The Drums of Change (12 page)

They rumbled on over the rutted prairie for the next day, stopping at a small settlement, where they were all taken into a large building with many rooms. Again there was a frame with blankets, and again Running Fawn took the top one and curled up on the floor. This floor was covered with a strange kind of blanket all its own. Running Fawn found it much softer than the bare planks.

From then on she stopped counting. Stopped thinking. Day after day they traveled, and night after night they stopped in one strange place after the other.

Running Fawn had spoken no word since leaving the Reserve. Silver Fox passed questions from the two black-coated men on to her and she nodded or shook her head, her only response. She did not want to speak to the white men, even though she recognized most of the words they used. She did not like the white men, nor their self-proclaimed mission that was taking her far from her home and family. She had no intention of responding to any of their rather obvious overtures of friendship.

They allowed for frequent stops and moments of privacy. For that, Running Fawn was grudgingly grateful.

They ate more strange food along the way. Roasted beef wrapped between pieces of bread. Bits of dried fruits that were bigger than any berries Running Fawn had ever seen, and different flavors as well. These white people mixed various things in big pots and let them simmer and simmer. Running Fawn had never tasted these dishes before and did not like the taste now. They drank hot drinks, cooked over an open fire, even though the days were warm and a cool drink would have been preferred.

The men on the buggy seat seemed to chatter incessantly. Running Fawn wondered if white people ever stopped long enough to make time for thinking. They laughed a lot too. Hearty chuckles or loud guffaws. It made Running Fawn nervous.

She wished she could get down and walk. The jostling buggy had her bones aching. Besides, the dust from the wagon’s wheels and hooves of the horses filled her eyes and her nose, making her want to sneeze.

The sun beat down unmercifully. She wished she had a hat like the men up front. She was tempted to place her small bundle on her head, but she didn’t want to be noticed or seen in need of help.

She still had not spoken to Silver Fox. She felt angry with him. Angry that he was such a good student. Angry that he didn’t seem at all concerned about leaving their home and people. She was sure that her situation was due to his diligence. The strangers would not have picked her for the long journey had not Silver Fox done so well and gotten Man With The Book to think of Mission School for him. And they couldn’t send just one from the small band. It would look like favoritism for the chief’s son. But why couldn’t it have been one of the boys? Or even Laughing Loon? She would not have minded leaving her family’s campfire nearly as much as Running Fawn.

But it was not one of the boys, and it was not Laughing Loon. She, Running Fawn, was sitting on the buggy seat, forlornly watching the miles slip away beneath the wheels that lifted dust to settle on her dark buckskin skirts.

She had left her heart with her own people in the little community on the prairie that she knew and loved.

“Are you well?” It was the first that Silver Fox had spoken to her directly. He did not use the English words they had learned but spoke in their native tongue.

She turned to look at him. His face looked genuinely concerned.

Taking a break from the heat of the day, they sat side by side in the shade of some scrubby bushes near the edge of the Bow River that they generally had been following. It felt good to get out of the sun. It was good to hear the song of the flowing water. It had been good to kneel on the cool, damp ground and lift the cold wetness to splash on her flushed and dusty face.

The two men in the black coats had walked on along the river. She did not trouble herself to wonder where they were going—or if they were coming back.

She now turned away from Silver Fox. His question, asked kindly, threatened to bring the tears to her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She was not well.

“Did you not wish to come?” he continued.

For a moment Running Fawn felt that she would choke with emotion. She shook her head again.

There was heavy silence with only the distant call of a meadowlark to break the stillness.

“I am sorry,” came the quiet response, and Running Fawn felt that the words were truly spoken.

She wished that she could get up and move away—but there really was no place to go. Besides, she ached so badly from all the jostling that she wished she would never need to move again.

“I wanted to,” said Silver Fox in little more than a whisper.

Running Fawn favored him with a dark scowl. That was the whole problem. His desire to learn and learn.

“I want to study so that I can help my people,” he continued.

Running Fawn made no reply.

“Someday I may be chief,” he continued matter-of-factly, no bravado in his tone.

Running Fawn gave him another dark look. Of course he would be chief. His father was old. Chief Calls Through The Night would not be chief of their band for long.

“I want to be a wise chief,” said Silver Fox, his eyes on some faraway object unknown to Running Fawn.

She twisted sharply to stare at him. “Your father is a wise chief,” she responded hotly.

She did not need to say that his father had never been to the white man’s school.

But Silver Fox did not seem perturbed by her outburst, only nodded.

For many moments they sat in silence and then he spoke again. Slowly. Softly.

“These are different times. It will never be the same again. If our people are to survive, to prosper, we must learn to live in the new world. With new ways.”

“Would you forsake the old?” she demanded.

“No. No,” he quickly answered. “We must build upon them. But we must move on. We must. I—”

But she had heard enough. In spite of her reluctance to leave the cool spot in the shade she sprang to her feet.

“The old ways are good,” she spat at him. “There is no reason to leave them. I will not—will—take the ways of the white man. I will not.”

With her angry cry ringing in the air, she left him and ran along the riverbank until she rounded the bend and no longer was in sight. Exhausted by the heat and her emotions, she sunk into a little heap on the rich river grasses and let the sobs shake her entire body.

Running Fawn had never seen so many wooden buildings intermingled with strange-looking tent dwellings in one area. They traveled through narrow passages lined with the structures, where people, mostly white people, hurried back and forth, always seeming determined to get to some other place.

Dust from the wheels of their buggy joined that of many other conveyances to fill the air and every available crevice.

She wanted to turn to Silver Fox and ask him if this was Fort Calgary, but she still was angry with him and would not speak.

At last the driver of the team pulled back on the leather straps and said a loud “whoa.” The buggy rolled to a stop in front of a large white building.

“Here we are,” announced the second man, looking back at them and giving them a big grin.

Running Fawn sat and stared. For some reason it was not at all what she had expected—though she could not have described what it was she had expected. It simply was all so strange. Where were the tepees? Where were the campfires? How did one ever—?

The man on her side of the buggy stretched long legs down toward the ground and eased himself slowly from the seat. He reached up a hand toward Running Fawn.

“Down with you,” he said good-naturedly. “We are at journey’s end.”

Running Fawn knew he expected her to be happy with the news, but she could feel no joy.

She could feel Silver Fox stirring beside her. For one brief moment she wished to reach out and wrap her fingers in his buckskin shirt just as she used to do with her mother’s skirts. But she turned from him instead and let the tall man help her over the wheel of the wagon.

And then she was being led down a rock-hard path with green grass on either side and flowers tucked in all together in tight clumps rather than scattered freely.

A large door opened before them and a white woman, flaming red hair piled high on her head and a dark dress trimmed with bits of white, stepped out. She was smiling. Running Fawn saw both white gentlemen sweep off their tall hats and bow slightly. Running Fawn wondered if that was the proper thing to do—but she had no hat. She ducked her head in a brief awkward bow.

“I see you have brought my new charges,” said the woman with another smile.

“We have, Mrs. Nicholson,” said the shorter of the two tall men.

“Well—do let me see them.” She moved forward.

“We are so pleased to have you join our Mission School,” she said in rapid English that was hard for Running Fawn to follow.

She reached for Running Fawn first, placing her hands gently on her shoulders and turning her to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun.

“You must be Running Fawn,” she said pleasantly.

Running Fawn did not even nod in agreement. She wasn’t sure what she was expected to do or say.

“Indeed she is,” said the taller man and he gave Running Fawn’s arm a little nudge. “Say good day to your matron, Mrs. Nicholson.”

Running Fawn concentrated hard.

“Goo’day your matron, Miz Niccason,” she managed to repeat.

A loud guffaw followed her words.

Running Fawn swallowed hard and looked from one face to another. She did not know why one tall man had responded with the hearty laugh and the other had coughed and turned slightly away. The woman simply smiled and reached out a hand to Running Fawn’s cheek. The whole scene made Running Fawn dreadfully uncomfortable. But the attention then turned to Silver Fox.

“And you are Silver Fox,” the woman said and offered her hand to the young brave.

He accepted it, bowing ever so slightly as he said in a respectful, yet confident voice, “Good day, Mrs. Nicholson. So nice to meet you.”

The red-haired lady beamed. It was plain that she was impressed with the young man.

“You must all be weary,” she said, looking around the group. “Please come in. I’ve asked Miss Brooke to draw you a bath, Running Fawn, and then she will bring you some supper. And you, Silver Fox, one of our boys, Wilbur, will show you to your dormitory. There is a bath waiting for you as well.”

And Running Fawn was whisked off down a long corridor, where another smiling lady waited to escort her farther into the depths of the enormously overwhelming white building.

Running Fawn’s first thought was that she would be led to a quiet stream, the only experience she had ever had with bathing. The strange words “draw you a bath” were totally confusing, but she fell into step with the woman whose hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and meekly allowed herself to be led away. For one brief moment she forgot her anger with Silver Fox and wished with all her heart that she did not need to leave him.

They entered a strange little room. Sitting on clawed feet against one wall was a very large, shining white basin, half-filled with water. Running Fawn stood and stared.