The Drums of Change (4 page)

The tent skins had been removed and the tent poles lowered. Cooking pots and bedding were bundled and stacked on the backs of pack animals or arranged on travois. Old people and small children settled among the blankets and rolls, and the long procession began to move out from the small meadow where they had been securely tucked for the winter months.

Horses, too long allowed freedom from burdens, were frisky and skittish as they were pressed back into service. Running Fawn knew that after a few days on the trail they would settle into a more sensible frame of mind.

She sighed and hoisted the small bundle that was hers to carry. She joined a small group of chattering girls, far more eager than she to be on the trail that would take them over many miles, away from the tucked-in arms of her beloved Rocky Mountain Valley, to the wide sweeps of the open plains. A trail that would take many days and result in aching backs and tired feet. But a trail that would join them together with many of their own people, people scattered over the vastness of the land in smaller bands. People who shared their tongue, their nomadic way of life, and their intense religion. Running Fawn knew that she should feel the excitement the others evidenced, but she could feel only sorrow. She would miss their winter camping grounds, the place of her birth. It would be such a long time until she saw it again.

Her heart heavy, her eyes fixed straight ahead, she found a place in the line of young girls. Though every part of her being longed to turn and run back to the familiar site, she lifted a stubborn chin, shifted her little pack more securely, and refused to glance back even for one final look.

The letter arrived near the end of October. The first communication from the Reverend Martin Forbes brought a sigh of relief from those who received it. It had been a long time since the young man set out for the West. It began,

A collective sigh followed the reading of the letter. Then heads bowed as the chairman of the Missions Board led the group in prayer for the young man out on the western plains.

Even Running Fawn felt the excitement as the straggling little band came in sight of the large camp. The tents of the Blackfoot tribe stretched along the banks of the Bow River at the place known as Blackfoot Crossing. Many had arrived there before them. Such meetings of the whole nation were always charged with energy, filled with days of feasting, games, and dancing—all interlaced with lengthy discussions by chiefs, great and small, and liberally sprinkled with solemn religious ceremonies.

Running Fawn knew the younger ones would be invited to share in only a few of the major events, but she still would hear scatterings of talk and sense the pulse of her people. She and the others her age would be allowed to feast and to dance and to watch some of the ceremonies as the leaders performed the religious rites. That was exciting. And she would be able to become reacquainted with young girls from the other bands.

Even though their numbers had been depleted by the smallpox epidemic that had swept through the land before she was born, the size and strength of the nation filled her with awe and pride. The Blackfoot were a great people, just as her father and mother were constantly reminding her.

Yet it was a bit frightening, too. There were so many she did not know, so many important elders. For a shy six-year-old from a small band it was almost overwhelming. She was tempted to bury her face in her mother’s long skirts and cling to her for safety and assurance.

Little Brook did not seem to share her concern. Already Running Fawn’s sister was dashing ahead with a group of older girls, shouting to a welcoming committee of girls their age who were running to meet them. Running Fawn did not even recognize any of the faces.

She cast a glance around for reassurance that her mother was not far away and gradually retreated from the little group with whom she walked. Slowly, so as not to be conspicuous, she eased into her mother’s circle of chattering women.

Her friends did not seem to miss her as they hurried on to mix with children from the other bands.

Running Fawn fell into step just behind her mother. She longed to reach out and grab a handful of the shawl’s fringe that fluttered softly in the prairie wind, but she held back. She was no longer an infant, even though she was the youngest member of the family. At least for the present. Her mother was with child again and excited over the fact. Running Fawn was uncertain as to her own feelings. She knew that her mother had already lost four children and had three that lived. It was not a bad average for a mother in the band. But this new child could even the tally. That would be better than average. Moon Over Trees fervently hoped to make her husband proud by bearing him four living children, and Running Fawn knew her mother longed for the new baby to be a son. Watching her mother grow big with child caused fear to gnaw away at the insides of the small girl. Once the new baby was born, what would be her place, her position, in the family circle? She had the feeling that she would never be able to reach for her mother again. The thought made a strange coldness in her chest, even though the noonday sun was hot in the prairie sky.

The days of feasting and merrymaking began each morning soon after the rising of the sun and carried on until long after the moon had risen at night. There was much talking and visiting from lodge to lodge. Frequent gatherings around a neighbor’s fire. Many contests to test the young braves’ skills, while onlookers noisily expressed opinions over the outcome. There were a few squabbles and evidence of long-carried grudges, when chiefs had to intervene and settle down hotheaded young men. But for the most part the days passed without major incidents. Running Fawn was even beginning to feel that she could fit in with this large mass of people.

She was assigned her usual duty of water carrier and spent many hours on the dusty trail that led to the riverbank.

But this trail was not good for dreaming. It was always busy with other young girls, water buckets in hand, as they too provided water for their families. Chattering boys crowded the pathway as they made their way to the river for an afternoon swim, and womenfolk or older girls, laundry bundles in hand, also shared the trail. There was no time for Running Fawn to stop and feel the gentleness of the quiet. The air was filled with noise and motion and the smoke of many fires. Running Fawn often longed for the quiet and peace of their mountain camp where she could feel at one with the openness, the solitude, the vastness of the sweeping hills around her.

Ten days into the festivities a meeting of chiefs and important elders was held in the Sweat Lodge. Running Fawn had taken no particular interest in the meeting. The men of the tribe were always holding powwows that seemed to have little bearing on her life. But she could not help but hear the talk as the women chatted about the open fires. There was something different about this meeting. Something stirring the blood of everyone in the camp. Running Fawn, curious and a little frightened, found herself easing toward the group of women rather than running to play with the other girls her age.

Over and over the discussion made reference to the white man. Running Fawn found herself shivering every time the words were mentioned.

“Too many. Too many have come,” said an elderly woman as she stirred a large pot of venison stew.

“Some are good.” The comment came from Moon Over Trees, Running Fawn’s mother.

“Some are bad,” said an old woman with a seamed, weathered face. She spat in the dust to accentuate her words. “Bring death. Sickness. Whiskey. Bring death.” She spat again.

“Too many,” reiterated the first speaker. “Too many. Take too many buffalo.”

Moon Over Trees nodded. It was true. The buffalo were getting more scarce. But, still, there were many of the large beasts feeding on the grassy plains. She was not worried.

“Some good,” she said again. “The Red Coat are good.”

There were many nods about the fire. One young maiden dropped her eyes and even blushed at the mention of the North West Mounted Police in their scarlet coats. Running Fawn puzzled over the flushed cheeks.

“I like their trade,” said a smaller woman whom Running Fawn did not know. “They like beadwork. They pay good.”

Many nodded. It was true. Their life had become much easier since the trading fort had been established.

“Too many,” insisted the first woman. “Too many have come. They never stop. They come and come. You will see.”

It was an ominous thought. Running Fawn shivered again and drew back into the shadows. She did not wish to hear any more.