Hanna almost choked on her next breath. It hadn’t occurred to her that she could be arrested if she didn’t tell him what she had seen.

“I’m the law here,” Mr. Harris repeated slowly. “There’s times when the law isn’t a cut-and-dried thing, and it has to be interpreted. In those cases, you have to trust the man serving the law.” He looked right into her eyes.

Papa had said that Mr. Harris was a fair man. He had allowed Hanna to attend school, ruling in her favor against all those parents. But she did not know how he felt about Indians. No, that wasn’t entirely true: The fact that he was a white homesteader on the frontier was in itself a statement against Indians.

But I’m no different. Papa and me, we’re right here in LaForge, same as Mr. Harris. This was Indian land until a few years ago—no. It still is Indian land. Stolen by white people. You steal something, that doesn’t make it yours.

And if Wichapiwin hadn’t had a pass, Hanna didn’t see where there was any room for “interpretation.”

She could tell him what she had seen, and risk the arrest of Wichapiwin and the others. Or she could refuse to answer, and risk arrest herself.

Her heart weighed down by the misery of her cowardice, she whimpered inside her head: I’m sorry, Wichapiwin, sorry sorry sorry . . .

“It was a group of Indian women,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Just women?”

“Women and children. Two little girls and a babe in arms.”

“What were they doing?”

“Digging for turnips.” In her mind’s eye, she saw images of Wichapiwin: eating soup, proffering the braid of timpsina, pulling a tuber out of the ground . . . Wichapiwin, a woman who might almost be a sort of friend now. Somehow, Hanna had to get Mr. Harris to understand that. But she would have to be careful not to give him too many details about Wichapiwin, which might put her in danger of arrest.

“Did you know that the Sioux word for prairie turnip is timpsina?” Hanna lifted her chin and steadied her voice. “They taught me that. And gave me some, and told me how to cook it. So I made soup and put in some timpsina, and Bess—she ate it and she liked it—” She stopped, aware that she was starting to babble.

“Soup, huh.” Mr. Harris hesitated before asking his next question. “I don’t suppose you saw any weapons.”

“Not weapons,” she said, “wooden sticks. For digging up the turnips.”

He looked thoughtful then, and was silent for several moments. Hanna stayed quiet too, sensing that he was now making up his mind.