I WAKE EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, so I decide to put the time to good use before I’m due to go see Mr. Osterman. I’m fishing for trout in the creek at a good spot I know upstream from the mill. It’s chilly this early, but the sun is shining and you can feel spring just around the corner. After a few minutes I feel a big tug on my line. I see a brown back fin crest before the fish swims back down into the water, taking my line with him. He’s big, maybe a five-pounder. I give him his head for a bit, then slowly I reel him in, feeling for just the right amount of tension to keep him on the hook. When he gets close to the shore, he gets an inkling that he’s being played and makes a run for it. I know that’s my do-or-die moment, so I give the line a big yank—and pull the trout right up onto the shore. He’s flopping around in the grass like a demon before I take a rock and end it for him.
“He’s a beaut!”
I spin around, taken by surprise. Who should be sauntering along a deer path but Joe Hampton. He’s got a fishing pole with him that must have belonged to his pa—the Indians usually use traps and spears to fish.
“Mind if I join you?” he says.
I am not in a position to say no—neither of our families claims this stretch of the creek, and in fact we are closer to his shack than to our cabin.
“Suit yourself,” I say.
He digs in the bank for a worm, which he hooks and then casts into the water. We sit in the grass twenty feet from each other, tugging at our lines, listening to birds sing. I am dying for him to tell me about what happened with his tillicums across the border. He stays quiet, making me speak first.
“When did you get back?”
“Couple of days ago.”
He falls back into silence. I see he means to make me work for crumbs of information. I decide to surprise him with some of my own.
“I hear the Canadian Government has been calming your people down.”
“If you mean they sent an Indian agent in, that’s true. Patrick McTiernan. But he came because the 
asked him to come.”
I don’t like his attitude, like he’s always got the upper hand.
“So are they attacking or not?” I challenge him.
“We thought about it. There was something like two hundred people there. We talked all day and all night about what should be done. Some people thought we should come across the border and hang the first sixty-five Americans we came across, that that would be a nice round number to even the score for an innocent boy hanged. But most people thought it would be enough to take the first white man we found, carry him back to the hanging tree where Louie Sam died and string him up. An eye for an eye.”
At that moment I get another bite on my line. I pull it up. It’s only a catfish, but I’m glad that the business of landing it gives me a reason to turn my face away from Joe, because the picture of two hundred angry Indians coming over the border to hang sixty-five of us, or even one of us, is giving me the willies. I keep my back to Joe as I crouch down to unhook the fish.
“So what did the Indian agent say to that?”
“He wasn’t big on that idea,” says Joe. “He wanted us to think twice about starting a feud that could wind up in a full-fledged war. Even though it’s plain as the nose on your face that we didn’t start it.”
“So how was it left then?”
“There was one thing that everybody could agree on. There has to be an investigation, to figure out who really killed Jim Bell.”
Words start in my mouth to deny Louie Sam’s innocence, but I say nothing. Joe Hampton gives me a satisfied look, like I’ve just admitted that Louie Sam is not the culprit.
“The chiefs agreed not to bring a raiding party across the border. They sent the people back to their home villages. They’re leaving it up to the Canadian law to find the murderers.”
“Murderers. You think more than one person killed Mr. Bell?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m some kind of idiot.
“I’m talking about the murderers of Louie Sam,” he says. “If it was up to me, every last murdering son of a bitch that rode with that lynch mob would pay for what they done.”
He keeps looking at me, as if to say that he knows that I’m one of them. I turn away and throw the catfish back into the creek. I watch it swim down into the muddy depths, all the while feeling Joe Hampton’s eyes hooking into me. A murderer. Is that what he’s saying I am?
I CARRY THE TROUT HOME so Mam can fry it for the noon meal. All the while I’m walking, I’m thinking. I want to believe that Louie Sam murdered James Bell. I want to believe it, but I have so many questions. I keep seeing him in my mind, at the moment when Mr. Moultray put the rope around his neck. I see the expression on his face—scared to death, but angry, too. If he was guilty, he would have acted guilty. Wouldn’t he? I keep thinking about the fact that Louie Sam was wearing a pair of suspenders when they hauled him out of Mr. York’s farmhouse. I wish I knew what happened to the suspenders we found in the swamp. I would like to see for myself whether they’re man-sized or boy-sized. If they were man-sized, then it would have to follow that maybe it wasn’t Louie Sam running away through the swamp. But who was it then? And whoever it was, was that the person who shot Mr. Bell?
WHEN I REACH THE cabin, I give the trout to John to clean. He complains about it, but I have to be on my way into Nooksack to meet Mr. Osterman at the appointed time. For myself, I take bread and two boiled eggs to eat as I walk. I am not about to ask Father if I can take Mae. Since I told him about my job repairing telegraph poles, he has said nothing more to me about it. Mam is pleased there will be a little more money, but she’s worried about what kind of work I’ll be doing, and how dangerous it will be. I’m wondering about that, too. But Teddy’s medicine is almost used up. If Mr. Osterman gives me a day’s wages today, I will have more than enough to settle Mam’s account with Dr. Thompson for the last bottle, as well as to purchase a new one to bring home with me.
When I reach the Nooksack Hotel, the door to the telegraph office is open, but Mr. Osterman is not at his desk. I knock on the door, thinking that maybe he’s in there, but hidden from my view. There’s no answer. I am unsure what to do, whether to go in and wait for him, or to stand out here in the lobby of the hotel. I look across to Mr. Hopkins, thinking to ask him if he knows Mr. Osterman’s whereabouts, but he is busy looking after a red-headed man whom I guess to be a hotel guest. I look from that man’s mud-caked boots to his worn buckskin coat and I wonder how he has the money to stay in such a fancy place. Now Mr. Hopkins is peering at me over his spectacles, looking me up and down in my fish-stinking dungarees and jacket, like between me and the red-haired man, he’s had enough of varmints like us dirtying up his nice hotel. I’m expecting him to tell me any minute now to go wait outside.
“I’ve got business with Mr. Osterman,” I tell him.
“What business have you got?”
“He hired me,” I say, and add for emphasis just in case I haven’t made my point, “I’m working for him.”
The red-headed man turns around and gives me a look. He throws me a friendly smile, then picks up his beaten-up valise and starts climbing the spiral staircase to the rooms upstairs.
“Go wait in the telegraph office,” Mr. Hopkins tells me.
I decide that must be what Mr. Osterman intended for me to do all along.
A QUARTER OF AN HOUR goes by. I’m getting the fidgets just standing in the middle of the room waiting. There’s a fine leather chair beside the fireplace, but I don’t feel right sitting in it in my smelly work clothes. The oak desk chair, on the other hand, has a cushion I could remove. Also, it’s a swivel chair. I have never in my life sat in a swivel chair.
I peek outside into the hotel lobby to see if there is any sign of Mr. Osterman. There is none. I lean across the desk and look out the window into the street. It’s silent as the grave out there. So I remove the cushion from the swivel chair and I sit down. I swing myself a little to the left, then a little to the right, imagining what it must be like to be the telegraph man. I place my finger on the small black key that Mr. Osterman uses to send messages. I’m tempted to give a tap or two, but I worry that I might wind up sending a message to some other telegraph man down the line.
I don’t mean to stick my nose into telegraph office business, but there in front of me among the papers on the desk I can’t help but see a newspaper, and in that newspaper a headline leaps out at me—“The Sumas Tragedy.” The newspaper is the British Columbian, published across the border in the town of New Westminster. The story is all about the hanging of Louie Sam, and the meeting of the Canadian Indians at Sumas that Joe Hampton went to. I can’t believe I’m reading about us in the newspaper, like we’re as famous as Wild Bill Hickok!
Deploring the lynching of fourteen-year-old Louie Sam as an illegal act, Indian agent Patrick McTiernan promised local chiefs that the Dominion Government will do everything in its power to bring those who are responsible to justice.
British Columbia Premier William Smithe has sent an appeal to Prime Minister Sir John A. Macdonald in Ottawa, who has demanded that officials in Washington D.C. and in the Washington Territory identify the leaders of the American lynch mob.
“Out of my chair!”
Mr. Osterman is standing in the doorway, red-faced with anger. I leap up so fast I almost make the swivel chair fall over.
“Mr. Hopkins said to wait in here …,” I stammer like a fool.
“That means wait, not snoop.”
Mr. Osterman crosses to his desk. He sees what I was reading, snatches up the newspaper. He’s glaring at me. All I can think to say is, “He was only fourteen.”
“You never mind how old anybody was.”
“Are we in trouble with the law?”
“Just keep your mouth shut and everything’s going to be fine.”
“But the Canadians—”
“To hell with the damned Canadians!”
Mr. Osterman yells so loud that the whole hotel must be able to hear him, even the guests upstairs. I remember what my father said about him finding respectability only lately, like he wasn’t always respectable. I wonder if I’m catching a glimpse of his previous self. But he calms down a bit, maybe because he’s worried other people might hear.
“I am sick and tired of people sticking their noses where they don’t belong—and that includes you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Osterman.”
“Did I make a mistake offering you this job, George?”
That makes me panic.
“No, sir!” I tell him.
“Can I rely on your discretion?” I’m not sure what he means by that. It must show, because then he says, “Can I count on you to do what’s right, to be a loyal citizen of Nooksack?”
“Yes, sir. No question.”
He eyes me a moment longer, like he’s making up his mind about me.
“All right, then. You just do as you’re told, and we’ll get along fine.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
I’m so relieved, I want to cry—but I keep my face calm, to show him he can trust me to keep my word. He turns to a shelf of books and takes down a scroll, which when he spreads it out on the desk turns out to be a map of the telegraph line. He jabs his finger at the section of line that runs from the far side of the Nooksack River—the part that runs west and south toward Ferndale.
“I want you to start here and work your way west. Mr. Harkness will let you ride the ferry across the river for free.”
I don’t stop to think before I ask, “But what about the stretch around Mr. Bell’s cabin?”
He brings the flat of his hand down hard on the desk. “Did you or did you not just promise me to do as you’re told!”
“I did! I’m sorry! I will!”
I’m kicking myself like crazy. Why can’t I learn to keep my big mouth shut? He rolls up the map, his face a fury. I’m sure he’s about to tell me I’m fired before I even begin. But after a minute, he says, “Does your pa own a handsaw you can use?”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m thinking that asking Father to allow me to take it will be a hazard, but I am on such thin ice with Mr. Osterman that I am not about to tell him “no.”
“Good. Your job is to cut back the underbrush growing up around the poles, to keep it away from the wire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You check the pole for rot, top to bottom, and for damage from insects and birds. Mr. Moultray will supply you with pitch for patching. Tell him to put it on my account.”
“Yes, sir.”
I want to know how I’m supposed to climb up the poles, but I’m afraid to ask in case I look dumb.
“A day’s work is dawn to dusk. Get an early start tomorrow. You can come by here for your wages on Monday.”
So I won’t be paid today, not even tomorrow—never mind that tomorrow is Sunday and I’ll have to miss church again. But I am in no position to complain about working on the Sabbath, nor to ask Mr. Osterman for the money in advance.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thank you, sir.”
I LEAVE THE HOTEL DOWN-HEARTED and cross the street to Dr. Thompson’s drug store. Mrs. Thompson is behind the counter, talking with a customer. The customer is Mrs. Stevens, Abigail’s mother. They greet me with smiles. It makes me happy that not all of Nooksack is against us Gillies.
“How’s the new baby?” Mrs. Thompson asks me.
“Still sickly.”
Mrs. Thompson looks worried for us. So does Mrs. Stevens.
“Winter babies have a hard time of it,” she says, “even if the winter is mild.”
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Mrs. Thompson tells me kindly.
She goes back to wrapping Mrs. Stevens’s purchases, continuing the conversation they were having when I came in.
“I heard he was planning to sue, for estrangement of affection,” says Mrs. Thompson.
Mrs. Stevens raises her eyebrows and clucks her tongue.
“What do these men see in that woman?” she says.
“A lonely man is easily misled,” pronounces Mrs. Thompson.
“How far misled is the question,” says Mrs. Stevens.
Mrs. Thompson drops her voice to a whisper.
“I can’t believe he would go that far.”
Mrs. Stevens shakes her head sadly.
“Susannah must be turning over in her grave,” she replies.
I know who they’re talking about. Susannah must be Susannah Harkness, Pete Harkness’s ma, who died three years back. And “that woman” can be no other than Mrs. Bell.
Mrs. Stevens says good-bye to Mrs. Thompson and leaves the store, telling me to give her regards to Mam.
“Now then,” says Mrs. Thompson to me, “it was the fever tonic Dr. Thompson ordered for the little one, wasn’t it? That’s seventy-five cents.”
She turns and takes a bottle of it from the shelf behind her and sets it on the counter. She’s waiting for her money. I’m standing there with my tongue tied.
“Could I pay you on Monday, ma’am? For both bottles?”
She’s frowning a little now. I’m afraid that we Gillies have reached the end of her charity.
“That’s two bottles on your account. Are you sure you’ll have the money then, George?”
“Yes, ma’am! I’ve got a job, working for Mr. Osterman.”
She gives me a queer look.
“And what might you be doing for Mr. Osterman?”
“Repairing poles.”
“Do your parents know about this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And they approve?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiles, but her smile is tighter than before. She pushes the bottle toward me.
“All right, then, George. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Mam is so grateful to me for bringing the medicine that she gives me a slice of apple pie when I get home. She isn’t happy about me spending all day Sunday away from home missing church and all, but she says that sacrifices must be made. She’s only sorry that it’s my immortal soul that’s doing the sacrificing. It’s quiet in the house for once. John and Will are out in the fields with Father, and Annie has Isabel in the yard teaching her to dance—though she herself doesn’t know a waltz from a two-step. Teddy is awake in his cradle by the stove, but he’s not crying or fussing. He’s just lying there. Mam gets her mending basket and sits at the table with me while I eat.
“Mam, what’s ‘estrangement of affection’?” I ask.
“Why would you want to know such a thing?” she asks me back.
“I heard Mrs. Thompson say it. She was talking about Mr. Harkness, and Mrs. Bell.”
I see in Mam’s face that a penny has dropped.
“Was she?” she says.
Suddenly, she’s concentrating hard on the hole in the sock she has stretched over her hand.
“Tell me,” I say. “What does it mean?”
She stays quiet.
“Mam, I’m fifteen. I need to know about the world.”
Now she looks up at me. She has a sad smile.
“Aye, so you do,” she says. Then, “‘Estrangement of affection’ is when somebody comes between a man and a woman who are married, or engaged to be married.”
“And you can be sued for that?”
“Aye, you can.”
Now I’m starting to understand.
“So … Mr. Bell wanted to sue Mr. Harkness, for coming between him and Mrs. Bell?”
Mam’s interest perks up.
“Is that what Mrs. Thompson said?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s who she was talking about.”
“Well, then … yes. I suppose that in Mr. Bell’s mind he had cause to sue Mr. Harkness.”
I dig my fork into the pie and swallow another bite. We sit together in silence for a bit, Mam sewing, and me thinking that I never knew before there were such bad feelings between Mr. Bell and Mr. Harkness. But then, how could there not have been?