THE AWKWARDNESS DISSIPATED when the girls discovered that in addition to their shared dislike of sewing buttonholes, they also both hated putting in whalebone stays. Together, they giggled their way to a solution: When it came time to put in the stays, they would take turns so neither one would have to do all of them.
“And the same with buttonholes,” Bess proposed.
“A blood vow,” Hanna replied. “Which of your fingers has the most pinpricks?” They held up their fingers and pressed them together.
At the end of the day, Hanna was more than satisfied with their progress. It now seemed entirely possible that, with both of them working on it, the dress could be finished in two more days.
As Bess rolled up her apron, she said, “I almost forgot. Would you walk with me to the church site? My pa is working there this week, and he asked me to tell you that he’d like a word with you.”
“Of course,” Hanna said. She wondered why Mr. Harris wanted to speak to her, and asked Bess if she knew.
“No, I don’t,” Bess said. “But he didn’t seem upset at all, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Hanna didn’t actually know what she was thinking, so puzzled was she by the request.
The church was being built on Second Street, two blocks beyond the schoolhouse. Walking with Bess past the school in the hot sunshine, Hanna was surprised by how small the schoolhouse looked. She had been a student there only a week earlier, but it felt like years ago.
When they reached the building site, Mr. Harris was up a ladder, nailing rafters. He spotted the girls and waved.
Charlie Hart was there too, framing a window. “Hullo, graduates!” he called out.
Hanna and Bess smiled—at him, and at each other. They stood waiting in the narrow stripes of shade formed by the wall studding. A few moments later, Mr. Harris climbed down the ladder and took off his apron. After a long drink of water from a jug half buried in the grass, he wet his kerchief and wiped his face and hands.
“All right,” he said. “I think I’m just about presentable now, and if I’m not, you’ll have to pretend and pardon. Bess, would you fetch that jug and my apron to the wagon? I need a minute with your friend here.”
“Yes, Pa,” Bess replied as Hanna’s heart did a one-step jig of happiness. Your friend, he had said.
Mr. Harris walked with Hanna several paces away from the skeleton church. “Don’t worry, Hanna—you’re not in any kind of trouble,” he began.
She was relieved. She couldn’t think of anything she had done wrong, but there was something about being around the law that made a person feel guilty.
“I just need to ask you a few questions about what happened on Monday.”
Monday?
Mr. Harris continued, “Your father told me that you’d seen some Indians outside their lands.”
This was about Wichapiwin! How could she have forgotten?
Papa told him—even after I begged him not to. Papa, how could you?
I could lie. I could say I never saw them.
He’s the law. I have to tell him the truth.
But what if the laws are unfair? Didn’t the colonists disobey King George’s laws because they were unfair?
Hanna almost missed what Mr. Harris said next. “. . . what you saw, and we’ll go from there.”
She swallowed hard, and her answer was a long time in coming. “I’d rather not say.”
She saw his blue eyes widen in surprise. “Well, now. Can’t say as I expected that.”
He didn’t sound angry, just puzzled, which gave her the courage to speak further. “Mr. Harris? I—I wouldn’t lie to you. But do I—do I have to tell you what I saw?”
“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice gentle but his words firm. “There’s no courthouse here, but I’m the law, and everyone has to answer to the law.” A pause. “If you don’t, that’s called contempt, and it’s within my rights to arrest anyone for contempt.”
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.
“That pass system,” he said at last. “As far as I know, its intent is to keep Indians from congregating for the purposes of war or raiding. In my judgment, a group of women and girls harvesting prairie turnip doesn’t constitute a threat to LaForge. I don’t see any need to send a report to Yankton.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Hanna exhaled, only then aware that she had been holding her breath.