The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice (127 page)

“A bad mistake, Mort.”

“There’s a witness saw the big Indian in the very clearing where she was found a short time before it happened.”

Not surprising, Rob J. told him, seeing that Comes Singing was one of his hired men, and the river woods were part of his farm. “I want to put up the bail.”

“Can’t set bail. We have to wait for a circuit judge to come out from Rock Island.”

“How long will that take?”

London shrugged.

“One of the good things to come from the English was due process of law. We’re supposed to have that here.”

“Can’t hurry a circuit judge for one Indian. Five, six days. Mebbe a week or so.”

“I want to see Comes Singing.”

London rose and led the way into the two-cell lockup that adjoined the sheriff’s office. The deputies sat in the dim corridor between the cells, rifles
in their laps. Fritz Graham looked as if he was enjoying himself. Otto Pfersick looked as though he wished he were back in his gristmill, making flour. One of the cells was empty. The other cell was full of Comes Singing.

“Untie him,” Rob J. said thinly.

London hesitated. They were afraid to approach their prisoner, Rob J. recognized. Comes Singing somehow had sustained an angry bruise over his right eye (from a gun barrel?). His very size was intimidating.

“Let me in there. I’ll untie him myself.”

London unlocked the cell and Rob J. went in alone. “Pyawanegawa,” he said, placing his hand on Comes Singing’s shoulder, calling him by his proper name.

He went behind Comes Singing and began to pick at the knotted rope that bound him, but the knot was cruelly tight. “It needs cutting,” he said to London. “Hand me a knife.”

“Like hell.”

“Pair of scissors, in my medical bag.”

“That ain’t hardly less of a weapon,” London grumbled, but he allowed Graham to fetch the scissors, and Rob J. was able to get the rope cut. He chafed Comes Singing’s wrists between both his hands, looking into his eyes, talking as though to his own deaf son.
“Cawso wabeskiou
will help Pyawanegawa. We are brothers of the same Half, the Long Hairs, the
Keeso-qui.”

He ignored the amused surprise and contempt in the eyes of the listening whites on the other side of the bars. He didn’t know how much of what he had said was understood by Comes Singing. The Sauk’s eyes were dark and sullen, but as Rob J. searched them he saw a change there, the leap of something he couldn’t be certain of, that may have been fury or just may have been the tiny rebirth of hope.

That afternoon he brought Moon to her husband. She interpreted while London questioned him.

Comes Singing appeared baffled by the interrogation.

He admitted at once that he’d been in the clearing that morning. Time to get in wood for the winter, he said, looking at the man who paid him to do that. And he was hunting sugar maples, marking them in his memory for tapping when spring came.

He lived in the same longhouse as the dead woman, London observed.

Yes.

Did he ever engage in sex with her?

Moon hesitated before translating. Rob J. looked hard at London but touched her arm and nodded, and she asked her husband the question. Comes Singing answered at once and without apparent anger.

No, never.

Rob J. followed Mort London back to his office when the questioning was over. “Can you tell me why you arrested this man?”

“I told you. A witness saw him at that clearing just before the woman was killed.”

“Who
is
your witness?”

“… Julian Howard.”

Rob asked himself what Julian Howard had been doing on his land. He remembered the clink of dollar coins when Howard had settled up with him for the house call. “You paid him for his testimony,” he said, as if he knew it for a fact.

“I didn’t. No,” London said, flushing, but he was an amateur bad man, clumsy at summoning spuriously righteous anger.

It was Nick who would have done the rewarding, along with a liberal dose of flattery and assurances to Julian that he was a saintly fellow, just doing his duty.

“Comes Singing was where he should have been, working on my property. You might just as well arrest me for owning the land Makwa was killed on, or Jay Geiger for finding her.”

“If the Indian didn’t do it, it’ll come out during a fair trial. He lived with the woman—”

“She was his shaman. Same as being his minister. The fact that they lived in the same longhouse made sex between them forbidden, as if they were brother and sister.”

“People have killed their own ministers. And fucked their own sisters, for that matter.”

Rob J. started away in disgust, but he turned back. “It isn’t too late to set this straight, Mort. Being sheriff is only a damn job, if you lose it you’ll survive. I believe you’re a pretty good man. But you do something like this once, it’s going to be easy to do it again and again.”

It was a mistake. Mort could live with the knowledge that the whole town knew he was in Nick Holden’s pocket, so long as no one threw it up to his face.

“I read that piece of shit you called an autopsy report, Dr. Cole. You’d have a hard time makin a judge and a jury of six good white men
believe that female was a virgin. Good-lookin Indian female her age, and everyone in the county knowin she was your woman. You got a nerve, preachin. Now, you get yourself the fuck out of here. And don’t you consider comin back unless you have to bother me with something that best be official.”

Moon said Comes Singing was afraid.

“I don’t believe they’ll hurt him,” Rob J. said.

She said he wasn’t afraid of being hurt. “He knows that sometimes white men hang people. If a Sauk is strangled to death, he can’t get across the river of foam, can’t ever get into the Land in the West.”

“Nobody’s going to hang Comes Singing,” Rob J. said irritably. “They have no evidence he’s done anything. It’s a political thing, and in a few days they’re going to have to let him go.”

But her fear was contagious. The only lawyer in Holden’s Crossing was Nick Holden. There were several lawyers in Rock Island, but Rob J. didn’t know them personally. Next morning he took care of the patients who needed immediate attention and then rode into the county seat. There were even more people in Congressman Stephen Hume’s waiting room than he usually saw in his own, and he had to wait almost ninety minutes before his turn came.

Hume listened to him attentively. “Why’d you come to me?” he asked finally.

“Because you’re running for reelection and your opponent is Nick Holden. For some reason I haven’t figured out, Nick is causing as much trouble as he can for the Sauks in general and Comes Singing in particular.”

Hume sighed. “Nick’s in with a rough bunch, and I can’t take his candidacy lightly. The American party’s filling the native-born workingman with hatred and fear of immigrants and Catholics. They’ve a secret lodge in every town with a peephole in the door so they can keep out nonmembers. They’re called the Know Nothing party, because if you ask any member about their activities, he’s trained to say he knows nothing about it. They promote and use violence against the foreign-born, and I’m shamed to say they’re sweeping the country, politically. Immigrants are flooding in, but at this moment seventy percent of the people of Illinois are native-born, and of the other thirty percent, most aren’t citizens and don’t vote. Last year the Know Nothings almost elected a governor in New York and did elect fortynine
legislators. A Know Nothing-Whig alliance easily carried the elections in Pennsylvania and Delaware, and Cincinnati went Know Nothing after a bitter fight.”

“But why is Nick after the Sauks? They’re not foreign-born!”

Hume grimaced. “His political instincts probably are very sound. Only nineteen years ago white folks were being massacred by Indians around here, and doing plenty of massacring on their own. A lot of people died during Black Hawk’s War. Nineteen years is a mighty short time. Boys who survived Indian raids and a lot of Indian scares are voters now, and they still hate and fear Indians. So my worthy opponent is fanning the flames. The other night in Rock Island he passed out plenty of whiskey and then gave a rehash of the Indian wars, not leaving out a single scalping or alleged depravity. Then he told them about the last bloodthirsty Indians in Illinois being coddled out there in your town, and he pledged that when he’s elected United States representative, he’ll see that they’re returned to their reservation in Kansas, where they belong.”

“Can you take steps to help the Sauks?”

“Take steps?” Hume sighed. “Dr. Cole, I’m a politician. Indians don’t vote, so I’m not about to take a public stand in their individual or collective favor. But as a political matter it will help me if we can defuse this thing, because my opponent is trying to use it to win my seat.

“The two justices for the Circuit Court in this district are the Honorable Daniel P. Allan and the Honorable Edwin Jordan. Judge Jordan has a mean streak and he’s a Whig. Dan Allan is a pretty good judge and an even better Democrat. I’ve known him and worked with him for a long time, and if he sits on this case he won’t let Nick’s people turn it into a carnival to convict your Sauk friend on flimsy nonevidence and help Nick win the election. There’s no way of knowing whether he or Jordan will get the case. If it’s Allan, he’ll be no more than fair, but he’ll be fair.

“None of the lawyers in town is going to want to defend an Indian, and that’s the truth. The best attorney here is a young fella name of John Kurland. You let me have a talk with him, see if we can’t twist his arm some.”

“I’m grateful to you, Congressman.”

“Well, you can show it by voting.”

“I’m one of the thirty percent. I’ve applied for naturalization, but there’s a three-year waiting period …”

“That’ll allow you to vote next time I run for re-election,” Hume said practically. He grinned as they shook hands. “Meantime, tell your friends.”

The town wasn’t going to stay excited too long because of a dead Indian. More interesting was contemplation of the opening of the Holden’s Crossing Academy. Everyone in town would have been willing to give a small piece of land as the school site, thus ensuring easy access for their own children, but it was agreed that the institution should be in a central place, and finally the town meeting had accepted three acres from Nick Holden, which satisfied Nick, because the lot was precisely shown as the school site on his early “dream maps” of Holden’s Crossing.

A one-room log schoolhouse had been built cooperatively. Once work had begun, the project caught fire. Instead of puncheon floors, the men hauled logs six miles to be sawed for construction of a plank floor. A long shelf was built along one wall to serve as a collective desk, and a long bench was placed in front of the shelf, so pupils could face the wall while writing and swing around to face the teacher while reciting. A square iron wood stove was set in the middle of the room. It was determined that school would begin each year after harvest and would run for three twelve-week terms, the teacher to be paid nineteen dollars a term plus room and board. State law held that a teacher had to be qualified in reading, writing, and arithmetic, and knowledgeable about either geography, or grammar, or history. There were not many candidates for the job because the pay was small and the aggravations were many, but finally the town hired Marshall Byers, a first cousin of Paul Williams, the blacksmith.

Mr. Byers was a slim, pop-eyed youth of twenty-one who had taught in Indiana before coming to Illinois, and therefore knew what to expect from “boarding around,” living for a week at a time with the family of a different pupil. He told Sarah he was glad to stay at a sheep farm because he liked lamb and carrots better than pork and potatoes. “Everywhere else, when they serve meat, it’s pork and potatoes, pork and potatoes,” he said. Rob J. grinned at him. “You’ll love the Geigers,” he said.

Rob J. wasn’t taken with the teacher. There was something nasty about the way Mr. Byers grabbed covert glances at Moon and Sarah, and stared at Shaman as though the boy were a freak.

“I’m looking forward to having Alexander in my school,” Mr. Byers said.

“Shaman is looking forward to school too,” Rob J. said quietly.

“Oh, but surely that is impossible. The boy doesn’t speak normally. And how can a child who doesn’t hear a word hope to learn anything in school?”

“He reads lips. He learns easily, Mr. Byers.”

Mr. Byers frowned. He looked ready to protest further, but when he glanced at Rob J.’s face he changed his mind. “Of course, Dr. Cole,” he said stiffly. “Of course.”

Next morning, before breakfast, Alden Kimball knocked at the back door. He had been to the feed store early and was bursting with news.

“Them damnfool Indians! They done it now,” he said. “Got drunk last night and burned down the barn out at that popist nuns’ place.”

Moon denied it at once when Rob spoke to her. “I was at the Sauk camp last night with my friends, talking about Comes Singing. It’s a lie, what Alden was told.”

“Perhaps they started drinking after you left.”

“No. It’s a lie.” She sounded calm but her trembling fingers were already removing her apron. “I’ll go see the People.”

Rob sighed. He decided he’d better visit the Catholics.

He’d heard them described as “them damn brown beetles.” He understood why when he saw them, because they wore brown wool habits that looked too warm for autumn and must have been a torture in the heat of summer. Four of them were working in the ruins of the fine little Swedish barn August Lund and his wife had built with such fierce young hope. They appeared to be searching the charred remains, still smoking in one corner, for anything worth salvaging.

“Good morning,” he called.

They’d been oblivious of his approach. They had tucked the hems of their long habits into their belts to allow freedom and comfort while they worked, and now they hastened to hide four sturdy pairs of sooty white-stockinged limbs as they pulled their skirts free.

“I’m Dr. Cole,” he said, dismounting. “Your far neighbor.” They stared without speaking, and it occurred to him that perhaps they didn’t understand the language. “May I speak to the person in charge?”