by Janette Oke
Life returned to its rhythm and routine. Running Fawn picked up her bucket and headed down the familiar path to the spring. Her first action upon arrival was to carefully scan the entire area to make sure that she was alone. Assured that the white missionary was not occupying a seat on a nearby rock, she lowered her pail to the ground and stepped back until her shoulder gently brushed the granite rock.
They were later than usual in setting up the winter camp, and snow already dusted the landscape with white. That long trail home from Montana had seemed to stretch farther with every step they took, but now they were home. Back where they belonged.
Running Fawn sighed in contentment. There was a security in the wind brushing through the pine needles. A security in the soft murmur of the nearby stream, still not entirely frozen over. And there was security in the cold, solid rock at her back. It had always been there—and forever would be. Surely that made one breathe a little easier. Just knowing that some things did not change.
It had been a difficult time for the people, the young missionary wrote from the blankets where he lay. He had not been well, had in fact been sure at one point that he would not live to complete the arduous return to the hill country, but God had spared him. He paused, pen in hand, as he lay propped up on his bed of buffalo robes. He felt that he must get some kind of report back to the Mission Society—but what could he say? How could he possibly make them understand his situation—the situation of his people?
So he wrote simply, “It has been a difficult time for the people.”
There was no use trying to describe the frustration, the pain, the death. There were no words to make them feel a part of, or understand, the suffering. Better to just leave the details unspecified.
The buffalo herds had been depleted, he went on to explain.
This will mean hardship for the entire Blackfoot Nation. Some small bands have straggled onto the Reserve set aside for them, but they are proud, strong people. Most of them wish to make their own way. Chief Calls Through The Night is one of those. He is determined to keep his people for as long as he is able.
They have already suffered the loss of half of the small band. Others are weak, and should any type of sickness strike the camp, many more will die.
I have as yet to make a convert. Chief Calls Through The Night has seemed interested in the Gospel and has so many times seemed close to accepting. But he holds back. Most of the band would not make a step of faith until the chief does. It is their way. Some seem to be ready, but they refuse to break from old ways.
I trust now that we are back in our own camp that I will be able to start classes with the children. I pray that this might be the answer to our prayers.
Yours in Him, whom I serve,
Martin D. Forbes,
Minister of the Gospel
P.S. The band has given me a new name, and one that I prefer. I am now known in the Blackfoot tongue as Man With The Book.
Running Fawn was surprised when the chief announced that Man With The Book would begin classes, and she was chosen as one of the children to attend. The school would be held in a special tent erected for that very purpose. Though she secretly admitted that she did have some curiosity, she was not flattered by the invitation. In the days preceding the actual start of the school, she busied herself with tasks close by her mother’s fire. There was an uncertainty—a gnawing fear about learning from the white man.
The chief seemed pleased with the arrangement. “Our world changes,” he had told the gathering. “We must change. The White man is here to stay. We must learn his ways.” He nodded toward the young missionary, still weak and thin from his illness, but smiling softly nonetheless. “Man With The Book teach. He teach the son of my old age,” the chief concluded, drawing his robes tightly around frail shoulders and nodding toward Silver Fox, who sat quietly, legs crossed.
There were a total of six children selected for the school. Running Fawn knew them all, though she and the other girl in the group had spent little time with the four boys. Laughing Loon was a bit older than Running Fawn and was much more outgoing. In Running Fawn’s mind, the young Silver Fox was almost a man. She wondered why the young brave should waste his time with lessons and books. The other three boys were younger than he was.
In spite of her reluctance to learn from the white man, Running Fawn soon found herself caught up in the classes. Her inquisitive mind reached eagerly for new knowledge. But it was Silver Fox who proved to be the natural student. Running Fawn noticed that the missionary teacher spent extra time with the young brave.
Before too many weeks had passed, one of the boys dropped out. He simply had no interest in learning and thus disrupted the rest of the class. Man With The Book did all he could to pique the lad’s interest, but nothing seemed to engage him. At last the missionary conceded defeat, at least for the present, and allowed the boy to withdraw.
All through the long months of winter, the small class met to study in their makeshift classroom. Cold days just drew them in closer to the fire, making eyes sting with woodsmoke as they strained to read the unfamiliar letters on their teacher’s chalkboard, then reproduce them with pieces of charcoal on slabs of wood.
“I will get paper and pencils for you as soon as I can,” he promised, showing them the precious items from his limited stores.
But Running Fawn found it hard to let herself go, to become fully involved in the joy of learning. In taking in this new world, she feared that she was losing her grip on the old. Something about seeing Silver Fox throw himself wholeheartedly into the excitement of the strange English words and of the printed page brought fear to her heart. On the one hand, she could not but admire his keen mind. But on the other, she felt that he was, in some way she could not explain, betraying his people. To further confuse matters, she was beginning to be aware that Silver Fox was a ruggedly attractive young man and one at whom other girls her age cast silent, inviting glances.
And he was kind and thoughtful, often helping the younger students to learn a new lesson, carefully explaining it in their own tongue, then translating the words to the difficult English ones. Running Fawn always flushed, disturbed and confused, when he bent close to help her. She could not understand her own reaction.
How could she admire yet distrust him at the same time? While she felt drawn to him, something deep within her sent her warning signals. He seemed too at home with learning, with the white man’s world. On the other hand, her mind argued, he was the chief’s son. Surely he would not turn his back on his own people. His father wished him to learn the white man’s language and ways. He was simply acting in obedience. But he seemed to enjoy the lessons so. Was it wise? And was it wise to be reading in the white man’s Black Book? Every free moment he had he seemed to be turning the thin pages.
Running Fawn was confused. Her mind kept working at the problem, but she could not arrive at a satisfactory answer.
“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 … per
haps 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.
June 3, 1881
Dear Brethren,
We are still at the winter camp, but I do not know how long we shall remain here. I have not tried to resume classes since the burning of our tent school that I previously reported on to you. It did not seem feasible to do so with my scant supply of teaching materials lost to the flames. However, Silver Fox, the chief’s son, still studies with me. He has great promise.
I have enjoyed long talks with Chief Calls Through The Night. He tells me he wishes to learn more from the Black Book, as he calls the Bible. But he has reservation about accepting the words of the Book.
It is not that he wouldn’t like to accept them. It is that he is afraid to give up the Indian teachings that have been handed down to him from his father and grandfather. If I could truthfully say that he could embrace the two faiths as one, I am sure he would have no hesitation. But I cannot do that. The Bible is clear that there is only one God and only one path that leads to Him.
I have such a love for these beautiful people. My heart yearns to bring them to Christ. I pray daily for wisdom in teaching them to know and accept the truth. Surely God, in His majesty and mercy, would be proud to call them His own.
The chief knows that the buffalo are gone. He still clings to the hope that the people will be able to survive on other game. It will be difficult with so many hunters seeking sustenance, but he insists that Mother Earth will not let them perish. I wish I could help him to understand that only God can supply the needs of the people.
I think that Silver Fox does understand. At least in part. But he is reluctant to disgrace his father by taking on a new religion. There is a great depth to the boy and a remarkable understanding of their situation. He will make a great statesman for his people.
“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.
But they were not given a choice. Those responsible for the welfare of the Indian people explained that all water for cooking or drinking must be taken from the hole in the ground—the well—for the sake of their health.
It puzzled Running Fawn. They had been drinking from the streams and rivers all their lives.
