Between Earth and Sky(34)

The cigar dropped from the judge’s lips. His face pinched with suspicion. “That sounded like more than a little to me.”

Alma glanced at Stewart. He rattled his head and blinked several times, his dark pupils crowding out the hazel of his eyes. She should have told him beforehand. But when? How does such a thing come up when you keep your past so hidden? Before she could telegraph her apology, he looked away and cleared his throat. “My wife was . . . er . . . formerly acquainted with the defendant. She wanted to speak on behalf of his character. We have letters from her mother and Mr. Muskrat’s former teacher as well—all attesting to his good nature.”

The judge leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. He looked first at Alma and then turned his glare on her husband. “I’m not inclined toward leeway in my court, Mr. Mitchell. I’d just as soon have this whole business done and behind us. There’s little you could produce that would sway a jury toward a verdict of innocence. People want to feel safe in their beds at night, not afraid a wild Indian is going to come and kill them while they sleep.” Alma opened her mouth to protest, but the judge waved her off. “I know, most of that business was done half a century ago. They’re nothing now but a beaten and dying race. Still, the law must be upheld.” He handed the witness list back to Stewart, nodded for the clerk to open the door, and picked up his sandwich.

Anger flared inside her. This was not justice. She crossed the small chamber and gripped the edge of the judge’s desk. “Have you even looked at the case?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It doesn’t make sense. Mr. Muskrat is not the blanket Indian you described. He’s smart, educated. He wouldn’t kill someone in plain sight, then carelessly discard the murder weapon.”

Stewart touched her arm. “Alma, dear—”

Judge Baum sat forward, rolling his cigar between his thumb and forefinger, an air of amusement lighting his expression. “It’s all right. Go on, Mrs. Mitchell. What do you think happened?”

“That he was set up. That the reservation police picked up the first Indian they saw just to close the case.”

The judge snickered.

“I know Harry Muskrat. He’s a good man. And I’ve dealt with hayseed sheriffs before, too. I know what they’re capable of.” She leaned forward over his desk, ignoring the stench of smoke and cured meat. “You speak of upholding the law, yet you’d sooner hang a man than entertain questions about his guilt.”

“You’re the only one who questions his guilt,” the judge said, but the snide quality to his voice was gone. “How did you come to know this man?”

She let go his desk and straightened. “My father ran a government boarding school for Indians.”

“I take it Mr. Muskrat was a student there?”

“For nine years.”

“And he did well?”

“He was the brightest student ever to attend the school. He graduated valedictorian and went on to study at Brown. And he was well liked, beyond academics. Faculty, students, even the townsfolk were fond of him. It’s all here.” She handed over the letters.

“How did he end up back on the reservation?”

“I don’t know . . . we lost touch, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” The judge unsealed the letters and glanced over their contents. Alma watched him read—the back and forth of his eyes, the grind of his teeth as he chewed on the butt of his cigar. Surely this would sway him. His nose twitched. An eyebrow rose. Alma held her breath.

“His history is very interesting, Mrs. Mitchell, but nothing in these letters precludes him murdering that agent. I’ve seen plenty of good, intelligent people commit crimes.”

“We just need a little more time!” She winced at the shrillness of her voice. “Your Honor.”

“Have you ever been to a reservation? Rough places.”

“Like you said, the Indian Wars were done a long time ago. They’re farmers now. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

The judge sat back in his chair, silent. Alma could hear the surge of her pulse in her ears. Again he looked between her and Stewart, and for a brief moment, as their eyes met, his gaze softened. He sucked a long drag off his cigar and blew the smoke off to the side.

“All right. I’ll give you ten days, Mr. Mitchell. After that, no more blasted motions or delays.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Stewart said.

Alma smiled, a true smile. “Thank you.”

The judge snorted and returned to his lunch. Between mouthfuls of sandwich he said, “Temper your zeal, Mrs. Mitchell. You might not like what you find up there.”





CHAPTER 16


Wisconsin, 1888



“You took plenty time,” said when Alma arrived at the rendezvous point behind the large maple at the edge of the yard. “We were about to leave without you.”

“I had to wait for my parents to sleep,” she said, panting. “Father only just snuffed out his candle.” Her less-than-graceful climb down from her bedroom window had left her palms scratched and the pads of her feet stinging.

Minowe snickered. “Next time we leave you for the Windigo.”

“I’m not afraid,” Alma lied as they started into the woods. Though she could easily find the secret clearing, she would hate to brave the dark forest without them. Tales of this man-eating monster were popular around their bonfires, and she often thought she heard his cry lurking in the wind. But tonight, Alma’s anxiety ran deeper even than the Windigo. She, Minowe, and did everything together. To be left behind, to trudge along without them and arrive alone, that would hurt her more than any spirit could.