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interest in learning and thus disrupted the rest of the class. Man With The Book did all he could to pique the lad’s interest, but nothing seemed to engage him. At last the missionary conceded defeat, at least for the present, and allowed the boy to withdraw.
    All through the long months of winter, the small class met to study in their makeshift classroom. Cold days just drew them in closer to the fire, making eyes sting with woodsmoke as they strained to read the unfamiliar letters on their teacher’s chalkboard, then reproduce them with pieces of charcoal on slabs of wood.
    “I will get paper and pencils for you as soon as I can,” he promised, showing them the precious items from his limited stores.
    But Running Fawn found it hard to let herself go, to become fully involved in the joy of learning. In taking in this new world, she feared that she was losing her grip on the old. Something about seeing Silver Fox throw himself wholeheartedly into the excitement of the strange English words and of the printed page brought fear to her heart. On the one hand, she could not but admire his keen mind. But on the other, she felt that he was, in some way she could not explain, betraying his people. To further confuse matters, she was beginning to be aware that Silver Fox was a ruggedly attractive young man and one at whom other girls her age cast silent, inviting glances.
    And he was kind and thoughtful, often helping the younger students to learn a new lesson, carefully explaining it in their own tongue, then translating the words to the difficult English ones. Running Fawn always flushed, disturbed and confused, when he bent close to help her. She could not understand her own reaction.
    How could she admire yet distrust him at the same time? While she felt drawn to him, something deep within her sent her warning signals. He seemed too at home with learning, with the white man’s world. On the other hand, her mind argued, he was the chief’s son. Surely he would not turn his back on his own people. His father wished him to learn the white man’s language and ways. He was simply acting in obedience. But he seemed to enjoy the lessons so. Was it wise? And was it wise to be reading in the white man’s Black Book? Every free moment he had he seemed to be turning the thin pages.
    Running Fawn was confused. Her mind kept working at the problem, but she could not arrive at a satisfactory answer.

    “Fire!”
    The cry rang out in the darkness of the winter’s night. Running Fawn startled awake, felt her blood run cold. It was the most dreaded word in the camp. Fire could sweep over all the tent homes in a matter of minutes. Whose tent? Whose tent was burning?
    Even before she could disentangle herself from the robes, her father, followed closely by her mother, was out of the tent. Excited voices called to one another, “Fire. Fire.”
    Running Fawn crawled to the opening of the tent and snatched the flap back with trembling hand. At first she saw nothing except for milling bodies, but she could smell intense smoke in the air. She pushed herself through the opening and stood on shaking legs. The smoke was dense now. She could smell it and taste it and it made her eyes sting. Then she heard a shout.
    “It’s the school tent!”
    The school tent was set apart from the others—to avoid distractions, Man With The Book had said. It stood near the edge of the stream, not even under the shelter of the large pine boughs nearby.
    Running Fawn let out her breath. Perhaps … perhaps if they were fortunate—if the gods were not too angry, they could save the rest of the camp.
    She hurried along with the crowd that made its way toward the stream. Already dark figures silhouetted against the flames were fighting the blaze. Someone was swinging an axe to chop a hole in the ice for water. Another was beating at the fire with a length of buffalo skin. Others crowded close and threw handfuls of snow into the flames. Another man was hurriedly