Crooked River (16 page)

I couldn't imagine how Peter Kelley would convince the jury otherwise. Not if they were all like Mrs. Evans, who only believed what was right there in front of her, what she could see with her own two eyes.

When the court resumed in the afternoon and Peter Kelley took his place at the front of the cabin, you could have heard the trees growing, it was so still. I
think everyone was waiting to see who he would call to speak for his side and what evidence he would show. But I believe the crowd was downright startled when he stood up and called on Reverend Doan. What did he have to do with a murder trial?

Me and Laura watched as the small, frail man made his way to the front of our cabin, holding tightly to folks’ shoulders as he passed. Reverend Doan had preached the sermon at Ma's funeral, and the cold March wind had turned his lips almost blue, I remembered.

“Good afternoon, Reverend Doan,” Mr. Kelley said in a respectful voice after the minister was seated with the help of the sheriff. “You are a man of the cloth, correct?”

“I am.” The minister nodded solemnly.

Peter Kelley held up the same plain hatchet he had shown earlier and asked the minister if blacksmith Nichols had made it for him.

“He did.” Reverend Doan nodded again. “Yes.”

Some in the crowd mumbled that Reverend Doan was a half-witted old fool who wouldn't remember his own name if it was shown to him. Mr. Kelley didn't even give them a glance. He just studied a piece of paper in his hands until the room grew quiet again.

“I have only a few other questions for you, Reverend Doan,” the lawyer continued after a long pause. “Even though I know you are a religious man, I was wondering whether or not you are inclined to gamble from time to time?”

“Gamble?” Reverend Doan answered, in a surprised voice. “Certainly not.”

Some folks in the crowd snorted at the foolish question. They began to shuffle and move their feet impatiently, as if they figured Mr. Kelley was just pulling wool. Why in heaven's name was he asking such peculiar things? I wondered. What did gambling have to do with Indian John and the trial?

“Do you play cards?”

“No,” Reverend Doan answered. “I do not.”

Peter Kelley walked slowly across the room, gazing at the wood beams above his head. “But if one of your congregation members were to find a deck of cards in your coat—just imagine for a moment they did,” he rambled on. “Would they be right, because of those cards they found, to accuse you of being a gambler?”

The reverend straightened his shoulders and thrust his old chin in the air. “Certainly not. I'm not a gambler and I don't play cards.”

“But if they only believe exactly what the evidence shows, what is right in front of their eyes …” Mr. Kelley gave the jury a sideways look. Then if they found the deck of cards in your possession, wouldn't they think you were a—”

And suddenly I saw exactly what Peter Kelley was doing.

Augustus Root must have realized it, too, because he leaped out of his chair like a beech sprout on fire and hollered at the judge, “Stop this theatrical exhibition right this minute, Your Honor. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the Indian's trial. Nothing what-so-ever.”

Augustus Root's little foot stomped furiously on
the floor, and I grinned behind my hand. Laura ducked her head down and covered her mouth with her handkerchief, as if she was hiding a smile, too.

“Mr. Kelley,” the judge said sternly. “Do you have any more questions for the minister that are pertinent to this case?” The way he pronounced the word “pertinent” made it sound as if it bristled with thorns.

Mr. Kelley shook his head.

The judge turned to Mr. Root. “You?”

“Absolutely none.” Mr. Root glared.

The judge waved his arm. “The reverend is dismissed. You've made your point about the evidence, Mr. Kelley; proceed quickly with your last witness.”

The audience leaned forward.

“My last witness,” Peter Kelley said stubbornly, “is the Indian known as Indian John.”

When they brought Indian John to the front of the room, he was followed by a man I had never seen before. A fur cap sat on the man's head like an odd-looking crown, and a long piece of silver dangled from his ear. Peter Kelley said the stranger's name was John Bigson and he would put Indian John's words into English.

Around me, people whispered that the interpreter was a half-breed savage, part Ottawa, and no one should believe a word either Indian said. Strange to say, Peter Kelley never mentioned that he understood Indian John's words himself. So I figured he didn't want the crowd to know he did.

While Indian John was being sworn in by the sheriff, Augustus Root raised an objection with the judge. He said that he didn't think Indians believed
in the existence of God, so how could they be sworn to tell the truth on a Bible?

Peter Kelley answered sharply that Indians believed in their God as strongly as we believed in ours. I guess the judge must have taken Peter Kelley's side because he told Augustus Root that it was the truth that mattered, not the book. And if a Bible wasn't used, what book would Mr. Root suggest?

That made Mr. Root close his mouth fast and go back to his seat.

After Indian John answered the sheriff's questions, he was tied to the witness chair. I studied my checked apron. Tracing the pale edges of the apron squares with my finger, I tried not to look toward the front of the room. Someone had wiped the stripes from Indian John's face, perhaps it was Peter Kelley, and I was pleased to see that. But I didn't care to gawk and stare with the rest of the crowd.

After the sheriff finished, Peter Kelley walked to the front. From where I sat, I could see his shoulders rise up and then back down as he took a deep breath before he started.

“You have heard that the man who stands accused is called by the Indian name Amik.” Peter Kelley waved his arm in the direction of Indian John. “His father is Chief Ajijaak. Amik has a wife and two children and travels with a small band of Ojibbeways— or Chippewas, as you call them.”

I noticed that Peter Kelley's voice was full of nerves as he spoke. “It must be an awful hard thing to stand up there with his friend,” I whispered to Laura.

“Amik has been accused of murdering the trapper George Gibbs in March of this year,” the lawyer continued. “He has been held captive since the end of April inside this cabin, cruelly chained in the loft above our heads.”

The crowd grumbled about the word “cruelly.” I could see my Pa shaking his head at some of the other men sitting near the front.

Peter Kelley pushed on. “But, as you will hear, this Indian has never once harmed or murdered a white man. He is not guilty of breaking even the window glass of a white man's house. With his own words, he will describe for the jury what happened three months ago, in the month of March….”

And in a murmuring low voice, Indian John began to speak.

It was a curious feeling to hear the interpreter changing Indian John's words into English, and to be told that the murmuring sounds that didn't seem to have any meaning at all were talking about ordinary sorts of things like catching beaver and raccoon for pelts.

Peter Kelley told the interpreter to ask Indian John what happened to the traps he set on the Old River of Many Fish. “Where do you think those traps went?” he told the man to say.

After the interpreter spoke, Indian John's eyes moved slowly across the crowd in a way that made everyone uncomfortable. If you have ever seen the way hunters study the woods, sweeping their eyes across every tree branch and inch of ground—that's the way Indian John looked at the crowded room.

People started to murmur that perhaps he was
casting evil spirits with his eyes. “Stop him from staring at us like that,” one man hollered out. But then Indian John's eyes paused, and he raised his hand and pointed straight at someone in the crowd. I gasped. He was pointing at the miserable trapper called Granger.