Free Walks the Fire by Stephanie Grace Whitson

which to carry his catch back to camp. To Jesse’s great relief, Old One led the white horse.
    Running ahead to the village, Jesse hurried inside the tepee. Eager to be of help, she had decided that she would start the first fire. She had watched Old One do so several times, and although Old One used sticks instead of the flint and iron Jesse had used on the trail, she still felt confident that she could accomplish this “simple” task.
    Looking around for the long case that held the firesticks, Jesse emptied its contents. Laying the narrow cedar splint on the ground, she held it firmly in place with one foot. Taking up the small bow, she wound the firestick in its strong sinew and placed one end of the stick on the cedar splint. With her left hand she placed a hollowed-out rock on top of the firestick and began to saw with the bow, intending to spin the firestick as she had seen Old One do. With the first movement of the bow, her hand bobbled. The stick was dislodged from the indentation in the rock and flipped into the air.
    Jesse repeated the steps again, changing the way the firestick was wound into the sinew. It stayed in place—until her hand wobbled and the stick again came out of the indentation in the rock.
    Patiently, she set up the paraphernalia again. This time, as she sawed with the bow, everything stayed in place, but the fringe on the hem of her dress became entangled in the sinew. She gasped with impatience. Something made her turn around. Several of the village women were watching through the tent opening. They giggled, pointing at her and talking among themselves.
    Jesse’s face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. She tossed the firesticks aside and turned to face them, but they were gone, scurrying away as Rides the Wind set his load of buffalo meat down outside the door. Jesse sat in the dust, the firesticks at her side, fighting back tears. She looked up angrily, picked up the sticks and handed them over.
    “I wanted to help—but I don’t know how.” Her voice was miserable.
    Rides the Wind took the sticks and patiently demonstrated the art of making a fire. As he worked, she asked, “What were they saying?”
    Rides the Wind shrugged and ignored her.
    “I want to know.” She was kneeling next to him, trying to work the sticks as he had shown her.
    Reaching over to steady the hand that held the rock, Rides the Wind said slowly, “They gave you a name.”
    “I have a name. My name is Jesse King.”
    “That is not Lakota. It means nothing.”
    “Then what name do they give me?”
    “Woman Who Makes No Fire.” Jesse flinched and turned away to hide the tears that threatened to spill over.
    Rides the Wind offered no comfort. He continued to demonstrate the starting of the fire. Jesse sawed the little bow back and forth rapidly, angrily, and the force of her anger brought success. A tiny, glowing coal was finally created at the base of the cedar splint. Rides the Wind deftly tossed it into the tinder in the fire pit and blew on it steadily to encourage the flame to grow. In a few moments, smoke rose from the tepee’s opening.
    The village women observed the smoke, but they did not change Jesse’s name. A few of the more eligible young women wondered how long it would be before Rides the Wind realized his mistake and returned the clumsy woman to her own kind.
    Yellow Bird said it aloud. “The child does not need her. I would feed him buffalo soup and cherry juice. He would grow strong. He needs a mother from the people, not this woman who will teach him strange ways.”
    Prairie Flower surprised herself by defending Jesse. “If Rides the Wind had wanted a woman from the village, he could have had one. Many hoped he would wrap his buffalo robe about them. He did not. It is our custom to be kind to the weak. We should help her if she wants to learn our ways. You have seen that she tries to learn. She cares well for the child of Dancing Waters and Rides the Wind. I have seen her tears