The Drums of Change (24 page)

By the time her father awoke, Running Fawn had calmed her troubled mind and had his savory meal of venison prepared and ready to serve.

He smiled as she knelt at his side and offered him the steaming broth. She was glad to see that his eyes were still bright, his voice steady, in spite of his having lost much weight.

“You are here,” were his words of greeting.

She nodded and smiled.

“I feared I was only dreaming,” he continued.

“No,” said Running Fawn. “No, I am back. I will care for you now.”

He was silent until she had finished feeding him. He sighed in contentment as the last spoonful was swallowed.

“Crooked Moose had a good hunt,” he said, nodding in appreciation.

“Crooked Moose is not back,” she informed him.

He frowned. “
You
hunted for venison?”

Running Fawn found herself smiling softly, both in amusement at his words and at the secret she carried. “No. No, Silver Fox shared his hunt,” she finally brought herself to say.

“Silver Fox?”

Running Fawn nodded.

“Chief’s son?”

She nodded again.

The old eyes began to glisten. It was clear to Running Fawn that her father was thinking of the old ways. He saw the gift of meat as far more than the willingness of a neighbor to share. “That is good,” he said with a contented sigh.

Running Fawn wondered if she should remind her father that Silver Fox had lived away from the reservation for some time and might not intend to propose a future union. But she could not bring herself to speak the words. Her father would not understand how it had been at the school. How different the two worlds were. She held her tongue and said nothing.

After a morning rest, Gray Hawk announced that he wanted to be up to sit by the fire.

“The sun is warm,” explained Running Fawn. “I have let the fire die.”

He nodded. “I will sit by the fire ring,” he insisted.

Running Fawn helped him up and placed a blanket over his frail shoulders. With her help he was able to leave the tepee and take a place on the ground in front of the fire’s ashes.

“I will build the fire,” she began, but he stopped her with a feeble wave of his hand.

“The sun is good,” he said, and she knew that he did not need the fire.

She had started work on one of the drying hides. It would have been so much easier had it been done at the proper time, but she would do the best she could. The tanned hide would be needed.

She also had cut the remaining venison into long, thin strips and hung them in the hot sun to dry. Flies buzzed about the meat and she found herself continually swatting them away with a buffalo tail.

At last she turned to her father. He had been watching her silently.

“The flies are bad,” she observed. “So many.”

“Always many,” he answered.

She wondered if there had always been such a plague of flies or if the number had increased. Had she just forgotten? Or had she simply paid no attention to them before?

She continued with her tanning.

Her father broke the silence. “They were good to you?” he asked, not needing to explain who he meant.

“They were good,” she answered honestly.

He seemed pleased with her answer.

“You learned many things?” he asked after a few more moments of silence.

“Many things,” agreed Running Fawn.

He pondered for some time before asking, “Do you believe their God?”

Running Fawn whirled around to face him, her eyes wide, the shock showing on her face.

“No,” she said hurriedly. “I kept my own—our own gods.”

She wondered if she should say more. What had he thought? That she would betray her own people? Her own heritage?

But he did not appear to be condemning, though she could tell he was deep in thought. “Why?” he finally asked, his tone gentle.

Running Fawn was stunned. What was he asking? What did he want her to say? Was he really expecting an answer?

“I am … one of the people,” she said, feeling somewhat bewildered and flustered. “We have always believed—”

He was shaking his head. “Things change,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe the old gods went with the buffalo—no longer hear our prayers.”

Running Fawn stared in disbelief. Then she spoke with vehemence. “They will come back. They will come back when we have found our way again.”

“No,” said the old man, shaking his head wistfully. “No, I do not think so. Perhaps they were all a dream. A vapor. Now they have vanished—like the sun when night comes.”

“And like the sun they will return in the morning,” argued Running Fawn, conviction in her voice.

“No.” His one word was curt, final. Running Fawn wondered if she should go to him, comfort him.

But he did not seem despondent. He lifted his proud head and there was still determination in the dark eyes. “I have thought much,” he said. “The God of Man With The Book speaks well. I believe He is the only God with real power. He must now be the God for our people.”

Running Fawn could only stare.

Crooked Moose returned from the hunt, and across the front of his mount was the fresh carcass of an antelope.

After exchanging greetings, Running Fawn set to work to preserve the meat. Her father was still beaming with the good news of the hunt when she turned to him.

“I prayed the Blackfoot prayer of the hunt,” she informed him, hoping her words would also say that the old religion of the people still worked just fine.

His seamed face broke into a smile.

“I prayed also,” he told her.

Now it was Running Fawn’s turn to smile.

“See,” she said. “We do still have a god.”

“Yes,” he confessed. “We do. I prayed to the God of heaven, in the name of Jesus His Son.”

Running Fawn felt anger join her confusion. To return to a father who had laid aside the old religion for the God of the mission boarding school was something she never would have dreamed.

Her head lifted in defiance, something she had never done before. “Then I suppose we do not know which one answered,” she said meaningfully.

He only smiled in reply.

Running Fawn could not imagine what had happened to her father.

Chapter Seventeen

Care

As Running Fawn knelt over the cooking fire, adding buffalo chips to the flame and stirring the pot, she was reminded that life for her people was not easy. She had a fleeting moment of longing for the large enameled stove of the mission school, with its even heat and easy accessibility to fuel.

She may have disliked those days bent over a hot iron pressing items that seemed a complete waste of her time, but she had to admit that the hand-turned washing machine was much easier than hoisting her laundry bundle and heading to the river.

If she had been totally honest or allowed herself the pleasure of any further reflection, she even might have admitted to missing a few of the mission’s tasty dishes. But Running Fawn determined to close her mind to the past two years of her life and look steadfastly forward. She was Blackfoot. She was where she belonged, living the life to which she was born. If there were parts of it now that did not please her, she buried them deeply within and did not allow herself to think about them.

“Go see Man With The Book.”

Gray Hawk spoke the words while Running Fawn leaned over the fire, stirring the pot of seasoned stew. Even though the day had just begun she already felt tired. Her arms and back ached from the unaccustomed long hours of labor that had taken her time the previous day. The sun had set before she had the antelope meat on the drying racks and the hide scraped in preparation for tanning. She longed for a less busy and tiring day, even though she knew her work had really just begun.

She looked at her father with questioning eyes. Why was he commanding her to go see the white missionary? Surely he didn’t expect her to learn more of his religion. She had been at the boarding school for two years listening to the talk about the Great God and His Son Jesus. If that had not convinced her, then it wasn’t likely that anything else would.

“He needs food,” went on her father in explanation. “He is ill.”

“Does he not have someone to care for him?” asked Running Fawn.

“There is no one near him any longer. Old War Woman used to take him food. She is gone now. No one else lives close.”

Running Fawn had noticed the distance between the tents. It seemed strange that they were now scattered over the prairies instead of forming a loose circle where they could enjoy one another’s fires and companionship.

She straightened and looked at her father.

“Why?” she asked. “Why are the tepees so distant? Do my people no longer get along?”

He stirred and pulled his blanket closer about his shoulders. “It was the sickness,” he answered. “The Agent thought the sickness would not spread from tent to tent if the people lived farther apart.”

“But it didn’t work, did it?” Running Fawn commented with a hint of bitterness. Ever since her return she had been hearing names of those who had not survived.

“They tried,” said her father, resignation in his voice. “They did not have enough medicine for everyone.”

“Perhaps they should have used the medicine of our people,” retorted Running Fawn.

He shook his head. “The old medicine is not good for the new sickness,” he responded.

His words only made Running Fawn more agitated. The new sicknesses would not have come if the white man had not brought them from their distant lands.

“Go see Man With The Book,” he repeated now. “Take him some food from the pot.”

Running Fawn knew she must obey but she hated the thought of a long trek across the prairie to visit someone she had no interest in. She placed another stick on the fire under the pot and turned to her father.

“You will be all right?”

He nodded. “Crooked Moose will be home soon.”

Running Fawn was not so sure. She had seen little of her brother since she had been home. He slept late and then left as soon as he had filled his stomach with the food she had prepared, not giving any indication as to where he was going or how long he would be away.

“Do you want to go to your bed?” asked Running Fawn.

“I will sit in the sun,” he responded. “I feel stronger now.”

Running Fawn studied him carefully. He did look stronger, but surely just a few meals of nourishing food could not have made that much difference.

“You go,” he prompted. “Make the journey before the sun is high.”

Reluctantly she nodded.

“Where does he live?” she asked.

Her father picked up a small twig and drew a map on the ground. Running Fawn had no difficulty following the simple directions.

She placed some food in a small pail and set off, anxious to get the mission behind her.

But it turned out to be farther than she expected. By the time she reached the small crude dwelling, the sun was high in the sky and her face was flushed. She dreaded the long trip back home in the heat. Then she had to face the work of putting the hides to soak in the acid compound.

She wasn’t sure how she should make her entry. Call and walk in as was the way of her people, or stop and knock on the door, waiting for an invitation, as the whites would do?