12 Drums of Change Read online

  There would be no further burden of debt. The garments had been purchased, thanks to Silver Fox’s bartering.

  She could not wait to get into real clothes, and she clutched them to her as she hurried off to switch from her wrap-around blanket into the buckskins. There were even a pair of moccasins for her feet, and Running Fawn thanked the tins of fish that had provided her with such comfort. She felt that she had once again become a whole person. The Sarcee garments differed only slightly from those of the Blackfoot, and she was thankful to Silver Fox for thinking of her needs.

  After the two days, they had indeed run out of water. The pony had required a share of the bottled water since an unusually dry year had meant no streams or even a small slough. But they found the spring as the farmer had promised. With immense thankfulness they knelt at the water’s edge and drank deeply along with the pony.

  Then they rested. The long days of travel were taking their toll.

  “It is going to rain,” observed Silver Fox the next morning.

  Running Fawn lifted her eyes to the sky. All she saw was a wispy cloud far to the northwest.

  “Thunderstorm by afternoon,” Silver Fox predicted.

  The small bit of white on the horizon looked so harmless, so scattered, that it was hard for her to believe it could carry enough power to be a thunderstorm by the afternoon, but she did not argue with Silver Fox. She did notice his stride lengthen as though he wished to cover as many miles as possible before the storm struck. The pony quickened his pace to keep step.

  “What is his name?” Running Fawn asked after they had traveled some time in silence. Silver Fox turned to look at her.

  “The horse,” she explained. “What is his name?”

  “I do not know.”

  “They did not name him?”

  “I suppose they did. But Otis did not tell me—and I did not ask.”

  “You should name him,” she mused after further silence. He dropped back to walk beside the pony. “Name him if you wish,” he offered.

  Running Fawn sat up straighter and smiled in delight. She had never named an animal before. She wasn’t sure if she should pick a name that would suit an Indian pony or a name like the horses from the boarding school stable.

  Prancer? Yellow Mane? Prince? Quonto?

  At length she spoke in English, “What do you think of Little Giant?”

  He laughed softly at her choice and reached up to pat the neck of the sweating animal.

  He answered her in the same language. “Little Giant? That is good. That suits him—just fine.”

  By midafternoon the clouds were rolling toward them, dark and menacing. The wind that accompanied them was blowing strong and held a chill. Silver Fox took Little Giant’s reins to move him forward at a faster pace. But it was not long until the storm’s full fury was upon them. Dark clouds, with a frightening white streak through the center, were bearing down upon them, and the strong wind pushed against their progress.

  “Hail,” Silver Fox shouted into the wind, then hail blew into their faces. “We should find cover.”

  Running Fawn looked around them. As far as the eye could see was open prairie. Not even a small shrub offered any kind of shelter from the storm.

  “I think we should stop,” Silver Fox reiterated, “and do what we can for protection before the hail strikes.”

  He offered a hand to Running Fawn and she slid down off the pony. She wondered what they could possibly do for protection from the storm.

  “The blankets—” Silver Fox was saying as he slipped the bridle from the pony. “Get all the blankets from the pack.”

  “Blankets will not stop rain,” argued Running Fawn.

  “No, but they might be some shelter from the hail.”

  Quickly Running Fawn unrolled the bundle and pulled free the three blankets it contained.

  “Fold them together.”

  Running Fawn obeyed.

  “Now wrap them around you. Especially over your head,” he ordered.

  Running Fawn looked at him in concern.

  “And you?” she asked simply.

  “I will be fine,” he answered just as large drops of cold rain began to beat down in earnest upon them.

  Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled angrily across the darkening sky. The wind had reached gale proportions. Running Fawn was glad she was wearing the buckskins and had the added protection of the extra blankets.

  “The pony,” she cried, watching the small animal drift away, head down with the wind.

  “We will have to see to him later,” Silver Fox shouted against the noise of the storm and the first icy balls of hail pelting down with the rain. “Quickly,” he yelled. “Get under cover.”

  Running Fawn sank to the ground and held the blankets up for him to join her.

  “No,” he shouted in response. “I will be fine. Wrap them around your head and shoulders.”

  Running Fawn rose to her feet and cast the blankets to the side on the ground.

  “If you plan to face the storm,” she called against the wind, “so will I.”

  He stared at her in frustration, then swept up the blankets, pushed her to a sitting position, and threw the blankets around their shoulders. Huddled together they felt the full assault of the storm as the hail began to pummel them.

  For minutes that seemed like hours, wind-driven jagged balls of ice pounded them on the head, the back, the shoulders, while cold rain beat down on them and formed a puddle beneath them. By the time the hail had diminished, Running Fawn was shivering uncontrollably. Her garments were soaked through and her hair was dripping. The cold rain continued to fall, and the force of the wind seemed to drive the chill to her very bones.

  Silver Fox finally lifted away the sodden blankets.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  She managed to nod her head. She was too cold to speak.

  “You have some welts,” said Silver Fox, looking at her bare arms. Running Fawn was sure her back was just as bruised. Because he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, she could not tell if Silver Fox had bruises on his arms.

  “I … I think I am fine,” she finally said through stiff lips. She noticed that she did not have to yell to be heard. The wind was dying down.

  He nodded.

  “Do you think the sun will return?”

  Silver Fox stared at the sky. The rain was still falling and the clouds seemed to stretch all the way to the northern horizon.

  “I think it will rain for some time,” he answered.

  Running Fawn shivered. It seemed that there would be no way to get dry. Even though they had matches, there would be no dry fire material, and a fire could not be kept burning with the rain pelting down.

  “We may as well walk,” said Silver Fox. “Are you able?”

  Running Fawn nodded, then cast an anxious glance around.

  “What about Little Giant?” she asked.

  “He will have drifted with the storm. I’m afraid we cannot take time to look for him. It will be dark before long.”

  Running Fawn knew in her heart that he was right, but she hated to lose the pony. Besides the welcome relief for her feet, he had become a friend. Had he been able to endure the hail? One of the big stones on his head could be disastrous.

  “Let’s try to wring out the blankets.”

  She took one end and together they tried to twist them free of their sodden load. Water ran on the ground, but the coarse wool had soaked up the rain like a sponge, and the blankets still were much heavier than they should have been. They bundled their provisions into soggy piles. Without a pony to share the load, Silver Fox laid aside the heavy bottle, now empty and too cumbersome to tote along. The young man lifted the smaller bundle to Running Fawn’s shoulder, then hoisted his own, including the rifle.

  Together they trudged on through the somewhat gentler storm.

  They pushed on until it was too dark to see. The rain had ceased to fall, but they were very wet. With night coming and th
e cold wind still blowing against them, they were both shivering uncontrollably in spite of their exertion.

  “We must stop,” said Silver Fox.

  Running Fawn was only too glad to quit for the night. Her whole body ached from struggling through the mud, carrying her load. But to stop walking meant they would no longer have the little bit of warmth generated from their movement.

  “It will be cold,” noted Silver Fox. “Everything is wet.”

  Running Fawn nodded, her teeth chattering.

  “The blankets will be of no use.”

  She knew that.

  “We cannot build a fire.”

  She knew that too.

  “It will not be a pleasant night.”

  He was right, but she was too cold to comment.

  “Let me see if I can pile the bundles to break the wind a little,” said Running Fawn, and he worked in the dark to make some kind of wind shelter, using the rifle to prop up one edge.

  “That is the best that I can do,” he said finally.

  It wasn’t much, but it did help. Running Fawn sat down on the sodden ground behind the blankets and pulled her knees up tight against her chest. It was now so dark she only felt Silver Fox lower himself to the ground at her side. At first she held herself apart, self-conscious and shivering.

  She had not forgotten that she did not share his ideas. He had always been more open in accepting the ways of the white man than she felt he should be. They still had not resolved those differences, though on the trail they had made an un-spoken agreement to lay them aside for the time being. She was so thankful that he had come to help her find her way home that she was glad to accept his help, regardless of his interest in learning the white man’s ways. In the days they had traveled together, she simply would not let herself think about their difference of opinion.

  Now as they sat shoulder to shoulder in the darkness of the stormy night, she dared to think that perhaps he had changed. She wanted him to change. She wanted him to care as much for their people, for their history, their ways, as she herself did.

  There was something about him—a depth to his character—that drew her to him in spite of her resolve to hold herself aloof. He was someone she admired. Someone with great strength. If only he would forsake his fascination with this new learning and return to the ways of his past. The old ways had served their fathers. They were good enough. If only …

  But wait. He had left the boarding school. He had voluntarily taken to the trail. Didn’t that mean—? He was taking her home—back to the Reserve. Surely it must mean … He was going back too. He was going home to their people.

  In the cold darkness she leaned just a little more toward him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reunion

  Running Fawn struggled to her feet in the morning and found herself to be so stiff that she had a hard time moving.

  Silver Fox was already walking about, flexing his own stiff muscles, working his arms and legs. He smiled at her. “Did you know you had so many parts that could ache?” he asked her.

  Running Fawn shook her head. Even that motion hurt. She reached up to feel a couple of sore spots that must have been from the pounding hail.

  There were blue bruises on her arms, and she knew from the way her back and shoulders felt that she was bruised there as well.

  “Walk around a bit—slowly,” advised Silver Fox, “then we will begin our journey.”

  Running Fawn obeyed.

  As soon as they were reasonably free of their cramped muscles, they started out. With no pony for Running Fawn to ride, she tried to keep stride with Silver Fox. But she noticed several times he had to consciously slow his pace to match hers.

  Silver Fox observed, “We should have no problem with a water supply,” and Running Fawn nodded. The heavy rain of the day before had filled low-lying slough bottoms. It also made walking more difficult.

  They walked steadily on, their conversation only occasional. Running Fawn’s moccasins felt twice their normal weight.

  Soon the sun was shining brightly down upon them, sending dancing heat waves reflecting off the sodden ground. The whole world steamed. The day promised to be another scorching one. Running Fawn felt the chill leaving her body. She knew it would not be long until she would be longing for just a bit of the coolness of the night.

  They stopped to rest around noon and ate from their diminishing food supply and drank from the common canteen.

  Running Fawn was beginning to feel drowsy with the heat and the lack of real sleep. Silver Fox seemed to notice.

  “Perhaps we should stay here during the heat of the day and walk when it begins to cool off.”

  Running Fawn nodded, in spite of her inner urgency to keep on the move.

  “It will give the blankets time to dry,” went on Silver Fox and rose to unbundle the packs and spread the still-wet blankets out in the sun. At once they began to send little shivering breaths of steam upward.

  Running Fawn found a smooth rock and curled up with her head resting on her arm. In just a few moments she was sound asleep.

  When she awakened she noticed that Silver Fox had already wrapped up the two bundles. He appeared anxious to be on the trail, and she wondered why he had not awakened her. Now he looked at her, smiled slightly, and asked, “Do you feel better?”

  Running Fawn nodded. She felt much better after her long rest.

  “I do not think we are far from the river,” he observed. “We can rest on its banks tonight.”

  Running Fawn lifted her pack. It was much lighter now that the blankets were dry.

  She was ready to go. If they were near the river, then they would soon be home.

  As they approached the river she noticed Silver Fox hesitate midstride. His head came up as his eyes swept the slope before them. Fear immediately sent a shivering signal down the length of Running Fawn’s spine as she too paused to search the landscape.

  But it was a deer, foraging on the river’s green grasses.

  “No,” was Running Fawn’s whispered plea as Silver Fox lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

  The gun lowered, and Running Fawn felt her cheeks warm as the deer bounded to the safety of a hidden ravine.

  She wondered if she should apologize. She knew Silver Fox’s automatic response came from a tradition as old as time. But the deer had been such a beautiful, graceful sight as it lifted its head and stared at them with solemn, wide eyes.

  She was about to open her mouth to speak when Silver Fox turned to her.

  “We have no way to carry the meat,” he said softly, as though it had been reason rather than emotion that had sabotaged the hunt. “One should never be guilty of waste.”

  Running Fawn nodded silently, inwardly thankful once again that she had not been born male. The role of hunter would be a difficult one. She did not envy Silver Fox his Winchester.

  But as she walked, she smiled softly to herself. She had the strange feeling that Silver Fox was not sorry to have a valid excuse for allowing the beautiful animal to bound away unharmed.

  By the next evening they were close enough to the Reserve to see campfires and tents in the distance, though not those of their own band. Running Fawn felt her spirit lift and her body gain new energy. Soon … soon they would be home with their own people. Soon life would return to normal. She found it hard to be patient at their walking pace as they pressed on through the twilight.

  A small girl on the way to the river for water was the first one to notice the two travelers approaching. She turned and called and soon a woman poked her head out from a tent flap. Running Fawn heard the excited call but was too far away to understand the words.

  More women and girls joined the little cluster and looked and pointed and talked excitedly.

  Silver Fox raised an arm in greeting and the noise in the camp increased. Children broke loose and came running to meet them. Mothers called after them but it was encouragement, not concern, in their voices.

  When they were near e
nough to hear the words, “Welcome, welcome,” Running Fawn felt her heart quicken and her throat grow tight with emotion.

  Soon they were surrounded by the chattering children asking questions and expressing welcome, all in noisy clamor.

  “Where did you come from?” “How is your health?” “Welcome.” “Have you had food?” “What is in your packs?” “Welcome.” “Welcome.” “Do you bring gifts?” “Welcome.” “Welcome.” “Welcome.” Silver Fox laughed at the friendly confusion. Running Fawn wanted to bend down and hug each one of the youngsters.

  She noticed inquiring glances her way and strange looks on some of the small faces and then remembered that she was wearing buckskins of the Sarcee.

  “See,” she explained, pointing to herself. “I have the Sarcee dress—but I am Blackfoot. Blackfoot—like you.” Doubt still showed in some of the eyes.

  The women approached more slowly than the children with a more decorous welcome. They, too, noticed Running Fawn’s dress, and she felt compelled to explain again. She recognized none of the people.

  They were welcomed to a campfire and given food. A few men had gathered and squatted around or sat on robes or blankets, anticipating any news of the world beyond their borders.

  Silver Fox opened their bundles and handed the few items as gifts to their hosts. A blanket to the man, the knife and a small sack of beans to his wife. The canteen to the young son, who beamed with great pleasure. When he passed out the pony’s bridle, Running Fawn wished to protest but she held her tongue. The remainder of the rabbit jerky was given to the children. They shared the treat, chewing off a bite before passing it on to the one next in line.

  Silver Fox spoke then, explaining the reason for their long journey and their desire to get home quickly to see Running Fawn’s father who was ill.

  Dark eyes darkened further.

  “There is much sickness. Much sickness,” they said. “Many die.”