AFTER BEING SO SLEEPY out on the trail, I think I will never be able to fall asleep due to the throbbing from my arm and my hand. But I must sleep, because I wake up in darkness. At first I think I’m in my own bed at home, but then the ache from my arm makes me remember what happened. There’s a curtain covering a window beside my head, under which I can see moonlight. I manage to shift enough to open the curtain a little and let in more light. Now I can see Jimmy sleeping in the other bed. I wonder if this is the room that Joe Hampton and his brother slept in when he lived here, before his father drowned. His father must have built this house. It’s a nice room, with a window and all. The whole house is nice, nicer than ours. If Mr. Hampton built it and it belonged to him, I wonder why Agnes and her boys don’t live here still.
I hear voices from downstairs—Mrs. Bell and Mr. Harkness, but I think I recognize Mr. Moultray’s voice, too. I wonder if Mr. Moultray knows where Pete is. I ease myself out of bed and widen the crack in the open door just enough so I can slip through without waking Jimmy. The floorboards are cold against my stocking feet as I step to the top of the stairs. From here I can tell I was right—Mr. Moultray is in the parlor. He seems to be reading from a newspaper:
According to Indian agent Patrick McTiernan, who attended the gathering, the Indian chiefs hold William Osterman, a Nooksack man, responsible for the murder for which Louie Sam was lynched on the night of February 28.
The chiefs believe that Mr. Osterman, the local telegraph operator, lured Louie Sam to Nooksack on the pretext of employing him to repair the telegraph line. He asked the young Indian to walk with him toward the cabin of James Bell, the murdered man, only to then change his mind and tell him to ‘go away.’
According to the chiefs, once Mr. Osterman was alone, he proceeded to the victim’s cabin, committed the crime and made his getaway, correctly assuming that people would see Louie Sam near the cabin and blame him for the murder.
My heart is pounding by the time Mr. Moultray stops reading. Are the chiefs right? Is it possible that Mr. Osterman is the murderer? But why? What did he have against Mr. Bell? I’m wondering why nobody is saying anything. Then Mr. Moultray speaks.
“You know how this looks, don’t you? People are saying Jim Bell was planning on suing you.”
Mrs. Bell speaks up. “Jim Bell was deranged. He told folks a lot of things that weren’t true—most of them about me.”
But it seems that Mr. Moultray meant the question for Mr. Harkness, not her.
“Dave,” he says, “everybody knows that Bill Osterman’s your brother-in-law, and your friend. Do you know something you’re not telling me? Bill didn’t have anything to do with this, did he?”
“Listen to Annette,” says Mr. Harkness. “It’s all lies. Those redskins are just looking for a reason to massacre us in our sleep.”
“Goddamn it, answer my question! The governor’s put out an order to find us. Just today there was a carrot top by the name of Clark snooping around the store.” He must be talking about the red-headed man I saw at the hotel. “He was asking all sorts of questions about who led the posse, what I thought about the lynching …”
“What did you tell him?”
“As little as possible, which in and of itself was enough to tell him I was there.” Mr. Moultray pauses before he asks, “Did Louie Sam kill Jim Bell, or not?”
“Why are you asking us?” says Mrs. Bell.
“Because I’m beginning to think you know more than you’re saying. If we hung the wrong man, this could turn into a full-out Indian War.”
“We did the right thing,” says Mr. Harkness. “And don’t you worry about no Indian War. If those thieving redskins make trouble, folks will come from as far away as Seattle to kill every one of them they can get their hands on. They’re itching for the chance.”
Says Mr. Moultray, “I’m the one who tightened the rope, goddammit!”
In my mind I’m back in that night, in that clearing. I see Mr. Moultray’s startled look when Louie Sam recognizes him and speaks his name—I hear the slap he delivers to the pony’s flank, sending it running. I see Louie Sam up in the air, legs kicking, fighting for his life to the very end.
Mrs. Bell speaks.
“That’s right, Bill, you were the one—and don’t you forget it. You’ve got a reputation to protect in this town. You’ve got ambitions. What’s going to happen to your political career if you get arrested?”
“My question was for Dave, I’ll thank you, Annette,” says Mr. Moultray, “and he still hasn’t answered it. Did you or Bill Osterman have anything to do with the death of Jim Bell?”
But Mrs. Bell answers him, her voice like a coiled snake—hissing and ready to strike. “All you need to worry about,” she says, “is keeping your gob shut.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” replies Mr. Moultray. He adds, his voice thick with emotion, “We killed an innocent boy.”
Mrs. Bell hisses, “For God’s sake, man. He was just an Indian.”
I don’t go back to sleep. How can I when my head’s swimming from the things I’ve heard, from the memory of that clearing in the woods, of that night?
AT FIRST LIGHT I get up from Pete’s bed and find my boots. Jimmy’s snoring softly, his mouth hanging open. Between my broken arm and the burn on my right hand, it’s a trick carrying my boots, but I manage to get down the stairs without waking any of the sleeping bodies in the house. I find my jacket on the hook by the door. The best I can manage is to drape it over my shoulders, like a shawl. Outside, I stick my feet into my boots. I’ll have to wear them loose, without tying the laces. It’s cold, but even if I had a way to pull on my mittens, my right hand is blistering and oozing from the burn, greasy from the butter Mrs. Bell slathered on it. I tuck it inside my jacket and start down the path to the river.
I am so relieved to be gone from that house that I feel light and happy, despite the ache from my arm—and despite the secrets I’ve heard. Why do the Sumas chiefs think Mr. Osterman killed Mr. Bell? Is that what Louie Sam told them? I think back to the morning we found Mr. Bell dead in his cabin. Annie and I stayed behind while John and Will went to fetch the sheriff. Then Mr. Osterman showed up, saying he happened to be out checking the telegraph line. Is it possible he was lying? Was he in the neighborhood because he killed Mr. Bell and set the fire? Is Father right about his character? Is he a liar and a murderer, pretending to be a decent man? It seems Mr. Moultray has his doubts about him, too.
I shudder at the thought of looking Bill Osterman in the eye to ask for my wages, but I’ll have to do it. I promised Mrs. Thompson I’d pay for Teddy’s medicine today. And then I’ll have to pay Dr. Thompson to set my arm in plaster. My happy feeling is gone. I feel sick inside.
I reach Mr. Moultray’s livery stable, down the track from the ferry dock. It’s so early, not even Jack Simpson is up and about. I have an inkling that I might find Pete inside. If it was me, that’s where I would go to find shelter for the night. The horses stir in their stalls when I go inside, thinking I have their breakfast with me.
“Pete?” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering. I suppose all the secret talk has got me on edge. “Pete?”
“Here.” I follow the sound of his voice to an empty stall, where he’s made himself a bed out of straw and a horse blanket. I woke him up. He’s grumpy. “What are you doing out so early?” he asks.
“I’m going into town.”
“To see Doc Thompson?”
“To see your uncle, for my money.”
Pete grunts a reply.
“Mr. Moultray paid a visit last night,” I tell him.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to know if it’s true what the Sumas are saying, that your uncle’s the one who murdered Mr. Bell.”
If yesterday I had accused his kin of murder, Pete would have hauled off and hit me. But this morning, a look of confusion comes over his face.
“Why would anybody pay any mind to what the Sumas have got to say?” he grumbles.
“Mr. Moultray is paying mind to it. He asked your pa straight out if he knows anything about Bill Osterman murdering Mr. Bell.”
Pete has no answer to that.
“Your pa didn’t deny it.”
For a moment, he locks eyes with me. I see how afraid he is.
“Pete, what do you know?”
The moment is over. I’ve pushed him too far. He rolls over away from me and pulls the horse blanket up over his shoulder.
“It’s too early for so much talking.”
That’s it—that’s all I’m going to get out of him. But I tell him, thinking it might make him feel better, “After you left, your pa told Jimmy to shut his trap about you.”
He’s silent for a moment or two. His back is to me, so I don’t know whether he’s sleeping, or thinking. Then he says, “I won’t be able to go get that saw for you. I can’t get across the river. I’m not going near him today.”
“That’s okay. Thanks, anyway,” I tell him.
“I’ll see you, George.”
“I’ll see you, Pete.”
At that I head out of the stable. Once again I’m happy to be out in the fresh air, away from the trapped feeling I get around the Harknesses, father and son.