The Drums of Change

by Janette Oke

  The tension in the camp grew as the days slowly passed. Running Fawn could feel it. Could hear it in the muted voices. Could sense it in the tightness of her mother’s jaw as she worked at the scraping of the buffalo hides.

  “When will he be back?” she dared to ask one day.

  She did not speak her father’s name, but she knew her mother would understand her meaning.

  “When he is finished,” her mother responded and turned her eyes back to the skin.

  Running Fawn saw how tense her mother was, could see it in the movement of her brown hands.

  She had to ask. Had to know. “Will it take long—to drive away the Whites?”

  “Perhaps,” said her mother.

  “Why did they come?”

  “Because what we have is good.”

  Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the wide open prairie with its wind-browned grasses and its distant hills, smoky blue in the gathering twilight. She longed for the far-off mountains, too far away to even be seen, yet inwardly she could hear their call, sense their presence. Yes. What they had was good. No wonder the pale-faced people wanted to take it from them.

  She hoped her father and the other brave warriors of her people would be able to stop them—soon.

  They did not need to wait or wonder for many more days. A cloud of dust rising on the open prairie meant that a group of riders was coming their way. At first there was concern bordering on fear. But as the riders drew nearer the small band realized that it was indeed their own men who were returning to camp. The concern turned to joy. It had not taken long for the nation to defeat the enemy.

  Each woman left her tanning rack or cooking pot with grateful cries yet a fearful heart. Would her warrior be one that was missing?

  But as they drew nearer to the returning party there was great rejoicing. Not one pony was without a rider. Cries of thankfulness lifted upward. They had been victorious. They had won the battle quickly, without a single loss.

  There was both surprise and a measure of disappointment when they learned the whole truth. There had been no participation in the uprising. The great Chief Crowfoot had declined Sitting Bull’s invitation. “We can never stop their guns,” he tried to reason. “They come, more and more.”

  Many of the young braves had been anxious to be involved. Their hot blood cried for action against the intruders. If they didn’t fight, how would they survive?

  Running Fawn was puzzled by the whole proceeding. Why didn’t they just go back to their hills and live as they always had? Why did the elders think they had to do anything differently than they always had? Why did there have to be change?

  December 5, 1876

  Dear Brothers in Christ,

  I have been visiting many of the small bands camped around the southern territories. But now the weather has grown bitterly cold, and I fear that I may be shut in until spring.

  This has been a troubling year. Sitting Bull and his people accomplished a great feat, from the Indian’s standpoint. He and his remaining band are now holed up in the Cyprus Hills. The North West Mounted Police are intent on getting them back south to their own side of the border as the law does not allow fugitives from justice to be harbored. Personally I feel great compassion for them. I tried to get permission to visit their camp but was refused. Their presence here has caused much tension among the tribes of the Canadian plains. It did not help when the Northern Indians signed a treaty in August. Many others saw it as giving in to the demands of the whites. Perhaps even Sitting Bull’s short-lived victory has made them realize that they will never be the winners in the situation.

  This is a great time of change for the Indian people and things will continue to get worse. I long to share the Gospel with them, for I fear that the only way they will make it through the dark years ahead is with the help of God. May He grant us wisdom in our dealings with them.

  I do wish you and your families a blessed and joyous Christmas season. May the presence of the Christ of Christmas warm your hearts and fill your being.

  Sincerely in Him,

  Martin D. Forbes,

  Minister of Our Lord

  When spring finally came again, Running Fawn welcomed it, even though it was not the same as it had always been at their former winter camp. It turned out that the chief had not returned his band to the shelter of the Rockies and the spot Running Fawn loved. The small girl had mourned silently as they had settled into the camp in the draw near the Bow River, but she knew there would be no advantage in protesting. The chief knew what was best for his people.

  As the first crocuses began to appear on the bare, brown hills, her heart began to sing again. She felt that she was finally released from the heavy burden that was far more than the snows of winter, though she could not have put into words the heaviness that had troubled her heart.

  Through the summer months the band became nomadic, following the herds of buffalo that still dotted the prairie. There was talk about the lessening of the great numbers, but when they went on the hunt, there were still a multitude of animals to be quickly skinned and hides that would later be tanned. Running Fawn saw no cause for alarm and her mother seemed to share her feelings.

  Over the winter months the new baby had arrived—a boy. Her mother had offered her thanks to the Sun God in appreciation. The baby seemed healthy, and even Running Fawn could not resist the smiles and coos of her new brother.

  She took her turn with the cradle board and even enjoyed the experience. She found herself secretly sharing thoughts with the small baby that she dared not voice to anyone else.

  The summer hunts were good, and Running Fawn hoped most fervently that the band would return to the hills for their winter camp. Surely there would be no reason for them to stay on the prairies again. But just when she thought it was about time for them to be breaking up the summer camp, word came that there was to be another large gathering at Blackfoot Crossing along the Bow River.

  The news made Running Fawn tremble. Would her world forever be in turmoil? When would things get back to normal again?

  September 28, 1877

  Dear Brethren,

  I have just witnessed a most spectacular occasion. I still have mixed feelings about the outcome, but perhaps it will work for good.

  The great Blackfoot Nation gathered at Blackfoot Crossing on the Bow River to discuss the signing of a treaty. Some of the tribes to the north, the Cree, Assiniboines, and Ojibwas, signed a treaty last year. Now Chief Crowfoot has called together his people.

  At first it looked like the Bloods would boycott the agreement, as only Medicine Calf, a warrior who makes no pretense about his feelings of mistrust toward the whites, was present. They needed total agreement. Finally, to the relief of the commissioners and the other chiefs, the Blood tribe arrived three days after the others had gathered. They had been greatly upset by the location for the talks. They had suggested Fort MacLeod, but Crowfoot refused to take his people to a white man’s fort.

  It was a spectacular site with tents stretched for miles on the prairies. I looked at it and wept. These are my people, I said to myself, feeling such love as I could never express.

  They were all there—at least in representation, though many small bands were still out on the prairies in hunting parties or small camps. The Stonies wisely camped across the river, being enemies of the Blackfoot. The Blackfoot and Sarcee were there in force. There were only a few Peigans present, but most of their tribe lives on the other side of the border. As soon as the Bloods arrived, Red Crow, their chief, had a meeting with Crowfoot. It was believed that he agreed to let Crowfoot, who is well known as a diplomat and orator, speak for the entire nation.

  I heard the speeches, some of them stirring my heart. The Indian chiefs were eloquent, noble. Some spoke in English, some through interpreters. The representatives of the Queen seemed sincere. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder how many of the promises they would actually be able to keep. I prayed silently that their word might be honored.

>   It was the fact of the North West Mounted Police that removed the doubts from the people. Crowfoot made a moving speech. “If the Police had not come to this country, where would we be now?” he said. “Bad men and whiskey were killing us so fast that very few of us, indeed, would have been left today. The Police have protected us as feathers of the bird protect it from the frosts of winter.”

  Red Crow of the proud Blood tribe also spoke. “Three years ago, when the Police first came to this country, I met and shook hands with Stamixotokon (their name for Colonel MacLeod) at Belly River. Since that time he has made me many promises. He kept them all—not one of them was ever broken. Everything that the Police have done has been good. I entirely trust Stamixotokon, and I will leave everything to him. I will sign with Crowfoot.”

  The other chiefs from the Blood tribe also stepped forward to sign the treaty, known as Treaty Number Seven.

  The treaty gives the Indian people their own land, one square mile for every five persons, as well as other benefits. They will have hunting rights outside of the Reserve, regulated by government, and will receive an annual treaty fee of $5.00 per person, $15.00 to minor chiefs and $25.00 to head chiefs, with a bonus of $12.00 to each at the original treaty signing. They are also to get their share of $2,000.00 for a year’s ammunition, a Winchester rifle, a uniform every three years for the chiefs, and flags and medals at the signing of the treaty. Believe me, the medal is important to them.

  They are also to be sent teachers who will teach their children, and they will be provided with medicines to treat their illnesses as well as aid of farming tools and cattle.

  At this point they seem quite pleased with the deal. There are still herds of buffalo roaming the plains, which the government officials expect to last for another ten years or so. By then they hope the Indian people will be self-sufficient in their new agricultural lifestyle. The Indians now do not feel as threatened by the white settlers who continue to move in. They know this Reserve land cannot be taken from them.

  I believe that now is the time for the Christian church to seize this wonderful opportunity to provide some of the schools that will be needed. I feel excited because I believe God has directed me to the band He wishes me to serve. They are a small group from the Blackfoot tribe, nomadic as are the others, but seemingly very open. I met their chief, Calls Through The Night, at the gathering and we had many good conversations. He did not seem at all opposed to letting me join them. He even invited me into his tent to share a meal and meet his family.

  He has three living children. The oldest daughter is already married to a young warrior. I didn’t take to her husband—nor him to me. He seems most distrustful and sullen. However, she seemed pleasant enough. The next child, a girl, is sickly and small for her age. She has one deformed leg and walks with quite a limp. The boy, whom I would guess to be ten or eleven, is likeable and very bright. His dark eyes sparkle and he takes in everything. I have my eye on him for future leadership. May God grant me wisdom in leading him to the way of Truth.

  Living with the tribe will be enormously beneficial for my language studies.

  This is a lengthy epistle, but I do covet your prayers.

  Sincerely in His service,

  Martin D. Forbes,

  Minister of Christ

  P.S. You may be amused to know that they have favored me with an Indian name. Speaks With Full Mouth. I am hard-pressed to know if it is complimentary.

  Slowly the great nation began to disentangle itself and small bands scattered across the prairies. The deed was done. The treaty signed. Many were relieved that they had been instrumental in bargaining rights for their people. Many others felt misgivings. Would the future prove them to have been wrong? Others felt annoyance, even betrayal. The great chiefs should have stood and fought. The land was theirs—had always been theirs. They should have wrested it back from the white intruders—all of it. But the malcontents were few in number and hardly in the position to voice their views loudly.

  Along with the little band of Calls Through The Night, a young white man sat in his saddle. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. No, not good fortune—the divine leading of Almighty God. He had been invited by the chief himself to winter with them in the distant hills. His prayer had been answered. He had been given a people. A people to love and to instruct and to lead to the Lord. His heart was full as he watched the small column move forward across the prairie. They were such beautiful, proud people. So bright of eye and strong of back.

  One young man in particular had caught his attention. The chief’s son, Silver Fox, had impressed him from their first meeting over a shared meal in the chief’s tent. He watched the young lad now as he called to his friend while wrestling a heavily laden travois into position behind a reluctant pony.

  “Are you ready, Speaks With Full Mouth?” he called over in his native tongue when he saw Martin watching him.

  “I am ready, Silver Fox,” Martin replied carefully with the unfamiliar words. A delighted grin was the boy’s response as he swung up on the pony.

  Running Fawn found the measured pace of the band at odds with her inner excitement. She was going . At last things had settled. They could once again be as they had been.

  True, the treaty that had been signed had identified their allotted reserve as many days’ travel from their usual winter campsite. But there was nothing in the treaty that required them to desert their lifestyle and stay within the confines of the Reserve. It was as her father said. There were still buffalo on the plains, still deer in the forest. There were still fish in their stream and roots and berries in the hills. There was no reason for concern. They would still be a free people.

  Chapter Five

  The Buffalo

  Running Fawn hurried along the path, water bucket in hand. It was her first trip to the spring since returning to winter camp from the open prairies. She could hardly wait to see her favorite spot again. If she rushed, she would have some time to linger. Her mother surely would know that she needed a little while to just look and enjoy.

  The stream was rather low for that time of year. For one moment Running Fawn feared it meant that the spring had stopped its flow. Without water the band could not stay.

  She quickly pushed aside a willow branch that hung over the trail and peered around its sloping limb. If the spring had failed her, she would be sad indeed. But to her relief and pleasure, a first look at the rocks from which the spring was born revealed the bubbles of water gurgling forth just as she had remembered.

  She breathed a deep sigh, knelt at the edge of the small basin, and reached a sun-browned hand to trail her fingers in the cold water. A few fallen leaves twirled in an eddy, and she scooped them up and lay them gently aside, then stretched her hand into the water again to enjoy its refreshing coldness. In very short order her fingers began to tingle with the chill.

  “Nothing back on the plains is this cold,” she whispered and took great pleasure in the knowledge that was hers.

  She pushed slowly to her feet and backed up so she brushed gently against the outcropping of granite.

  “I hope we never have to leave again. Never,” she said quietly as she gazed off in the distance.

  The bucket at her feet was forgotten as she studied the familiar sight. One large pine had fallen. Perhaps in a storm. She missed its mammoth limbs against the sky, but perhaps—just perhaps its exposed roots would make a home for the bear mother.

  Thinking of the bear, she strained for a sound that would indicate its presence. Only the whisper of the wind and the gentle gurgle of the spring, with the background ripple of the small stream, reached her ears. Then a bird called. A mountain bluebird, and another answered. From the lake beyond, a loon cried. Running Fawn smiled. She was home. Home. She leaned back more firmly against the rock at her back. She would be able to spend another winter here where she belonged.

  She stirred. She was not anxious to go, but her mother would be waiting for the water. Reluctantly she reached
down for the pail at her feet. It was a new metal pail, recently acquired at the trading post. She would not need to haul with the clumsy bucket made of skin anymore.

  “Hello,” said a quiet voice, making Running Fawn jump in spite of herself. She swung around to see the strange white man sitting on a rock a few steps away. Running Fawn’s first thought was of flight—but she did not have the water bucket filled.

  “I’m sorry,” he continued softly in her own tongue, though the words sounded different coming from his lips. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  Running Fawn shrugged in careful nonchalance and turned her back to him. She would quickly dip her pail and be on her way.

  “This is a … a beautiful place,” he continued, groping for the correct words.

  For a moment Running Fawn felt anger. He had no right to her spot. Why did he think that he could intrude?

  But she quickly realized how foolish the thought was. All of the small band used the path that led to the spring. All water buckets were dipped from the small basin.

  “I took a walk as soon as we got into camp,” he went on. “The path led me here. I’m so glad it did. It is a wonderful place for prayer.”

  Running Fawn straightened and looked at the strange man. He was speaking words that she did not understand.

  “Prayer—” he explained gently. “Talk—with God.”

  She still frowned. He smiled at her and stood from his seat on the rock, but he did not approach her.

  “Did you ever wonder how this all came to be? Who created this … this beauty? It was God. God the Creator of all things. This Book—” He held up the hand that was holding a strange-looking black book. “This is the Book that tells about Him. It is called the Bible. When I talk to Him—it is called prayer.”

  He waited. Running Fawn did not respond, but she couldn’t help but be drawn to his words. How could that object—the Book—tell about God?