Grade Three was no easier than Grade Two, or Grade One. Henry was still in George’s class, but there was a new boy, too. He was light-skinned and had sandy brown hair and eyes flecked with green. He was almost as pale as the teacher, but George knew the boy couldn’t be white because the teacher whacked his fair head even more than he whacked his own. The new boy was half-breed. George and the others were full-breed, and they taunted the half-breed because he was different and because they all knew that a half is less than a whole.

      In late autumn the Grade Three boys were turning over Mother Hall’s flowerbeds at the front of the school. The neighbouring farmer guided his mare through the gate, and as soon as the farm cart rolled to a stop, George climbed into the back and started shovelling manure into waiting barrows.

      The old man watched the boys working and his heart was troubled. He studied the one with sombre eyes who stood in the wagon, briskly shovelling manure, and he wondered how the boy had got the bruise on his cheek, and what secrets were hidden behind his expressionless face.

      A grey jay flew overhead, swooping between the bars of an opening in the wall and hitting the glass with a thud.

      Everyone turned to watch as it fluttered to the ground and lay still.

      “Poor thing,” Mother Hall said, peering closely at the bird, “it probably broke its neck.”

      The boys gathered around and stared.

      George was suddenly attentive to every detail. The gate was open, and Mother Hall was distracted. He looked at the old man who sat in the driver’s seat of the cart, the reins loose in his hands. Much to George’s surprise the man looked right back at him, then stood and lifted the seat, nodding toward a hiding place beneath. George’s heart raced. Does he want to help me, or is it a trap?

      The jay suddenly revived, flopping around in the dirt for a few seconds, then flying in dazed circles around Mother Hall’s head. She ducked, shielding her head with her hands and screeching. The jay screeched too and the boys burst into gales of laughter.

      “Pssst,” the old man hissed.

      George did not hesitate. He dived under the seat and curled into a ball. The lid dropped and the old man clucked. “Git along.”

      The cart jolted forward. Above the sound of his pounding heart, George heard the mare’s hooves clomping on the gravel, the jangle of the harness, and the creak of the wheels.

      For a while the old man whistled, then mumbled words the boy could not hear.

      “What made you go and do that, you old fool? If Hall finds out, you can say goodbye to the work the school gives you, and the extra money that goes along with it. You’re a stupid old coot!” He laughed aloud. “But it sure feels good! Gets the old heart beating!”

      He raised his voice. “How are you doing down there, child? I can’t take you much further. I’ve got to hook up the other cart and get back. If I keep them busy they won’t miss you ’til later. By that time you’ll have a good head start.”

      The horse stopped in front of the barn and the old man climbed down, lifting the seat to help George out.

      “Come with me, I’ll get you some supplies.”

      In the farmhouse the old man wrapped a hunk of cheese in a square muslin cloth and stuffed it into a leather bag along with half a loaf of bread and a tin of matches.

      “Do you know how to work these?” he asked.

      George shook his head.

      The old man opened the box and struck one of the small sticks against the rough strip on the edge of the box. George jumped back when the stick burst into flames.

      “Keep ’em dry and they’ll work fine.” He closed the little tin and put it in the bag, passing the strap over the boy’s head and straightening it over his shoulder. “Do you know your way home?” he asked.

      The boy nodded.

      “Good. But remember, they’ll send someone after you, probably the Indian agent and his dog. Go through water to throw the hound off your scent, and when you get home lay low, or they’ll fetch you right back here in no time.”

      The old man was beginning to regret his rash decision. The boy would never make it! He’d be caught and brought back, and no doubt punished. And if the boy implicated him in the escape ...

      “If they catch you, don’t say I helped you. Say you ran through the open gate.”

      The thought of being caught had not entered into George’s head when he dived under the seat of the old man’s wagon. But now, suddenly, he was terrified. They’ll catch me. I’ll get whipped, like Turtle was. The strength drained from his legs as if the bones had softened.

      A jumble of thoughts crowded into his head. Even if I get home, Father will send me back to school! Unless we leave the reserve and go back to Clear Lake, or some place where the white man doesn’t live. Another idea came to him. I’ll live with Crooked Ear. But deep down he knew it wouldn’t have worked. For one thing, he didn’t know where the wolf was or how to find him. And then he berated himself. You are so stupid!

      The prospect of being whipped like Turtle weighed heavily on his heart, and his courage failed him. If I go back to school right now maybe I won’t be punished too badly, maybe not at all. They may not even know that I am gone.

      He was about to tell the man that he had changed his mind and ask if he could go back to the school the same way as he had come, hidden under the seat, but the old man was handing him a rabbit-skin jacket. “Try this on.”

      The jacket came down below the boy’s knees, like a coat. It was warm, but more than that, it was comforting, like sitting next to a friend. It made him feel better.

      Cuffing the sleeves to make them shorter, the old man stood back to look at the effect. “The nights are getting cold and the snow will soon be here. You need to get home fast or you’ll freeze.” He led George outside. Hundreds of small black birds swarmed overhead. Moving individually and yet as a single unit, they veered to one side of the sky and then back to the other, the edges of the formation becoming ragged for no more than a second.

      “The birds