Crooked River (18 page)

One of the jury men walked over and gave the sheriff a piece of paper, and the sheriff carried it to the judge. I don't recollect what the sheriff said, but I won't ever forget what Judge Noble did afterward. He looked at the jury men and told them to pronounce their verdict to the crowd.

My heart hammered in my chest.

Each of the twelve men stood up one by one. The Hoadley brothers slouched and grinned as they said, guilty, guilty. Vinegar Bigger took off his old hat, pressed it to his chest, and mumbled, guilty. Shoemaker Nash said, “In my true and impartial judgment—guilty.” Only Mr. Hawley paused a moment and looked out at the crowd before he said softly, “I believe he is guilty.”

Peter Kelley's voice nearly broke as he jumped up right after Mr. Hawley and shouted, “Your Honor, the counsel, please, requests a new trial. The jury hasn't fairly considered—”

But Judge Noble shook his head. “The good men of this jury”—he glanced toward the men—“under tremendous responsibility have duly weighed all of the evidence. They have deliberated carefully and
they have found the Indian called John Amik guilty of murder in the first degree—”

“But, Your Honor—” Peter Kelley's voice rose.

“Mr. Kelley—” the judge warned.

“The evidence was not—”

The judge leaned across his table. “Mr. Kelley,” his voice thundered. “The verdict has been decided. The defendant is guilty. And the sentence will now be read.”

As some of the men brought Indian John to stand in front of the judge, my ears throbbed and my head spun as if I would soon faint away.

The judge leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Indian John. “You, John Amik, have been found guilty of the crime of murder—do you understand that?” the judge said, and the interpreter, John Bigson, repeated the words. “The laws of God and man attach the penalty of death to the crime of murder.”

Indian John did not move.

The judge continued. “You, John Amik, are no longer fit to live with the white man, and it is my duty to tell you that your time is fixed upon this earth. The court will allow you little more than a week's time to prepare for another world and to receive one visit from a representative of your people.”

Standing up, the judge picked up a piece of paper and read in a loud voice, which echoed across the silent crowd. “It is therefore the sentence of this court that on the sixteenth day of June, about one week hence, between the hours of ten o'clock in the morning and noon, the Indian John Amik will be taken
thence to the place of execution and hanged about the neck until he is dead.”

And as the crowd stood and cheered around me and someone threw an egg at the front of Peter Kelley, I grabbed the cloth of my skirt in one hand, turned on my heels, and ran.

It was Amos who found me.

I could have run off when I heard his stumbling footsteps coming through the brush and his voice calling out my name. But I didn't. The light was fading through the woods, and I sat at the foot of a big tree with my knees drawn up to my chin. My dress was covered with scraps of leaves, and my face was raw from crying. If Amos found me, that was his business. If he didn't, I would stay where I was and let the sun rise and set, rise and set, until I turned into a pile of bones and dust.

“There you is,” Amos said in a peculiar voice when he turned his head and saw me. Walking over, he set his rifle on the ground and hunched down next to me. “Laura's worried sick.”

I didn't answer. Just kept my forehead resting on my knees, not looking up.

Putting Laura's cloak over my shoulders, Amos sighed and sat down. “I know you feel softhearted about that Indian, Reb. Ever since you was toddling around the house, you always been that way. Never wanted to see us butcher the hogs or kill one of the calves. But it ain't gonna bring you any good to be that way, you understand what I mean? You've got to grow up and learn to see things different.”

I didn't answer, just kept my head down.

Amos sighed again. I could hear him snapping little twigs between his fingers, one after another, as if he was thinking hard.

Without raising my head, I said, “He ain't guilty. I know he ain't guilty.”

Amos kept on snapping twigs. In an even voice, he answered, “Don't be so foolish as to suppose that Indian John—or any other one—wouldn't put a tomahawk in your head or mine if they had half the chance.”

“The witnesses lied,” I kept on, my voice rising. “Every last one of them lied. Me and Laura know the truth.” I didn't watch any of my words, just said whatever rolled off my tongue. I didn't care if I got in awful bad trouble with Pa. Or Amos either.

Amos sent a spit of tobacco at the ground. “Maybe they did lie and maybe they didn't. I don't know, Reb. But can't you see that it don't matter? Look at a wolf for instance—even if you knew a wolf had never kilt a sheep, would you let him stay in your sheep pen?”

“No,” I said fiercely, turning my eyes on Amos. “But I wouldn't kill him neither.”

Amos didn't answer, just snapped more twigs. Finally, he said, “What if seeing what happens to Indian John sends the rest of the Indians out of here for good and leaves us to live in peace? Wouldn't you rather live that way, Reb, instead of always fearing the Indians—always worrying whether or not you or Mercy were going to be carried off and kilt?”

“The Indians was on this land before us,” I said, thinking of that arrowhead I found and Peter Kelley's stories of the Chippewas fishing on the river where he grew up.

“And that makes all this land theirs?” Amos stared hard at me. “That what you think, Reb? That we ought to give the Indians all this land that we cleared and planted and paid for?”

“I don't know,” I answered stubbornly. “Perhaps.”

“Get up,” Amos said sharply. “I'm tired of your nonsense.” He tossed his handful of sticks away and stood up. “Get up and brush yourself off, Rebecca, or I swear I will carry you back to the house over my shoulder. I don't want to say another word to you. Not one word.”

Amos was as strong as an ox and he could have carried me all the way home like a sack of grain if he had a mind to. So, I didn't have no choice but to get up and follow him.

The woods were nearly dark as we tramped along the narrow, overgrown path. I could hear wolves howling in the distance, and Amos kept his gun at the ready, not saying a word. I followed a few steps behind him, and he kept turning and checking all the time to see that I was still there.

In my mind, I knew I could not stand by and watch as my wretched Pa and the other men hanged a man who wasn't guilty of anything except being an Indian. I would run off back to the East. I would go back to Ma's old family in Vermont.

Let them try to find me.

Ma always used to say, “It is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong.” But it seemed to me that suffering a wrong, when you hadn't done anything wrong, was worse.

I couldn't forget the most awful sad look that crossed Peter Kelley's face as the verdict was read. And I wondered how Indian John must feel, being sentenced to die for a murder that he didn't carry out.

Perhaps it was better to do wrong than suffer wrong.

And right then, as I stumbled on a root in the dark woods, the smallest idea began to flicker inside me. What if I, Rebecca Ann Carver, did something terribly wrong to help someone who was innocent? The skin on my neck prickled at the thought.

What if I went against my Pa and Amos and all the men in the settlement who believed Indians were nothing but murderous savages? What if I freed Indian John before the hanging and let him escape?

I tugged the cloak tighter around my shoulders.

Perhaps that was what I would do.