“Positive,” I answered crisply.

He stood there with his hands on his hips, as if waiting for me to say more. He looked better with the paint off his face. Not any less Indian, but better.

“What’s your name?” I asked at last, knowing in my civilized heart what Miss Sumner would think if she ever heard me initiating a conversation with a man.

“Kaya. What’s yours?”

“Elizabeth Ann Everett.”

“People call you all that?”

“Well no,” I said, amused at his plain speaking. “Only my mother and teachers call me Elizabeth Ann. To my friends, I’m Liz.”

“What should I call you?” he asked, perfectly serious.

What, indeed? I couldn’t lump him in with relatives or teachers, and certainly not with friends. And yet, he had argued to keep me alive, and admitted he never should have startled my old horse. I knew right then that it was possible I would never have a better friend than this man. I couldn’t tell him that, of course, but there it was. I took a deep breath, not knowing then that it would be one of many during the next six weeks, as my mind and heart changed in unexpected ways, all because someone screamed and my horse was stupid.

“Call me Liz,” I said simply.

He motioned me toward the campfire, where he handed me a piece of brown, dried bark. I sniffed, and felt the saliva start to flow over… bark?

Kaya obviously knew skepticism when he saw it. “Camas root. Ground up, dried and baked. Try it.”

I took a cautious bite into something that tasted vaguely like turnips. I downed that morsel in three bites and looked around for more. There wasn’t any. That was another lesson in a day of hard education: Eat slowly and make it last.

A peculiar thing happened. I watched the others eat, making it last, and burst into tears. You know. The loud kind. I was hungry, getting cold, standing heaven-knew-where, surrounded by savages in war paint. It had not been a good day. I stood by the campfire and wailed.

Men being men, they were unsure what to do. Then another thing happened that made me feel that matters might work out. One of the older warriors, a man with gray hair, came close and put his arm around my shoulders. I cried harder. He said something and Kaya translated. “Liz, hush a minute. He wants to tell you that he has a daughter your age in camp.”

I looked at the older gentleman. I saw a father with a daughter instead of an Indian with face paint. The moment didn’t last long, but long enough for me to dry my tears. The man patted me on the back, and everyone looked relieved that I had dried up.

I did feel better. Trying to regain a little dignity, I walked back to the warm water stream and washed my face. I scrubbed at the layer of grit I had accumulated in the day’s travel. Maybe I scrubbed away a little immaturity, too. Time would tell.