Crooked River by Shelley Pearsall Page A

trapper named Gibbs had been found dead—kilt by Indians at the end of March.”
    “And where was the trapper found?”
    “Other side of Crooked River.” Pa waved his arm as if he was standing right on the river's edge. “Over there, the western side.”
    “And what did you do after hearing about the dead trapper?”
    “Well,” Pa said, sending a hard spit of tobacco to the ground. “I got all my men together, maybe ten of us there was, and we went 'cross the river at the end of April to hunt for the three Indians who done it.”
    “I see.” Mr. Root nodded slowly and rubbed his chin, as if he was pretending to think hard. “You say Indians did this,” he repeated. “But how did you know that for certainty, Major Carver?”
    “Whether or not Indians kilt the trapper, you mean?”
    “Yes.” Mr. Root nodded solemnly.
    Pa gave a little snort. “He had an Indian tomahawk stuck into his skull, that's how.” He paused and added, “Reckon that would kill jist about anybody, now wouldn't it?”
    A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd and the judge leaned forward to say something. But before he did, Mr. Root hurried on with his next question.
    “How did you know which particular Indians did it?”
    “Folks around here and over there told us,” Pa said. “They ain't dumb.”
    “What folks?”
    “Do I gotta go and name them all?” Pa scowled. “I ain't got all year to set here for this trial.”
    “Just a few of them,” Mr. Root insisted, taking out his folded handkerchief again. “If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Carver, please.”
    “I'll see if I can recollect them all,” Pa answeredwith a loud sigh. “We talked to blacksmith Nichols, who made the Indian's tomahawk… the man who found the fellow dead on his land … 'nother trapper who hunted with the dead man… a fellow whose barn got burnt down by the same Indians last summer …,” he said, counting them one by one on his fingers as if to show how many there were.
    “And all of them told you the same thing?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “What was it that they told you, exactly?”
    “That the murder had been done by three particular Indians who had been giving them trouble for a while.”
    “Three Indians,” Mr. Root repeated loudly.
    My Pa nodded. “One of which”—he pointed—“is sitting over there.”
    The crowd hushed as everybody leaned forward to look in the direction of Indian John, who was seated in a chair near the front. I was pleased that his chair didn't face the crowd. All anybody could get a glimpse of was the back of his head and the brown cloth of his plain shirt. The white blanket that I had often seen folded next to him in the loft was draped over his left shoulder. Only the judge and jury could see the fierce stripes that my Pa made.
    “When you say ‘trouble,’ of what sort do you mean?” continued Mr. Root.
    Pa leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “Augustus, you know as well as me that we have been bothered by these hostile, savage Indians for years. I don't got to name all the troubles they cause.” He spit loudly and wiped his mouth with theback of his hand. “We try to clear our land, plant our fields, raise our families in peace, and they kill our women and children, steal our food, burn down our barns. Ain't no secret who's doing it if you live around here.”
    Folks all around me were nodding and agreeing as if it had happened to every last one of them. To be truthful, I didn't know anybody it had happened to. Nobody in the Crooked River settlement had ever been kilt by Indians. Not in my memory. Only thing I had ever heard were stories from other places.
    “Enough,” the judge said loudly, pinning a glare on Pa and Augustus Root.
    “Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Root said quickly. “That's all.”
    There were some hoots and shouts from the men in the crowd, but I couldn't tell the meaning exactly. Regardless, the judge didn't appear to pay them any mind. He just turned toward the other side of