The Lynching of Louie Sam (21 page)

My head is so full up with thinking that I am not aware that Abigail is waiting for me at the gate to Stevens's sawmill up ahead until I am almost upon her.

“George, what happened to your arm?”

I think about telling her that I suffered an injury while doing important work on the telegraph line, but instead I find myself stating plain and simple, “I fell out of a tree.”

“Well, that was a stupid thing to do,” says she.

I am coming to admire Abigail's way with the unvarnished truth—despite the fact that her unvarnished truths usually have something to do with one failing of mine or another. We fall in walking together toward school, Abigail holding her school books up against her front like she might need them for protection.

“How was the dance?” I ask her.

“I wouldn't know.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Mr. Pratt started up his fiddle, Mrs. Bell and Pete's pa were the first ones on the dance floor. My ma took one look at that floozy showing herself off like the belle of Whatcom County and made Pa take me and my little sisters directly home.”

“From the way Mrs. Bell parades around town, seems like she and a few others think they run the place,” I remark.

“You're talking about Mr. Osterman, aren't you?” she says.

That throws me a little. What does Abigail know about Mr. Osterman?

“What makes you say that?”

“Everybody knows what the Indians are saying about him killing Mr. Bell.”

“Do people believe it?”

“'Course not. Who's going to believe a bunch of Indians against the word of a white man?”

“Do you believe them?”

A rare occurrence happens. For several moments, Abigail says nothing at all. When she finally speaks, it's without her usual spit and fire.

“If I tell you something, you promise to keep it secret?” she says.

“I promise.”

“The morning that Mr. Bell was murdered, Pa saw Mr. Osterman with the Indian boy. They were walking out of town, toward Mr. Bell's place.”

I can't believe Mr. Stevens has kept this to himself all this time.

“What were they doing? Were they talking? Were they arguing?”

“They weren't fighting or talking. They were just walking. But here's the thing.”

“What?”

“Louie Sam wasn't carrying a rifle, at least not that Pa could see. So how did he shoot Mr. Bell?”

I'm staggered by this news. It's exactly the way the Sumas say it happened—Mr. Osterman got Louie Sam to walk with him as far as Mr. Bell's place to make it look like Louie Sam was the murderer.

“Why didn't your pa tell anybody about it?” I ask.

“Same reason nobody says anything out loud. Because they're afraid of what might happen to them as a result.”

“Somebody's got to stand up,” I say.

“George Gillies, you just got finished promising me you wouldn't say a word!”

She's got me in a corner. It's one thing to work up my own courage to do the right thing and tell what I know, but a promise is a promise.

“I won't say anything,” I tell her.

Abigail looks me in the eye. For once she isn't mocking me or teasing me. She's dead serious.

“The only reason I told you is because I know I can trust you, George.”

I'm amazed by how a few nice words from Abigail can make me feel so warm all over. I say, “I gave you my word, and I mean it.”

We've reached the point in town where the trail widens out to become Nooksack Avenue. Abigail starts down the path toward the schoolhouse. I have another destination in mind.

“I'll see you at school, Abigail.”

“Where might you be going?” she asks, all sassy once more.

“Never you mind. Tell Miss Carmichael I'll be along directly.”

“I'll be sure to give her the message,” she says.

She's being sarcastic. I can see we're back to normal, she and I.

“Thank you kindly,” I answer back without batting an eye, pleased with myself that I'm learning to hold my own with her.

Abigail gives me a smile as we part ways. With that I set out down Nooksack Avenue, heading for the Nooksack Hotel—wondering how I'm going to tell Carrot Top about what Mr. Stevens saw, without breaking my promise to Abigail.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“M
R
. C
LARK IS GONE
,” says Mr. Hopkins, “and if you're smart, you'll be gone out of here, too, before anybody finds out you came in here looking for him.”

I'm standing in the lobby of the Nooksack Hotel. From the way Mr. Hopkins is nodding toward the telegraph office, I know he's warning me about the consequences of Mr. Osterman finding out I've come looking for the detective. But having worked up my courage this far, I'm not prepared to be put off now.

“Mr. Clark told me he'd be here for a few days,” I say.

“He was persuaded to change his plans,” replies Mr. Hopkins.

The way he says it, I get the feeling that Mr. Clark was not persuaded in the nicest way.

“Who persuaded him?” I ask.

“Look, George,” says Mr. Hopkins, stabbing his finger in my direction, “if you know what's good for you and yours, you'll stop asking so many damn questions. Or you'll find out for yourself who persuaded him.”

It doesn't matter. I already know the answer. I saw for myself Mr. Osterman making threats against Mr Clark right here in the lobby yesterday morning. At that point, Mr. Clark was sounding brave and resolute, but I'm guessing that Mr. Osterman found a way to bring him down a notch or two.

“Did Mr. Clark leave word where he can be reached?” I ask.

“Why don't you try sending him a telegram?” says Mr. Hopkins. “I'm sure Mr. Osterman would be much obliged to transmit it for you.”

Seems there's a sarcasm epidemic going on in this town. Remembering my manners, I thank him anyway and head out into the street—glad at least for the good fortune that I have not had to face Mr. Osterman this morning.

T
HERE'S NOTHING FOR IT
but to head over to the schoolhouse. Owing to my failure to find Mr. Clark, it turns out that I am there in good time before Miss Carmichael rings the bell to call us inside. Abigail glances over to me from where she's talking with some of the other girls, then looks away just as quickly. I understand that she's not mad or ignoring me. It's just that, here in the schoolyard, we're one way together. Outside … it seems that maybe we're starting to be another way.

I see Pete Harkness over in the corner of the yard talking tough with some of the older fellas, including Tom Breckenridge. I head over to him. It's not until I get close that I see the shiner on his right eye. I remember him telling me early yesterday morning he was planning on staying out of his pa's way for fear of his temper. My first thought is that he did not succeed. But he's telling the boys around him a different story altogether.

“… when this drunken Paddy come off the ferry complaining the ride was too rough, I tell him he can go eat potato stew for all I care. So he takes me by surprise and sneaks in a swing at me. But he only got in the first punch before I laid him out flat …”

It's such a tall tale, I can't believe how the fellas seem to be lapping it up. Pete catches my glance. For just a second and only for me, his face lets show the truth of how his eye got blackened. Then he goes back to spinning his yarn for the boys. It seems that all of a sudden this town is full of nothing but secrets and lies. I leave him to it and head into the classroom.

A
T THE END OF THE DAY
, I tell John, Will, and Annie to head home without me. I'm waiting for Pete, who has been held back by Miss Carmichael for his poor showing on the grammar test she gave the senior grades today. I've got a question for Pete that needs to be asked in private. From the way he's been avoiding me all day, it seems he knows what that question is. Just about everybody else has cleared off by the time he comes out of the schoolhouse. He pauses when he sees me sitting on the step, like he knows what's coming and he's not pleased about it.

“What are you still doing here, George?”

“How'd you get that shiner? And don't try telling me it was a drunken Irishman.”

He walks ahead of me, his right eye turned away.

“Leave it be, George,” he says. “It's none of your damn business.”

I have to quicken my pace to match his gait, his legs being that much longer than mine. I still have a question to ask him.

“Pete, tell me again about seeing Louie Sam on the road from Lynden on the day Mr. Bell died.”

Now he's looking at me full on. He's looking at me like I've lost my mind.

“I've told that story a hundred times,” says Pete. “Are you stupid or something that you need me to tell it again?”

“Just tell me what you saw.”

“I saw that redskin with murder in his eyes. The look on his face filled me with terror.”

It strikes me that he uses the same turn of phrase every time he tells it, like he's reciting one of Mr. Shakespeare's sonnets.

“But he was just a kid,” I say. “What was so frightening about him?”

“He was a savage. Ask General Custer what a savage is capable of.”

“I saw Louie Sam with my own eyes, Pete. He was small—smaller than me even. And at least a head shorter than you.”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

No, not a coward—but maybe a liar. Now comes the question I've been wanting to ask him all day.

“Pete, did you really see him? Or did your Uncle Bill tell you to say you did? Or your pa?”

Pete stops walking and glares at me. It's hard to tell if it's rage burning in his eyes, or fear.

“Are you some kind of police detective now, George?” he says. “Let me tell you what happens to police detectives around here.”

“Tell me,” I say.

His voice goes low.

“They get beat up and run out of town, counting themselves lucky to still be breathing as they go. So stop poking your nose where it doesn't belong.”

So that's what Mr. Hopkins meant by Mr. Clark being persuaded to change his plans. I stand my ground.

“Answer my question. Did you see Louie Sam or not?”

“Yes! I saw him.”

“Did he look the way you claim he did? Like a murderer?”

Pete hesitates. He's faltering.

“Pete,” I say, “was he carrying a rifle with him when you saw him?”

He's moving his head from side to side like he's trying to shake something off, which is as much as admitting there was no rifle. He looks weighted down. He looks like he might be readying to unload the truth. Then of all things he lets out a laugh.

“Don't you get it, George? It doesn't matter. None of it matters.”

“Yes it does,” I tell him. “It matters if Louie Sam was innocent.”

“Who does it matter to, except a bunch of government bigwigs who can't prove a thing?”

“It matters to his people,” I say. “It matters to his family.” And I realize how much it matters to me. “It isn't right that an innocent boy died to cover up somebody else's crime. Just tell me, Pete. Did somebody tell you what to say to Sheriff Leckie to make Louie Sam look guilty?”

He lets out a long sigh, like he's fed up with holding the truth inside him.

“Pa did,” he says. “And if he ever finds out I told, he'll kill me.”

Pete isn't laughing any more. Not one bit.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
N THE EARLY EVENING
, John and Will are splitting wood while Annie helps Mam wash up from dinner. Mam is more like her old self again, relieved that Teddy is crying to be fed all the time. I have waited for a good moment to get Father alone. I find him down by the mill seated on a stump, enjoying his pipe on this fresh spring-like evening while looking out over the millpond. He's watching a pair of ducks swimming and diving. He turns and cocks an eye at the sound of my approach, as if to say that I'd better have a good reason for disturbing him.