Crooked River by Shelley Pearsall Read Free Book Online

down the stairs slowly. I watched him hesitate on the last step and glance back up, as if he had changed his mind and would turn around, even though he didn't.
    Laura stared at me, uncertain what to do. “Mr. Kelley—” she began in a halting voice. “We've made tea if you'd like some. I don't know if you were intending to stay or not.”
    Mr. Kelley gave us a startled look. I was nearly sure that he was going to say no, by the wary expression on his face. But then, quite suddenly, his face softened, and he nodded a little.
    “Thank you, Miss Carver,” he said, coming over to the table. “Thank you, I'll have a small cup of tea, yes.” Awkwardly, he pulled up a chair and sat down at our big table. He was all elbows and knees and couldn't seem to decide where to set his hat until he finally put it on the floor near his feet.
    “So has Ami—Indian John—been here long, in your Pa's cabin?” Mr. Kelley asked in a curious voice while we fixed tea for him. Since he was company, my sister gave him our only unchipped teacup and put some of our best loaf sugar on the table.
    “About three weeks,” Laura answered. “My Pa andthe other men brought him here near the end of April.” Then she added carefully, “How are you acquainted with him, Mr. Kelley?”
    I held in my breath, waiting for his answer.
    “Well …” The man paused and stared down at his folded-up hands. “When I was ten or eleven years old, growing up east of here, the two of us were friends.”
    “Friends?” came flying out of my mouth.
    Mr. Kelley looked at me in a way that reminded me of Amos when he thought I had said something foolish. “Yes, we were good friends,” he repeated.
    He told us that Amik's father was the chief of a small band of Chippewas. “Ojibbeways, as they call themselves,” he said. Mr. Kelley described how the Indians used to return every spring from their maple sugar grounds and stay on his Pa's land through the summer. He glanced at Laura and asked her if she had ever heard of the Nibinishi River, in the eastern part of Ohio, but she shook her head no.
    “Well, the band always came to fish on our river, as they had done for years and years, I suppose, long before we had come,” he explained.
    Mr. Kelley said that Amik and some of the other Indians were near to his age. “I had four brothers when I was growing up,” he told us. “And we would play games and run all day with Amik and the other boys when our chores were done. I was quick with languages. My Pa said I had an ear for it. So, I learned to speak with them as well as anyone.”
    I could hardly even imagine the scene in my mind—our own Ma opening up the door of ourcabin and letting us play with Indian children. Even Laura gave a surprised gasp. “Your Pa and Ma? They allowed you to do that?”
    Mr. Kelley studied his cup of tea, as if he was thinking hard. “Indians aren't—well, they aren't, forgive me for saying this—” He paused and stumbled over his words. “Well, it is my belief—and it was my Pa's belief, too—that Indians are as human as white men. Truthfully, in a great many respects, they are, Miss Carver,” he stammered. “And in some ways, more so.”
    There was an uncomfortable long silence after he spoke. I drank a big gulp of tea and peered over the top of my cup at my sister Laura, but I didn't dare to breathe a word about all of the things Indian John had given to us. Or how I sometimes thought Indians were human, too.
    “I don't see how the murder of innocent folks can be counted as human, Mr. Kelley,” Laura said finally, in a strong voice that echoed Ma's Bible-reading one. “Even if he was once your friend, how can you call his actions human?”
    “No, certainly not,” Mr. Kelley answered quickly. “But perhaps what everyone believes—” Mr. Kelley hesitated and looked down at the table. “Perhaps, well, perhaps it isn't all true,” he finished.
    I stared at Mr. Kelley.
    Even Laura seemed startled. “Are you saying