Crooked River by Shelley Pearsall Page B

his table. “Your questions, Mr. Kelley.”
    As Mr. Kelley stood up and walked toward the witness stand, it seemed that a dark cloud was cast over the sun and the air got suddenly colder. Folks leaned back and crossed their arms as if they had caught a chill. I heard a loud whispering start up all around me. Maybe the judge heard it, too, because he gave the crowd a long, sweeping stare.
    “Mr. Kelley,” he repeated loudly. “According to the law, it is now your turn to question the witness, Major Carver—as he is popularly known.”
    My heart pounded as young Mr. Kelley walked slowly toward my Pa's chair.
    One time, we had a little brown dog who was kilt one morning trying to fight off a wild bear. If you have ever seen that happen, you know the sickening feeling that comes from watching the terrible scene unfold and being helpless to do a thing about it. That's exactly how I felt as Mr. Kelley stood in front of my Pa.
    “Mr.—Major Carver,” Peter Kelley said, in a voice that was full of nerves. “You say you were told—or, well, heard—that three Indians were responsible for this crime, correct?”
    “Yessir,” my Pa shot back. “That's what I said.”
    “So, you didn't see the dead man yourself?”
    My Pa leaned forward ominously, and just out of pure habit, I moved back in my seat. “You trying to tell me that the poor trapper weren't dead?” he said real low.
    Peter Kelley's face turned a shade of red, and he stumbled over his answer. “I'm only trying to find out what you saw so the jury knows exactly—”
    “I don't need to see a dead man to know he's dead,” my Pa spat.
    From behind them came the judge's voice. “Answer the question, Mr. Carver. Did you see the dead man with your own eyes?”
    “No.”
    “The witness says no,” the judge repeated, giving Peter Kelley a stern, fatherly sort of look. “Move on to your next question.”
    I could see the lawyer's shoulders go up and down as he took in a trembling breath of air. He shuffled through the papers in his hand, and whenhe started up again, it seemed to me that he spoke with a trifle more courage and conviction.
    “Would you describe the three Indians you tried to catch?”
    “There was two grown Indians and one real young boy, maybe seven or eight years of age.”
    “And what happened to them?”
    “Well, the boy run off from us before we could catch him. We were told by that Indian”—Pa motioned toward Indian John—“that the boy was known by the name of Semo.”
    when I hear the name Semo
,
    i laugh
    inside my mouth.
    the men who caught me
    wanted the name
    of the young Indian
    who ran.
    i told them
    Se Mo.
    shame and dirt.
    the gichi-mookomaanag
    wandered in the woods
    for hours
    calling out
    shame and
    dirt. shame
    and dirt.
    while my son
    Little Otter
,
    slipped away.
    inside my mouth
,
    i laugh.

“Pardon me?” Mr. Kelley said, and I saw his eyes dart over to Indian John.
    “I said SE-MO,” Pa spat. “You listenin’ or not?”
    There was a peculiar silence before Peter Kelley continued. His eyes flickered in the direction of Indian John again and then he coughed a little and returned to his questions. “And what do you remember about the other two Indians?” he said.
    “The other Indian was older. He run off before we caught him and shot himself with his own gun.”
    Mr. Kelley squinted at Pa, as if he was pretending to be confused. “While he was running, you say? He shot and killed himself with his own gun?” You could tell by the way his voice rose that he didn't believe a word my Pa said.
    Mr. Root leaped up to shout an objection and thejudge leaned across the table. “Mr. Kelley,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “This is a case about a dead trapper, not a dead Indian, am I correct?”
    Mr. Kelley nodded and repeated his apologies twice. Around us, everyone seemed impatient to move and the children in the back were fussing loudly. A man in the crowd stood up and hollered something about Mr.