12 Drums of Change Read online

  Chapter Thirteen

  Travel

  When Running Fawn awoke, the half moon was casting a weak light on the prairie landscape, giving the earth an eerie appearance. A soft wind blew away some of the heat. Running Fawn welcomed the coolness and drew her blanket garment closer about her body.

  She felt prepared to think and plan now. She should have realized earlier the effect the intense heat had on her brain. She could have perished without even knowing that she was in trouble.

  Now she sat calmly, fingering the pillowcase that lay before her on the ground. It contained nothing now—nothing but the length of cord and the pair of useless oxfords. She lifted the case and let the shoes tumble out on the ground. They really were only a burden to her. She reached down and lifted one, then dropped it again. Why should she carry something that was of no use?

  Then she picked it up again, untied it, slipped the lace from the eyes and laid the shoe aside. She reached for the mate and repeated the process. Tying the two laces together she made a cord long enough to easily reach around her waist. It would help to have her blanket tied securely. Her hands would be freed for other tasks.

  Do I keep this? she asked herself of the empty pillowcase. She certainly did not need it to carry the small bit of cord. She could tie that about her body, too.

  I will take it. It might come in handy. I wish it would hold water, she mused.

  Running Fawn smiled at the thought of the white cotton holding water for her journey, then stuffed the cord back into the case and wrapped the whole thing about her shoulders.

  Water was her first concern. She started off through the moonlight in the direction that would lead to the river.

  I wonder how far away I have drifted? she asked herself.

  But she had not traveled for long before she could smell the river on the night air. Her steps quickened. Once she had alleviated her thirst she would be free to consider other needs.

  The water was cool as she lifted it to her lips and then splashed it over her face and arms. The wind cooled her body further as it evaporated the droplets. She sat with her swollen feet in the water and felt refreshed.

  Now I must have food, she thought as she stood and looked around the riverbank in the moonlight.

  She knew what her food supply must be. Prairie jackrabbits abounded. She would need to snare her meal.

  It took a good deal of effort and the rest of the night, but at last she was successful. She had carefully set traps fashioned from her cord and branches, and she did not give up until she had snared two of the animals.

  The moon had dipped behind a cloud and left her with little light. On hands and knees she began to grope around in search of a sharp stone that would aid her in skinning the animals.

  She found one that would meet her need just as the moon reappeared in the distant west and the first rays of the sun began to lighten the sky in the east.

  She felt good about her catch. The skins would make a protective covering for her feet, and the meat would sustain her on the trail. She would search for flint stones so she might build a fire to roast a portion. But if she failed, she would partake of the uncooked meat. It was better than starving. The rest of the meat she would cut into long strips and dry in the hot sun. Once pounded and cured, it would keep for days.

  She did not try to travel but rested in the makeshift camp for the entire day. She had made a foolish error in judgment by traveling in the heat of the sun without taking care to have plenty of water. She would not repeat the same mistake.

  Once her meat was prepared and stretched out to dry, and the skins were cleaned as thoroughly as she could with the sharp stone, she pulled the blanket closely about her body and lay in the coolness of the small bushes growing along the stream’s edge.

  Silver Fox backtracked for two days before he turned his mount and started his zigzag search of the prairie. It took him an additional three days to return to the farthest point he had been in his journey.

  He was worried and discouraged as he prepared to camp for the night. Again he was tempted to free the pony and continue on foot.

  “I think I have forgotten my tracking skills,” he said to the animal as he rubbed him down. “Surely there should have been something for me to pick up on by now.”

  He had bent down to place the hobbles on the front feet of the horse when his eyes spotted something in the dim light of evening.

  Carefully he lifted back the blades of grass and let his fingers trace out the small indentation. Yes. He was sure. It was the faint outline of a footprint.

  Barefoot, he noted to himself. She is not wearing the shoes. Feet bare—and swollen.

  On hands and knees he carefully crawled forward, searching out the next step. He found it. The left foot did not seem to be as badly bruised and swollen as the right.

  Forward he went, step by step. The prints were not even nor in a straight line. She seemed to be staggering as she walked. She was in need of help, of that he was sure.

  By her footprints, Silver Fox could tell she was not heading directly toward the camp but was off course. And she was moving away from the river rather than toward it. He raised himself to stare off into the gathering darkness. Then he returned to the pony.

  “You are tired and hungry, I know,” Silver Fox said to the little animal. “I cannot ask you to travel farther tonight. But in the morning—perhaps we will find her. Her trail is not more than a few days old.”

  Silver Fox felt many emotions as he settled down for the night. He was relieved to see some indication that she was still alive—at least as of a few days ago. He grieved at the suffering she must be enduring. He was impatient to be back on her trail, but he could not ask for more from the small pony. The animal was already near exhaustion.

  It was an unusually long time before Silver Fox could quiet his whirling thoughts enough to drop off to sleep.

  In the morning he ate quickly, not bothering to build a fire. Then he set off for the pony to begin the day’s journey. He hoped he could hold his impatience in check and not push the animal too fast.

  He had nearly reached the small horse when his eyes spotted an unusual object in the grass off to his left, and he went to take a look at it.

  As he approached he could see that it was a shoe. His pace quickened. Yes. Yes, it was one of the oxfords. Left behind, minus the lace. She had been wise to take the lace. He let his gaze drift out further and then saw the second oxford almost buried in a stand of tall grass. Its lace also was missing.

  He bent down to trace her footsteps. She was heading directly for the river now, and she did not seem to be staggering. She must have stopped to rest and sorted out her confusion.

  She was still able to think. To reason.

  Relieved, he quickly caught the pony and swung up on his back.

  “Friend,” he said to the horse, “we are getting close. Let’s find her.”

  The pony responded to the urgency in his voice and started off at a trot.

  After a few days of rest while she allowed her bruised feet to heal, Running Fawn was ready to travel on. She gathered her remaining meat scraps from the bushes where she had hung them to dry and placed them in the pillowcase.

  The meat would have been better with crushed berries, she thought to herself, but she knew that it would nourish her on the trail in spite of that lack.

  She had also gathered some edible roots and leaves. They were not her favorite source of food, but they would add to her limited diet. I much prefer mountain herbs, she thought as she placed the items in the sack with the meat. These are bitter.

  She had taken advantage of her resting time to make natural poultices for her feet. The herbal portions mixed with the river water had greatly eased the pain from her swollen feet and started the healing process. If I just had a few more days, she thought, they would be almost whole again.

  But she did not have more time. She feared that she had taken too long already. Her father might have died in the time that she
was delayed. Agitation spurred her to get back on her journey.

  Carefully she wound up her cord. She would need it for trapping again. She judged that she was only about halfway home.

  Her next task was to bind the skins, fur side in, around her feet. She used the laces from the shoes to tie them on, for she did not wish to cut the cord into shorter lengths.

  It was getting toward twilight and the heat of the day was beginning to lessen. She determined that she would now travel by night rather than by day. The hot sun and lack of water almost had left her senseless. She would not risk it again.

  Now she would follow the river’s path, even though the trail would be much longer. She knew that it would eventually lead her to the camp. She would not risk diverting from its banks.

  Gathering her small bundle on her shoulder, she prepared to set off. She had taken only a few steps when she noticed a rider top the ridge to her right. A feeling of fear swept through her. She had been seen. She should have been more wary. Now that he knew she was there, there was no place to hide.

  She started walking briskly, hoping the unknown rider would be intent on reaching the river and give her little notice. But the horse altered its course. The rider was obviously planning to cut her off.

  She cast her eye across the river. Should she swim?

  But it seemed of little use. The horse would quickly make its way across the stream.

  Nervously she lifted her eyes to the approaching rider. He lifted a hand in salute.

  She stared. There was something about the movement that caught her attention. It was not the wave of a white rider. Was it an Indian rider on the pony? Who? From what tribe? Would he be a friend—or foe? He did not appear to be wearing buckskins.

  Running Fawn felt terror ripple up and down her spine. There was no place to flee, so she stopped, turned and faced the unknown.

  As the rider drew near, her frown deepened. It an Indian—in white man’s clothing. Though she could not see him clearly through the gathering twilight, there was something strangely familiar about his carriage. He sat on the pony like—but no—that was impossible. Silver Fox was back at school.

  Running Fawn let her white pillowcase slide slowly off her shoulder and rest on the ground at her feet. The pony had increased its speed and was covering the distance at a brisk trot.

  “It ,” she said in English with a little intake of air. “It is Silver Fox.”

  He slid to the ground while his mount was still in motion—then just stood there. Stood and stared, as though trying to read her condition all in a moment of time. At last he nodded.

  “You are well?” he asked in their native tongue.

  It was her turn to nod, mutely.

  “That is good,” he replied.

  He took a step forward, one hand extended, but she knew he did not mean to shake her hand. Did not mean to touch her. She did not advance to meet him—just stood and stared, wanting to weep for some unexplained reason. Just before he reached her he stopped again. His eyes were still intently fixed on her face.

  “We feared for your well-being,” he said simply.

  Running Fawn knew that the pronoun included those at the boarding school. Again terror gripped her heart. No. Not now. Not after all she had been through.

  “They asked you … to take me back?” she asked simply.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  With resignation her shoulders drooped. It was as she thought. She would never see her father again.

  To him she said slowly, “Do you not understand? Have you forgotten our people?”

  He shook his head, his dark eyes glistening in the light that still lingered.

  “No,” he said evenly. “No, I have not forgotten. I told them I would take you home.”

  He convinced her to camp for the night. The pony was too tired to move on. Now that they had joined forces the travel would be much faster. He had supplies, a canteen for water, he explained. They would not need to follow the river so closely but could take the route that would lead them directly to the Reserve, detouring only when they came to a farm site or a ranch.

  She reluctantly agreed and laid aside her small bundle.

  He built a fire and spread out the food he still carried. She looked long at the little supply and then asked him if she could make some bannock. He smiled. She quickly and expertly prepared the familiar staple.

  “Let me see your feet,” he ordered gently when they had finished their meal. She was reluctant, but obediently unwrapped the rabbit skin. In the glow from the fire, he carefully examined one foot and then the other. They were scarred and bruised with some unhealed abrasions, but there was no sign of infection.

  “Put more of your healing salve on them and leave them open to the air overnight,” he suggested, and she nodded and laid aside the skins.

  “We will travel with first morning light,” he continued. “It is best that you sleep now.”

  Running Fawn nodded assent and began to wrap her blanket garment more closely to her body.

  He went to his pack and came back with two blankets that he handed to her. He would sit by the fire for most of the night, or rest on the open ground, he told her.

  She started to protest but he stopped her. “You must be rested for the journey,” he replied.

  She took the blankets and spread one on the ground and wrapped the other snugly about her. She felt too full of thoughts and questions to sleep. Too full of conflicting emotions. There was so much she wished to know.

  At last she spoke into the darkness.

  “Are they angry?”

  He stirred slightly and looked over at her.

  “Angry? No. Worried. Very worried.”

  She thought about his words for many minutes, then she spoke again.

  “I need to pay them—for the things I took,” she confessed.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Do you need to pay them?” she asked, remembering the supplies and the horse.

  “No,” he answered again. “They gave.”

  She was relieved about that. At least she had not caused him also to have a big debt.

  She lay in silence for many more minutes.

  “How did you find me?” she asked softly.

  The question filled the darkness between them. How did I find you? he repeated the words silently in his heart. With her traveling one way over the vast prairie, and him on another course, how had he found her? If he had not bent down to tie the hobbles at that very spot where she had stepped—? And with her plans to travel by night and his to travel by day—? If he had not found her when he did, would he ever have found her? Would she have made it alone?

  At last he spoke. His voice was soft in the stillness of the night.

  “They pray,” was all he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Storm

  They were up and on their journey before the morning sun was even showing on the horizon. Silver Fox decided that now that he had located Running Fawn he would change his pattern. They would travel through the early morning until the sun was reaching its peak in the sky, then rest during the heat of the afternoon while the pony grazed, and again take to the homeward trail in the cool of the long twilight.

  Though she yearned to spend every possible moment on the trail, Running Fawn agreed to the plan. She knew she had pressed herself too hard those first days.

  “You ride,” insisted Silver Fox and gave Running Fawn a hand up onto the pony’s back.

  She did not argue. He already had much to say about the need for her feet to complete their healing.

  As planned, they traveled until noon, then the pony was allowed to feed and rest while they tried to find shelter from the sun.

  As soon as the heat began to lessen, Silver Fox whistled for the pony and they continued their journey, eating from Running Fawn’s dried meat as they traveled.

  By the time they stopped for the night the water canteen was empty, so Silver Fox decided to visit a farm building tha
t lay off to their right. He would have walked but the pony needed watering too.

  Running Fawn tried to sleep while she awaited his return, but she could not control her misgivings about his mission. What if he should not be welcomed? What if the farmer decided that the young Indian was a threat? Was he in danger?

  She finally heard him approaching their campsite. She stood to watch him draw near.

  “Have you water?” she called.

  “Yes,” he answered and lifted the canteen while she breathed a sigh of relief.

  She stood silently until he entered the camp and lowered the canteen to her waiting hands. “They also filled this big bottle for me,” he said, grinning and holding the bottle up for her to see. “It is two days’ supply—or a drink for the pony, whichever is needed.”

  Running Fawn looked at the bulky bottle. Though it would be difficult to manage on the horse or in the blanketed sling that Silver Fox carried over his shoulder, it would make their journey much easier—and quicker.

  “The man said there is a spring ahead, about two days’ journey. We can fill again there. Then he advises that we follow the river. Up ahead, it turns and leads almost directly to the Reserve.”

  That was very welcome news to Running Fawn.

  “They also sent you this,” he went on, drawing a small bundle from the large one he held.

  Running Fawn stared in disbelief at the familiar-looking buckskins he held up.

  “They trade with the Sarcee,” Silver Fox explained.

  Running Fawn sighed as her initial amazement and relief turned to the fact that now she had even greater debt to repay.

  “I traded two tins of oily fish,” he said lightly. He smiled. “The farmer’s wife said she is so tired of salt pork and venison steak that she could hardly swallow another bite, so she welcomed the tins of fish.”