Crooked River by Shelley Pearsall

of the sun. And his black robes hung in loose folds around him.
    When we reached the edge of the crowd, the judge was talking to someone sitting on the right side of him in what seemed to be the witness chair.
    The man was dressed in a dark suit of clothes, and he had a good brown hat resting in his lap.
    It gave me a start to realize that the man sitting there, being spoken to by the judge himself, was my very own Pa.

Mrs. Evans caught sight of us and waved us over to a row where she was sitting. “Your Pa's up there testifying to the truth right now,” she hollered out, loud as an old crow, and my cheeks flushed when people's heads turned to stare.
    As we sat down next to Mrs. Evans, we heard the judge say that the jury would now hear the testimony of the witness, Major Lorenzo Carver.
    I saw Augustus Root stand up and move toward my Pa. He was a lawyer from the East who had been living in our settlement for nearly two years. But I must confess, me and Laura never took much of a liking to him. Mr. Root seemed to think more highly of himself than a person should and was terribly fond of listening to the sound of his own voice.
    He was also the only man we knew who stilldressed in knee breeches and stockings. And truth to speak, Mr. Root's legs were nothing to look at neither. Scrawny old bird legs in white stockings. When no one was around, me and Laura called him Rooster Root on account of his legs and his peculiar habit of puffing out his chest when he spoke.
    “Tell us, Major Carver,” he said, moving in quick steps toward the witness chair. “Tell us in your own words exactly what happened in regards to the Indian we have brought before us this morning.”
    “Well, now.” My Pa gazed at Mr. Root and answered slowly. “I think you and everybody else on the jury knows exactly what happened. I don't need to go and repeat all the details, do I, Augustus?” He looked out at the crowd. “We all live 'round here and we ain't the kinds to keep secrets, is we?”
    But I could tell that the judge was none too pleased with this answer. His shoulders rose up so his robe was almost touching his ears, and he leaned forward to stare at my Pa in the witness chair.
    “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 anybodystand 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