It was a summer day, but Susan Lulu was confined to her room. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, illuminating her doll, disrobed, resting on a chair. Susan sat nearby, stitching a brown cotton doll’s dress: nearly complete.

So was her time out. She checked the bedside clock.

“Ten more minutes, Dolly. Mean old Phineas,” she grumbled.

He’d been angry when she hadn’t come home on time. Some kids were summoned by whistles, some were simply called, but Phineas’s recently acquired ship’s bell was loud.

Susan was too deep in the woods to hear it; consequently, she’d been late. She pulled the garment over her doll’s legs first, adjusting its sleeves over her stubby arms, buttoning it beneath her yellow yarn braids.

“There, Dolly,” she said. “Now we’re twins.”

Susan held Dolly up as they admired themselves in the mirror. Susan wore a long dress resembling a First Nation costume, belted around the waist with a colorful sash. Dolly wore a miniature version of the same.

Ever since day camp, Susan had been in full Indian mode. She and Marty spent every waking moment outside. Marty’s parents had no idea where he was playing. Phineas had only a vague idea of the direction his daughter took off in each day, but the woods were considered safe and no child was allowed to stay indoors, especially when the weather was fine.

Susan stared at herself in the mirror, imagining her plain brown Wohelo dress bedecked with fringe and dazzling beadwork. She stuck a crow’s feather in her headband, picked up Dolly, and opened the bedroom door.

“Can I come out now, Daddy? I made Dolly a Wohelo dress.”

“Yes, you can and oh, it’s beautiful. You’re becoming quite the seamstress, Susan. I’m impressed.”

“Can I go outside now? I’ll be at the Root Cave with Marty. I can hear the bell from there.”

“You’re wearing your Wohelo costume to the woods, Susan? You’re going to ruin it before you ever get to the ceremony.”

“I’ll be careful. I’m Sacagawea.”

“Oh. Okay, but before you go I want to show you this book from my childhood. I know you’ve been interested in Native American crafts and lore since joining Camp Fire.”

They sat together at the kitchen table as Phineas turned the pages. Susan was fascinated. The book contained detailed pictures and plans for costumes and designs, including the elaborate head dresses of the Plains Indians and even a teepee.

“Oh Daddy! Can we build a teepee? Will you help me?

Phineas didn’t answer for a minute. He looked carefully at the plan in the book, then closed it.

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Susan had to be cautious of her dress on the forest path, so she lashed Dolly to her backpack with a shoe lace.

“You need a papoose cradle,” she told her doll. “Look for a board.”

Chickadees bounced from bough to bough as Susan hurried along the narrow path, clutching her skirt away from blackberry thorns. She spotted one of Phineas’s bat houses hanging high on a hemlock’s trunk.

A chickaree squirrel saw her coming. It trilled the alarm. Steller’s jays fled, squawking, when she arrived at the camp. She startled a mountain beaver, basking in a sunbeam.

“Fear not, little brother,” Susan as Sacagewea said aloud, her palm held up toward him. “We come in peace.”

She stood still for a moment to see if he’d return. Sword ferns bordered the path until it widened into a clearing at the Root Cave, formed by the curved roots of an ancient Douglas fir. The immense tree had fallen across the deep ravine carved by Skookum Creek. Eventually, its tangled roots became a perfect cave for kids.

Raccoon footprints festooned a mud pit near the edge of the plywood floor of the cave. Susan hung her backpack on a knobbly root, making sure Dolly could watch. Miniature pots and pans, a plastic shovel, and a child-sized chair lay scattered about. Susan began to tidy the area, pulling up bracken ferns, weeding, tossing sticks and stones aside.

“This will be a perfect spot for our teepee,” Susan told her doll as she dragged a fallen bough to one side. “And this can be our first teepee pole.”

Just then, Marty came strolling across the Doug fir bridge like it was a sidewalk. Susan remembered when they’d been afraid to cross it, but now it seemed easy as pie.

“Whadaya doin’?”

“Making a flat spot for my teepee.”

“You don’t have a teepee,” Marty laughed. He scrutinized Susan’s regalia.

“You’re not an Indian, you know, Susan. Just ’cause you’re dressed like one doesn’t make you an Indian and doesn’t get you a teepee.”

Susan dropped some sticks and a rock. She stood with her hands on her hips, scowling at her friend.

“Yes I can so make a teepee. What do you know anyway, Marty? You’re just a dumb kid, but I have my dad’s book of Indian craft and lore.

“He’s gonna help me make a teepee just my size, and I’m going to get a special badge for it. This is where I’m gonna set it up.”

Marty admired Susan’s costume. He noticed that Dolly, hanging nearby, wore matching brown muslin with beads and fringe.

“Can I help make the teepee, Susan?” he asked.

“Maybe. You can help me find fourteen straight poles.”

“Okay. I will after I swing.”

They soared, hanging backwards from the rope into the broad space above Skookum Creek, seeing the forest upside down as they arced across to a preferred landing spot.

Then they set out. Susan was Sacagawea with Dolly lashed to her back. Marty was both Lewis and Clark, leading the way across the Doug fir bridge into the wilderness.

Susan knew she was dangerously close to forbidden territory: the abandoned house was nearby in the shadows, reminding her of the terrifying witch she’d imagined crouching there, ready to grab a child.

She’d promised to avoid the old homestead, so they took another route along the bank. She rolled up her dress, tying it around her waist with its sash to protect it.

They found several possible poles, stashing them along the path to be collected later, climbing over tangled vines, tumbling across fallen logs, feasting on wild mountain blackberries, warm in the sun, juice popping sweet and sour on their tongues. Marty jumped onto a log.

“Hey, look at this, Susan. It’s not a fallen log. It’s a fort.”

Marty was standing on a low structure near the edge of the ravine. Twisted trunks of ancient vine maples secured the bank where earth had been removed to create a room topped by timbers. Overgrown with moss and ferns, it was invisible from the path, but from Marty’s log you could see cleverly constructed steps angling in.

“The Big Boy’s fort!” they crowed together, gripping each other’s hands as they jumped up and down with glee.

“Never tell anybody. “

“This is our place.”

“Blood and pinky swear.”

They were chicken to pick their scabs, so they linked little fingers instead, vowing absolute secrecy forever.

They moved in that afternoon, dragging toys over from the Root Cave, believing the big boys to be grown up and long gone. They smoothed the floor with sticks and their hands, removing debris, pretending to be pioneers.

“Someday, when I run away, this is where I’ll live. Then they’ll be sorry for getting mad at me every time I get dirty. I’ll stay here and be dirty all the time,” Marty told Susan as they threw the last of the trash into the ravine.

“Listen.”

Susan held up a very dirty hand for silence.

Phineas’s ships bell!

“Oh, Marty. I have to go. I’m late and it’ll take forever to get home. Bye.”

Susan lit out running, holding her long skirt above her knees with both hands. Marty noticed she still had Dolly tied to her back.

* * *

At home, Phineas asked Susan what she’d been doing all day.

“Your Wohelo dress is a mess, honey. Have you been digging?”

“No,” Susan lied, bending her head over her teepee project.

“Because you know, Susan, digging in the dirt is dangerous.”

Susan looked at her dad with her mouth open in disbelief.

“You say that about everything, daddy” she argued.

“Well, when I was a boy, two kids got buried when their tunnel fell in on them. They were in a sandbank, digging, building a fort, so be really careful, please. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, and you know how you are.”

“I know,” Susan smiled at her dad innocently.

* * *

The next morning, Susan couldn’t find her Sacagewea costume. She looked under the bed. She looked in her costume trunk under the stairs. She looked in the laundry, but it wasn’t there. She asked her dad.

“I have it, Susan. I put it away so you won’t ruin it before the Fly Up ceremony, and you’d better get busy if you’re going to finish your teepee on time.”

“I know. Marty and I found some poles. Can I borrow a shovel?”

“I thought you weren’t digging.”

“I’m not digging, just clearing a place for my teepee.”

Phineas regarded his daughter solemnly. She wore a sun top and blue jeans with ancient tennis shoes and no socks. A brightly colored headband kept her blonde bangs out of her eyes. Each blonde braid was wrapped with a leather thong knotted with wooden beads.

“You can borrow my trowel, but I want it back. And don’t dig in any sandbanks.

“I won’t.”

* * *

Susan felt guilty about lying to Phineas, but she’d pinky blood sworn with Marty never to tell any adult about the fort. She wondered if never mentioning an incident counted as lying.

She’d never mentioned the time Marty’s horse Molly had run away up the bridle trail with Susan hanging by one heel and the old mare’s mane. Nor had she spoken of the time she’d nearly fallen from the branches of a weeping willow, catching herself by her armpits, body dangling, regaining safety only after repeatedly attempting to fling her leg over the branch, finally climbing in relief to the safety of the ground.

“We’ll be careful, right Dolly?” she said aloud as she tied the toy to her backpack.

Marty was already busy at the fort, digging away with his dad’s folding shovel, dirt and rocks flying into the ravine.

“Be careful, Marty. You’re digging under that post.”

“I want the floor to be flat. Did you bring some tools?”

Susan unpacked an old tarp Phineas had discarded and his trowel. She took a drink from the bottle of water she’d included, offering it to Marty. When they were refreshed, she hung her backpack on a branch outside.

Marty was on his hands and knees in a corner of the fort, shoes illuminated by a narrow beam of sunlight shafting a bright triangle through the roof onto the floor. Susan was alarmed by thin cascades of sandy soil falling from above.

“Get a log, Susan. I want to shore this up.”

“You get a log, Marty. And watch out, that’s falling!”

Marty flung his hands toward Susan as rotten timbers gave way. They fell together into the entry way, feet and legs covered by debris. Marty had dirt in his eyes. Susan remembered her water bottle. She pulled him out, encouraging him up the dirt stairs and outside to safety.

Retrieving her water bottle, Susan gave Marty a drink to clean dirt from his mouth, then washed his eyes. They stood together, brushing dirt from each other’s shoulders and hair. Marty was filthy, smeared with soil. His clothes were a mess.

“Oh man, I’m gonna be in so much trouble. My parents don’t allow me to get this dirty, Susan.”

He set off dejectedly on the long walk through the forest toward home. He didn’t look happy, Susan thought as she watched him go. If he hurried through the woods to the highway, he could cross safely near the corner store, then follow the white-fenced bridle trails to his home, hopefully arriving before his parents.

“One good thing,” she told her doll. “At least I wasn’t wearing my Wohelo costume.”

* * *

Susan hurried home, anxious to clean up before Phineas came up from his studio. She hadn’t heard the bell, so she figured she was safe, ducking into the bathroom, stuffing filthy jeans into the laundry, dumping the sand from her shoes outside.

By the time she heard her dad’s footsteps on the steps, she was curled in a comfortable chair, patiently basting together two scavenged sheets.

“Dad, will you help me with my teepee tonight,” Susan begged after dinner.

“Yes, I will. I’m building some more bat houses down at the studio, so we can use the big table there. Bring those sheets.”

“I have a spot all smoothed out for my teepee by the Root Cave, daddy. Marty and I want to sleep there when it’s finished. Could we, daddy?”

Susan imagined herself, snug in her teepee in the firelight, with Dolly lashed to a papoose cradle hanging from a tent pole.

“Maybe. Let’s get this project finished, then we’ll see.”

At the studio, Susan unfolded two king sized sheets she’d basted together, spreading them across the framing table while Phineas fetched the pattern. He showed her how to use a pencil tied to a string to draw a large semicircle, then helped her cut along the penciled line.

He demonstrated how to rip extra pieces from the remnant for a smoke flap and ties. She wished she had time to decorate the tent with lightning symbols and red hand prints.

“Now you must hem that edge, you know. Fold the cloth over twice, pin it, then stitch it tight so it won’t unravel.”

“I know, Daddy. Dolly will help me.”

“Oh, by the way, Susan. Where’s my trowel?”

Susan winced.

* * *

The next day, Susan packed a peanut butter and blackberry jam sandwich, folded carefully in wax paper, along with a bottle of water. She tried to call Marty to tell him to meet her at the fort, but she got no answer.

It had rained overnight: the forest was misty, the Doug fir bridge slippery. She sought assistance from huckleberry bushes as she peered into the cavernous ravine, bristling with sticker bushes and nettles. An owl flew silently past as she regained her confidence, sprinting the last few yards like a race horse, leaping onto the path.

Susan fairly flew along, cantering as she imagined herself riding across the Great Plains on her pinto pony. In no time, she was at the fort.

“Hey, Marty? Are you here? I forgot my dad’s trowel.”

“And I lost my dad’s stupid folding shovel.”

Marty came out of the fort wearing jeans and no shirt. Instead, he had a red Pendleton blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Beads hung on his pale chest. He wore a headband around his forehead. On his feet were leather slippers.

“I’ve decided to live here from now on. Promise you won’t tell anybody. We’ll be Indians and I won’t have to go to military school.”

A tear rolled down Marty’s cheek.

“Don’t cry, Marty. We’ll live here and when my teepee’s done we can live there, too. Look, I brought you a sandwich.”

After he ate, Marty felt better. They turned to their task: finding the tools they’d lost. Luckily they’d spread the old blue tarp before the roof caved in, so it didn’t take too long to uncover the trowel and the shovel.

“I got in so much trouble, Susan, because I got dirty, I lost the stupid shovel and I forgot to feed Molly. They think military school will help me buckle down, but I don’t want to buckle down. I want to be an Indian, like you.”

“Don’t you worry, Marty. We’ll be Indians, but first I have to take this trowel home. I’ll try to get back to see you later. Bye.”

When Susan got home, Phineas was hanging up the phone.

“Have you seen Marty, because his parents are worried. He’s been gone for hours.”

Susan remembered her solemn promise to Marty so she shook her head no.

“Well, I have to meet them at the store. They’re organizing a search party, so grab a flashlight.”

Susan saluted.

“Roger, wilco,” she yelled as she ducked into her room.

She waited until Phineas marched off down the hill, then doubled back through the kitchen for more sandwiches. She ran to the Root Cave, over the slippery Doug fir bridge, screwing up her courage as she imagined wolves and witches lurking in every shadow.

The light shafted low through the green forest canopy. Shadows formed along the path, suggesting snarling beasts or gnarled hands. Susan pulled out her flashlight when she got to the fort. She climbed down the carved stairs. It was dark inside. Marty sat in a corner, wrapped in his blanket, a dejected little figure.

“Please come home, Marty. Everybody’s worried about you. My dad’s joining a search party. You must come back.”

“Ya know, I’ve been thinkin’ the same thing, Susan. You don’t happen to have another sandwich, do you?”

Susan was glad she had the flashlight as they followed the long path through the woods toward the highway and corner store. The same trail that had seemed so inviting and pleasant during the day was forbidding in the fading light.

“Hold my hand, Marty. We can pretend to be Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods.”

They heard people calling Marty’s name before they emerged from the forest near the store. Adults were heading in all directions with flashlights. Susan spotted Phineas talking to Marty’s dad.

“Here we are, dad,” she called, leading blanket-wrapped Marty by the hand.

Marty’s dad rushed over to scoop him up, running toward the others to stop the search.

“He’s okay! Marty’s okay. He’s right here.”

Phineas picked up Susan, hugging her tight.

“That was a brave thing you did, Susan, leading Marty out of the woods. I’m proud of you. You might be part Indian after all.”