The Drums of Change (9 page)

There was nothing to do but to return home to familiar territory. Chief Calls Through The Night gave his order to break camp one crisp spring morning when the wind from the north still carried a hint of late skiffs of snow.

It was not a wise time to be making such a long trek over open prairie, but there was no choice. Montana would not sustain them longer.

Wearily they dismantled their tents and packed their bundles for the long journey. But exactly where it might take them—and how many of their number would actually arrive at the destination—were questions no one asked aloud.

Running Fawn secretly feared for her mother. She had not really gained back her strength since the long trip south when she had become ill. Would the return trip be too much for her?

Moon Over Trees insisted on walking as the trek began. Running Fawn fell in step beside her, anxious but afraid to speak. By the end of the first day’s journey, she noticed that her mother’s usual firm step was already faltering. Day by day the wind became more bitter, the rations more scarce. Soon members of the small band were coughing, others were gasping for sufficient air, and the pace of the whole group slowed considerably.

By the end of the sixth day they buried the first body. From then on it seemed to be a somber part of each day’s march. As the numbers slowly dwindled, old folk, children, the weak, and the worn gradually disappeared from the evening campfires.

Running Fawn’s fear clamped her stomach in knots. Her mother had taken to riding the travois now. She barely had the strength to build the cooking fire at the end of the day. Fortunately, Bright Star seemed not to be suffering from the journey. For that Running Fawn was thankful. The small child would keep her mother fighting to live.

By the time they reached their old winter’s campsite in the sheltering arms of the Rockies, the band was half the size it had been when they had left it. Running Fawn, beginning her eleventh winter, was so glad to be back again. Surely now in these familiar, beloved surroundings things would return to normal. Surely now her mother, who was still clinging to life, would get completely well. There were no buffalo in their hills, but they could make do with the deer and elk and moose. The animals had always provided for their needs in the past, and they would continue to sustain the band now. There was no need to trek out to the plains each summer. There were no more buffalo to hunt. They could live in their hills—forever.

Life returned to its rhythm and routine. Running Fawn picked up her bucket and headed down the familiar path to the spring. Her first action upon arrival was to carefully scan the entire area to make sure that she was alone. Assured that the white missionary was not occupying a seat on a nearby rock, she lowered her pail to the ground and stepped back until her shoulder gently brushed the granite rock.

They were later than usual in setting up the winter camp, and snow already dusted the landscape with white. That long trail home from Montana had seemed to stretch farther with every step they took, but now they were home. Back where they belonged.

Running Fawn sighed in contentment. There was a security in the wind brushing through the pine needles. A security in the soft murmur of the nearby stream, still not entirely frozen over. And there was security in the cold, solid rock at her back. It had always been there—and forever would be. Surely that made one breathe a little easier. Just knowing that some things did not change.

It had been a difficult time for the people, the young missionary wrote from the blankets where he lay. He had not been well, had in fact been sure at one point that he would not live to complete the arduous return to the hill country, but God had spared him. He paused, pen in hand, as he lay propped up on his bed of buffalo robes. He felt that he must get some kind of report back to the Mission Society—but what could he say? How could he possibly make them understand his situation—the situation of his people?

So he wrote simply, “It has been a difficult time for the people.”

There was no use trying to describe the frustration, the pain, the death. There were no words to make them feel a part of, or understand, the suffering. Better to just leave the details unspecified.

The buffalo herds had been depleted, he went on to explain.

Running Fawn was surprised when the chief announced that Man With The Book would begin classes, and she was chosen as one of the children to attend. The school would be held in a special tent erected for that very purpose. Though she secretly admitted that she did have some curiosity, she was not flattered by the invitation. In the days preceding the actual start of the school, she busied herself with tasks close by her mother’s fire. There was an uncertainty—a gnawing fear about learning from the white man.

The chief seemed pleased with the arrangement. “Our world changes,” he had told the gathering. “We must change. The White man is here to stay. We must learn his ways.” He nodded toward the young missionary, still weak and thin from his illness, but smiling softly nonetheless. “Man With The Book teach. He teach the son of my old age,” the chief concluded, drawing his robes tightly around frail shoulders and nodding toward Silver Fox, who sat quietly, legs crossed.

There were a total of six children selected for the school. Running Fawn knew them all, though she and the other girl in the group had spent little time with the four boys. Laughing Loon was a bit older than Running Fawn and was much more outgoing. In Running Fawn’s mind, the young Silver Fox was almost a man. She wondered why the young brave should waste his time with lessons and books. The other three boys were younger than he was.

In spite of her reluctance to learn from the white man, Running Fawn soon found herself caught up in the classes. Her inquisitive mind reached eagerly for new knowledge. But it was Silver Fox who proved to be the natural student. Running Fawn noticed that the missionary teacher spent extra time with the young brave.

Before too many weeks had passed, one of the boys dropped out. He simply had no 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.