The Drums of Change (10 page)

“Fire!”

The cry rang out in the darkness of the winter’s night. Running Fawn startled awake, felt her blood run cold. It was the most dreaded word in the camp. Fire could sweep over all the tent homes in a matter of minutes. Whose tent? Whose tent was burning?

Even before she could disentangle herself from the robes, her father, followed closely by her mother, was out of the tent. Excited voices called to one another, “Fire. Fire.”

Running Fawn crawled to the opening of the tent and snatched the flap back with trembling hand. At first she saw nothing except for milling bodies, but she could smell intense smoke in the air. She pushed herself through the opening and stood on shaking legs. The smoke was dense now. She could smell it and taste it and it made her eyes sting. Then she heard a shout.

“It’s the school tent!”

The school tent was set apart from the others—to avoid distractions, Man With The Book had said. It stood near the edge of the stream, not even under the shelter of the large pine boughs nearby.

Running Fawn let out her breath. Perhaps … perhaps if they were fortunate—if the gods were not too angry, they could save the rest of the camp.

She hurried along with the crowd that made its way toward the stream. Already dark figures silhouetted against the flames were fighting the blaze. Someone was swinging an axe to chop a hole in the ice for water. Another was beating at the fire with a length of buffalo skin. Others crowded close and threw handfuls of snow into the flames. Another man was hurriedly chopping down a pine that might be too close to the flaming structure and could spread the fire to the rest of the village.

In a short time it was all over. The school tent had not been saved—but all the rest of the village had been spared. After some discussion of how the fire had started—no doubt a stray spark from a campfire—weary, smoke-blackened bodies returned to their beds to attempt further sleep.

Running Fawn was fighting her own continuing silent battle. She felt sorry for Man With The Book who had fought valiantly until the last spark was extinguished, yet she could not but feel a sense of relief. There would be no more school. No more tempting of the Sun God. She could relax now. The old way was secured. They would not learn any more ways and words of the white man.

She was turning away from the scene when she spotted a solitary figure who still stood silently in the light of the moon. Silver Fox, head bowed, shoulders slumped, stared fixedly at the smoldering heap that symbolized his hope for learning. Running Fawn had never seen such disappointment on a face. Perhaps … perhaps she had been selfish in her personal desires.

Chapter Seven

To the Plains

The spring sun reached down fingers of warmth, melting the banks of snow and freeing the frozen stream to sing again. Returning geese honked joyously overhead, and the loon called from the lake waters released from winter’s icy prison. It was Running Fawn’s favorite time of the year. She found it hard not to skip in her eagerness as she picked up the water bucket and headed down the path that led to the spring.

On the way she saw small boys noisily trying to outdo one another as they skipped stones in the creek waters. She merely smiled and passed on by. Life was good. They had made it through another chilling winter. Had returned once again to the warmth of the sun. There had been wild meat for the cooking pots and wood for the fires. Her mother had gradually gained strength. No serious illnesses had visited the camp. All was right with the world.

Her eyes quickly scanned the spring site to see if others might be there ahead of her. When she was assured that she was alone, she let her pail slide from her fingers and pushed herself up against the rock. There was a coldness to the granite, for the tall pines shaded it from the sun’s new warmth. But she liked the feel of it, cool and strong against her shoulder. She pushed a little closer to it and let her eyes wander out over the valley before her. In the sky a lone hawk circled, crying in the stillness of the morning air as he made his graceful arcs on silent currents.

Near at hand she heard the chattering squirrels as they quarreled over a food supply. Then a rabbit, half brown fur, half white, darted from among a tangled web of upturned tree roots and hurried off down the path, uplifted tail forever white making a waving flag behind him.

It was difficult to pull away from her reverie, but at length she sighed, dipped the pail in the shallow pool of new spring water, and headed back toward the camp.

Spring
, she mused inwardly.
Other years we would be preparing to break camp. This year? This year we will be able to stay throughout the entire summer. There will be no striking down of tents, no bundling heavy burdens. No need to move out. The buffalo are gone. Gone.

And although the thought was troubling because of what it meant to the tribes, it also brought a measure of consolation. If the buffalo herds still roamed the plains, they would follow them. Now she would be able to enjoy her favorite spot all year round.

“We break camp at first light.”

Chief Calls Through The Night stood, enshrouded in his blanket wrap, his hand lifted to his people as he made the announcement.

Running Fawn was stunned. How could it be? Where would they go? What was the reason for leaving their mountain home?

Question after question raced through her mind, but she had no opportunity to ask them.

The chief had already dismissed the assembly, turning and slowly making his way back over the footpath to his tepee.

There was silence. Total silence. People did not even stir. They looked at one another blankly, faces robbed of all expression. Then silently, heads down, they began to move toward their tents, steps silent on moccasined feet.

But why?
Running Fawn anguished over the question.
Why? What can we gain by moving camp?

She did not cry out. Did not even whisper. Her father answered some of her questions as he explained in a soft voice to her mother, “Chief fears for the people. Most game gone back into hills. Our last hunts were bad. No game. We will need food soon now.”

Her mother did not question either man but nodded her head solemnly.

They will come back. They will come back!
Running Fawn wished to argue, but she knew that she was being foolish. The deer and elk would not return until after they had borne their young and cared for them on the high meadow grasses. The chief was right. They had to break camp.

For two long months the little band ranged over the prairies, finding scant food supplies and becoming more hungry and more discouraged. Again weakened bodies threatened to succumb to illness or starvation. At last the chief could hold out no longer. After many consultations with the elders, he called the group together and issued his decision.

“We will go,” he said sadly, his silver head bowed in submission, his once proud shoulders drooping in resignation. “We will go to Reserve land. We will take the treaty money. We can get food. We will go at first light.”

Although there was sorrow at this step away from freedom and dignity, there was also unexpressed relief. At least there would be food. At least there would be shelter. They also would be among their own people, for many bands of the great Blackfoot Nation had already gathered on the Reserve. It really could not be too bad. Could it?

Running Fawn’s small community adjusted more quickly to life on the Reserve than expected. Already some Blackfoot who had been there for the last two years had planted gardens and were raising crops in broken prairie sod. A few log homes were scattered among the many tepees that dotted the plains, and the owners moved in and out, back and forth, between the two kinds of dwellings as suited their fancy. Running Fawn could not imagine herself in a wooden home. How could one breathe freely? How would the smoke from the fire escape through the solid roof? It did not seem like a healthy or a comfortable way to live.

The little group had arranged for their own piece of land and set up their tepees. Nearby dogs barked and children pointed as the new occupants set about making these prairie lands their home.

Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the area around them. Where was the stream? The spring for a water supply? She knew the Bow River lay just over the nearby hills, but surely one did not need to make daily treks all the way to its banks through the heat of the summer sun to fill the water buckets? Eventually she saw a strange-looking apparatus with a wooden handle that someone was working vigorously up and down until a small stream of water poured from its iron mouth. Here was where one filled the buckets, she was told. But it was still a long way from their tepee settlement. It was almost closer to walk to the river.