12 Drums of Change Page 14

  Then one younger brave turned to Running Fawn. “Who is your father?” he asked her.

  “Gray Hawk of Calls Through The Night’s band,” she replied.

  He thought deeply for a moment, then nodded. “I know. They are on the other side of the Reserve,” he noted.

  Running Fawn felt her heart sink. She was home—yet she was not. The Reserve covered four hundred and seventy square miles. If her father was somewhere on the other side, they still had a long way to travel.

  The man reached down and with his finger drew a map in the dust at his feet. Silver Fox moved closer and crouched on the ground, his eyes intent on the drawing. Running Fawn, still not recovered from her deep disappointment, was struggling with the thought of further travel.

  It turned out that it was not as bad as it could have been. When Silver Fox turned back to her he held up a finger. “A long day’s journey,” he said and seemed pleased with the fact.

  Running Fawn tried to look pleased too, but she felt only tired.

  That night they shared the tepee of one of the families and left early the next morning before the sun was up. Following the river seemed to be an almost direct route to the camp of their band, and so they traveled along its general course, keeping a listening ear for the gentle flow of the water.

  Midafternoon they decided to draw closer to the stream for some rest from the sun and a refreshing drink from the flowing waters.

  Silver Fox had just lowered the bundle with their few remaining supplies to the ground and stood to stretch his muscles when Running Fawn gave a little gasp.

  Silver Fox jerked upright and turned to look in the direction her finger was pointing. There stood the pony, head up, ears perked forward, riverbank grasses hanging from the corners of his mouth.

  “Amazing,” said Silver Fox in English and started toward the small animal, Running Fawn close behind.

  The pony did not seem to be harmed by the storm. Silver Fox ran his hands over his back, his neck, his head, and on over his withers and down his legs. The horse flinched on a few occasions but only as he might have done to dislodge a pestering fly.

  “He has a few lumps,” observed Silver Fox, “but nothing serious.”

  “Little Giant,” murmured Running Fawn, passing a hand over his stout neck and ending with an affectionate pat, “we thought we would never see you again.”

  She turned to Silver Fox. “We have no bridle.”

  “You have the cord,” he reminded her, nodding toward the bundle. They moved toward the small pack, Silver Fox leading the pony by a handful of his mane.

  “Do you still wish to rest or should we go on?” asked Silver Fox after the cord had been fashioned into a bridle over the pony’s head and around his nose.

  Running Fawn knew he intended that she would ride again. The sun was very hot overhead, and she realized that Silver Fox too must be warm and weary. As much as she ached to be back on the trail and that much closer to home, she nodded toward the nearby cluster of stunted willow and said, “Let’s rest a bit.”

  He nodded and handed her a blanket from the bundle and laid the other aside for himself.

  Then he made a hobble of sorts from the pillowcase that had not been discarded. It was no longer a snowy white, having been used in many ways along the dusty trail. Running Fawn knew she would not be able to return it but would need to replace it. The ladies at the boarding school would not be wanting such a stained and torn item back.

  The hobble would not have been needed. When Running Fawn opened her eyes later, the pony lay on the grass a short distance from the two forms on their blankets. He seemed as pleased to see them as they had been to see him.

  Soon on their way again, they passed tents or simple houses and exchanged greetings with their occupants. Running Fawn found it hard to not linger for a chat, even though she was impatient to be on her way. It was so nice to be hearing her own familiar language.

  They did not make it to their own group that evening but joined another family for the night, shared the meal from the cooking pot, and visited around the fire.

  Running Fawn was welcomed into the crowded tent, but Silver Fox declined and slept in the open. There was little room in the tent for extra bodies.

  Early the next morning Running Fawn arose, stepped carefully over sleeping forms, and joined Silver Fox. Her heart beat rapidly. By the time the sun was casting a full shadow, she would be with her family, her father.

  Running Fawn was sure she could never stand the tension of this final leg of their journey as the prairie miles slipped slowly beneath their feet. Silver Fox seemed to sense her agitation.

  Even Little Giant picked up on their mood and his steps quickened. As the morning advanced, Running Fawn noticed that the steps of Silver Fox were beginning to lag. The long days of travel and the heat of the sun had taken their toll. She was glad there was now no bundle to carry. They had given the last of their supplies to the family from the previous night. But she felt guilty that her impatience was pushing the young man beyond his strength.

  “Why do you not ride?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head.

  She waited some time before she spoke again.

  “Little Giant is rested. He would carry two.”

  Silver Fox stopped and his eyes traveled over the pony. His sides were wet from the heat of the sun but he did not look overly tired.

  “Perhaps,” he responded.

  Running Fawn slipped quickly from the animal’s back, wanting to get his agreement while he was open to the idea.

  Silver Fox accepted the cord rein and drew himself up onto the pony’s back. Then he reached down a hand for Running Fawn. Taking his hand and stepping up on his positioned foot, she was given a boost to the animal’s back behind him.

  The pony tossed his head and set off, his hooves beating a steady rhythm on the prairie sod.

  It was midmorning when they approached a group of familiar tents belonging to their own band. One With The Wind was the first to look up from stirring the cooking pot and see the small horse with its two riders. She called and soon others were milling about, pointing and talking to each other as they waited to identify the visitors.

  The two were almost to the little group before Silver Fox was recognized and the idle chatter became excited calls. Running Fawn could wait no more. As Little Giant moved forward, she slipped from the back of their mount. She stood silently, looking at her people.

  Tears pressed against her eyelids, but she blinked them back. She would not weep. Not now. She was home. Home. The word held magic.

  Her eyes quickly scanned the gathering group. There was old toothless Bitter Woman. Running Fawn was surprised that she had escaped all the sickness. And there was Scar Nose—and Single Tooth and, yes, little Mountain Dove. How she had grown. And then, there before a fire, stood her friend, Laughing Loon. She had grown into a lovely maiden now. A maiden with dark, shy eyes and a gently curved body that even loosely flowing buckskins could not hide.

  Running Fawn found it hard not to run. Not to call. Not to go racing into the camp to embrace each member of her tribal family. But she stood, silent and dignified, waiting for Silver Fox to dismount and lead the way. She was back to her own people. She was back to her own ways.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Unexpected

  Running Fawn felt her stomach tighten as they neared the tepee of her father. He had moved since she had been home—but that was not uncommon.

  “Does Gray Hawk still live?” Silver Fox had asked the little cluster of excited people.

  “He lives,” had come the reply.

  “His son, Crooked Moose?”

  “He hunts.”

  “Where is Gray Hawk’s lodging?”

  A long, thin finger pointed. “Over the small hill, on the path to the river.”

  So they had crossed over the hill and found the path that led to the river. A lone tent stood in a circle of bare ground. In front, a cooking fire had burned out. Ther
e was no wisp of blue-gray, curling gently upward into the motionless air. A blackened kettle hung on the tripod, but no steam rose from the contents. Two deer hides, draped over a stick frame, were set to dry in the sun. Running Fawn could see at a glance that they were past the prime time for curing.

  Silver Fox brought the pony to a halt, but Running Fawn did not move to dismount. She could not have explained her hesitation after the long, long anxious days on the trail, except that a fear gripped her very being, making her reluctant to face what might lie behind those tent flaps.

  At least he lives, she reminded herself. He lives. I have come in time.

  Silver Fox reached out a hand to help her down and slowly she swung off the horse’s back.

  Still she hesitated. He seemed to understand.

  “I will go,” he said softly and handed Running Fawn the rein before she could protest.

  Already night’s blackness was closing in upon them. It would be dark in the tent. She knew that no warm fire would glow to give light. It was too warm for inside fires, and besides, her father had no one to tend it for him.

  Running Fawn felt herself stiff with tension as she waited for Silver Fox to reappear. What had he found? Was her father even now leaving to join the Great Spirit? Had she been too late after all?

  The flap on the tent fluttered, then lifted and Silver Fox slipped out. Running Fawn could see a faint glow outlining his form. There was some kind of light in the dark tent after all.

  “I have lit the lamp,” he explained.

  “Lamp?” queried Running Fawn.

  “Lantern—of the white man.”

  “Where—?”

  “They trade now,” Silver Fox commented. “Much has changed.”

  Running Fawn said nothing. She did not need to be reminded.

  “He waits for you.” Silver Fox nodded toward the tent.

  “Is he—” she began but couldn’t finish the question.

  She could see the shine of his eyes, the slight indication of a smile in the gathering darkness.

  “You will see,” he encouraged.

  She turned to enter, her heart still thumping in her chest. Just before she ducked into the tepee she turned once again.

  “And you?” she asked softly.

  “I go to my father,” he answered.

  She held his gaze with hers in the stillness. There was so much she wanted to say. Yet she did not know how to say it. Even the white man’s English, with its many words, failed to express what she was feeling.

  At last she whispered just two words. Two words that she hoped he would understand. Two words that came in English, though she could not have explained why.

  “Thank you.”

  She dipped her head, lifted the flap, and entered the tent.

  He lay on a heap of buffalo robes in the corner, coarse blankets covering his shrunken frame. He did not stir, and she wondered for one frightening moment if he was no longer able to move.

  She dropped to her knees and crawled forward over the skins on the floor. With one hand she reached out to him, touching the creased cheeks with trembling fingers.

  “You have come,” she heard his quivering voice whisper.

  She was weeping then. Full, salty droplets that squeezed from under her eyelids and washed down her sun-browned face.

  “I have come,” she repeated.

  “It is good.” A deep sigh escaped him, making his whole frail body tremble.

  She stroked his cheek and gently brushed aside the graying hair that wisped about his weathered face.

  There was so much she wanted to know, needed to ask—but it would wait. There was no need to talk now. She was home. He was still alive. That was all that mattered.

  She was up before the sun, building the fire and putting on the cooking pot. It was as she had feared. The blackened kettle held only water. Crooked Moose had not returned. She would need to find something for them to eat. Her father needed meat for nourishment. She wanted to have something ready for him by the time he awoke.

  There was a small garden to the left, but the few scraggly plants looked to have been left unattended and were withered and dried from summer’s sun. She knew the garden needed water, and carrying water from the nearby river to care for the plants was woman’s work. Crooked Moose would not favor taking on the task. He would be much more at ease with hunting game for the cooking pot.

  But she could not wait for Crooked Moose to return. Her father needed food. She set out to see what she could find.

  Two small boys fished along the riverbank. One already had three fish lying at his feet. She longed to strike a bargain but could think of nothing that she had to barter. She passed them by.

  She thought of her bit of cord and wished she had it with her. She might be able to snare a jackrabbit. But she reminded herself that it was now sunup. The rabbits would be hiding out for the daylight hours and would not come out to feed again until twilight.

  There seemed nothing to do but to find some prairie plants for a simple stew. They would not be much nourishment, but at least it would provide something to tide them over until she had a chance to meet with the Indian Agent and request a few needed supplies.

  The first rays of sun already carried warmth and promised another day of intense heat. She was adding fuel to the fire for the stew when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves.

  Expecting to see Crooked Moose returning from the hunt, she lifted herself slightly and found the short prayer of her people raising in her throat, though not spoken aloud. May the Sun God have smiled upon him. May he bring meat for the cooking pot. Nourishment for all who live within our tepee.

  But it was not Crooked Moose who pulled his horse to a stop near the campsite. Silver Fox swung down lightly and turned to silently hand her a bundle wrapped in deer hide. Running Fawn recognized the way it was bundled, the way it was presented. It was meat. Sustenance. Nourishment.

  Confusion washed over her face. Was Silver Fox being Indian? Or white? Was there significance in the extended hands? Or was it simply an offer of good will that he had learned at the boarding school?

  She did not know. Could not ask.

  A young brave brought meat as a gift. As more than a gift. As an indication that he was willing to provide for a maiden for the rest of her lifetime. That he was a worthy suitor, a good provider, a man intent upon taking on the role of her husband.

  And if the maiden accepted his gift, she was giving her answer. It was not misunderstood.

  Their eyes met—and locked. Running Fawn tried to read the message that his held. But she could not understand—fully. She had been too long away from her own people. He had been away too long. Did they still use the language of their people, both spoken and silent? She did not know. Felt unsure. Perhaps she was reading far more into the action than was intended.

  She lowered her eyes and dipped her head in a slight nod. With a trembling hand she reached to receive the gift. She felt unsettled, confused—even as she felt a tremor of excitement pass through her. Was the chief’s son actually proposing marriage? She still did not know. Her world was so different now. She no longer knew if the old ways still held. She would need to let the future answer for itself.

  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.