recall?”

  “Well, we warn't tiptoeing around barefoot, I can tell you that.” Mr. Phelps rolled his eyes, and the crowd snickered.

  “So if you were wearing boots …” Mr. Kelley paused as if he was putting all of the pieces together. “Why were the Indians wearing moccasins in the snow?”

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering why you saw moccasin prints, Mr. Phelps. Don't you think that the Indians would have been wearing snowshoes, like this one?” Mr. Kelley reached for something below his chair and then held up the exact snowshoe me and Laura had seen before. A strange silence fell over the room. “Don't Indians wear snowshoes in the winter months?” he kept on.

  The air in the cabin was heavy and still. You could tell folks were listening, even though they didn't like what they were hearing one bit. I figure most of the men must have known that Peter Kelley was right— that there should have been snowshoe prints, not moccasin ones, in the snow.

  “I don't know—” Mr. Phelps stuttered and stumbled. A red flush crept up his neck, as if he was being slowly boiled inside. “I ain't sure, perhaps, I think maybe they was snowshoes, yes, I reckon they were.”

  “But you said you saw moccasin prints, didn't you? A footprint without toes?” Mr. Kelley repeated. “That's what you said.”

  The witness squirmed. “Now that I think—I'm sure they was snowshoes.”

  Mr. Kelley moved toward the witness chair. “Why don't you tell the jury the truth?” The lawyer's voice was low and angry. My heart pounded, fearing what would happen next.

  “Tell them that you saw one set of snowshoes in the snow, Mr. Phelps.” Mr. Kelley's voice rose. “One set of prints, not a whole band of Indians. One Indian—”

  “I tol’ you everything I know,” the witness hollered.

  The judge hammered his gavel sharply on the table. “You've had your try with this witness, Mr. Kelley. Return to your seat and leave well enough alone.”

  As Mr. Phelps got up, he shouted at the room, “Me and my family don't have nothing 'gainst Indians long as they stay in their place. And no matter what that Indian lawyer says, we done told you the gospel truth.”

  A lot of folks in the crowd clapped as the witness made his crooked, half-limping walk back to his seat. But I don't know why they clapped for him when they must have known, sure as I did, that he was outright lying. That he hadn't seen moccasin tracks, and maybe he hadn't seen any real tracks at all. Not a soul clapped for Peter Kelley sitting down, and it seemed to me he was the only one who was trying to find out the truth.

  Up in front, Augustus Root called out in an easy voice, “Your Honor, my last witness is a trapper who was friends with the murdered man. He's setting outside waiting, if you'd like me to fetch him.”

  “Bring him in.” The judge nodded.

  But when the last witness walked into the cabin, dripping water from his hat, I know that my whole face must have turned as white as a cake of salt.

  It was the same wretched, vulgar trapper who had once come to our door.

  “Why's he here?” I hissed to Laura, but she shook her head.

  “Mr. Granger,” Augustus Root said loudly after the trapper was sworn in. “Please tell us of your acquaintance with the dead man, if you would.”

  The trapper's eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. He coughed a little and wiped his sleeve across his nose. “Me and the dead trapper Gibbs, we was good friends, that's what we was. Been hunting and trapping together for years,” he added.

  I squeezed my fingers together. I remembered the sixpence the trapper had tried to give to me. A sixpence to see the savage you got, he had said, and he hadn't breathed a word about the dead trapper being his friend.

  Augustus Root kept on. “You weren't there the night he was killed?”

  “Nossir. I was visiting a relation of mine.”

  “But you saw his body after Mr. Phelps found it?”

  “Yessir.” The trapper's eyes skipped over toward the jury. “It were an awful dreadful sight,” he added slowly and loudly.

  The lawyer looked closely at the trapper. “Didn't you find something near the body of your friend that day?”

  My skin prickled.

  Something near the body…

  I remembered how the trapper had run from our house with something hidden in his hand. Something he had taken from us. Or from Indian John.

  In the front of the room, the trapper reached into his coat. “This here is what I found.” He coughed. “It was laying in the snow right next to the dead body of Gibbs.”

  Everyone stood up to see what he held. The floor creaked beneath the weight of boots and feet. Clambering onto the chest, I could see that the trapper held the same brown twist of paper I remembered.

  Only it wasn't paper.

  “You can tell for yourselves it came right from that savage's head,” the trapper crowed. “Look at it.”

  It was a brown hawk's feather.

  I wanted to holler that the miserable trapper had stolen the feather from this very cabin. That I had seen it in his hand when we ran him out the door. That he was telling nothing but lies.

  But as I stood on the top of the chest and gazed over the heads of all of the people crowded into our house, I could see that folks believed every word the trapper was saying. A whole roomful of bonnets and hats nodded. How could I open my mouth to tell them what I had seen? What would my Pa do to me if I did?

  My voice stuck fast in my throat and wouldn't confess a word.

  “Sit down,” Laura said, tugging on my hand. “Sit down, Reb. The judge is starting again.”

  “That trapper stole the feather from Indian John,” I hissed as I clambered down from the chest. “It wasn't in the snow—I saw it in his hand wh
en you ran him out the door. Somebody's got to tell the judge what the trapper's done—” My voice rose above a whisper, and Mrs. Hoadley turned to stare at us from the depths of her old green bonnet.

  “You hush.” Laura dug her fingers into my arm. “You just sit here and listen and keep quiet.”

  “Didn't you see that feather in his hand?”

  “You want to face Pa and his wrath?”

  “Did you see it?” I kept on.

  Laura looked away. “No,” she whispered. “Don't ask me again, no.”

  I ducked my head down as stinging tears rose up in my eyes. I didn't want Indian John to be kilt because of me, because I didn't breathe a word about the trapper's lies. If Indian John was kilt, maybe it would be my debt to pay in heaven. …

  In the front, Peter Kelley stood up to ask Mr. Granger his questions. He gave the trapper a long, silent stare. It was so long that folks started to shift in their seats and whisper, “What's the matter with him?”

  I started to hope that maybe Peter Kelley knew exactly what I did—that the trapper had stolen the brown feather. Perhaps Indian John had told him the story or he had guessed it for himself.

  “You a God-fearing man, Mr. Granger?” Peter Kelley said to the trapper.

  “Yessir, I am.”

  “You always tell the truth when you swear on the Bible?”

  “Yessir, I do.”

  “Did you ever visit Indian John while he was a prisoner in this cabin?”

  I drew in my breath and Laura gave me a fierce stare, warning me not to say a word.

  “Nossir,” the trapper answered.

  I shook my head, and Laura pinched my arm. Hard. “Stop that,” she warned.

  Peter Kelley's voice was low and angry. “Are you certain?” He gestured toward the crowd. “I think there are a few people who might have seen you visiting here.”

  Laura gasped, and my face felt suddenly warm. Was Peter Kelley going to call on us?

  The trapper shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced out at the crowd. “Come to think of it,” he said, coughing, “it was a while ago, but maybe I did.”