by Janette Oke
Once outside the building, she retrieved her case and its food supply from the bushes and started off. Overhead the moon dipped in and out of scattered clouds. She wished she had its continual light to help her on her way. She needed to get her bearings. To decide how best to untangle herself from the streets of the city. Once in the open, she was sure she would be able to find her way home.
She was not sure of the path she should take, nor how many days she would be on the trail, but she was sure of one thing. She was going home.
It seemed to take forever for her to put the maze of crisscrossing streets behind her, but at last she was out on the open prairie. By the time she passed the last buildings and turned her face eastward, the morning sun was beginning to scatter bits of pink and gold across the distant horizon. She felt more confident now. The rising sun was just where she had expected it to be. With long, steady strides she set out in a southeasterly direction. That was where the Reserve and her village lay. There she would find her father—if she was in time.
She had not gone far when the shoes began to cut into her feet. What had seemed reasonably comfortable as she walked the halls or worked in the kitchen now became most uncomfortable. One spot on her heel was burning dreadfully.
I wish I had some moccasins, she found herself thinking over and over. But she did not have moccasins, nor any other footwear, except the pinching shoes that now rubbed and bruised with each step she took.
She wished she had left them in the room with the other garments. Now she would be obligated to repay something that had proved useless to her.
She bent over, undid the laces, and slipped her feet from the confining leather. But she could not simply discard them. Not yet. Perhaps she could simply return them when she repaid her debt. Maybe they would just accept them back rather than requiring a replacement pair.
She tossed them into the pillowcase that she carried. It made the load heavier as she lifted it to her shoulder, and again she wished she had left them back at the dormitory.
In the afternoon she saw riders coming toward her. At first she dared hope that they might be from her people, but they did not need to get too close before she realized they were not. Cowboys. Men from one of the many ranches that had sprung up in the area. She knew instinctively that she did not wish to meet them, so she altered her course.
The detour added more miles to her already long journey. But at least her trek through the draw and off the main track offered a bit of coolness from the hot afternoon sun. She dared not travel that direction for long, lest she become confused and lose her bearings. As soon as she was sure the riders had passed her by, she sought out the southeasterly course again, correcting the diversion by keeping an eye on the sun overhead.
Chapter Twelve
Persistence
There was much concern when Miss Brooke discovered the note left behind on Running Fawn’s bed along with the little pile of school clothing.
The first decision was to send for Silver Fox to ask his counsel.
“Do you think she will realize it is too far and turn back?” asked Mrs. Nicholson in great agitation.
Silver Fox shook his head. He knew Running Fawn would not return. “She will go home,” he said solemnly.
“But she will never manage it. A girl—alone. Such a long way with no provisions but … but a small loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. Oh, I wish she had taken more. I wish … We must pray that she—”
“She will be fine,” said Silver Fox, though in his heart he knew the journey home would cost her dearly.
“I wish the men were here,” said Mrs. Nicholson, wringing her hands.
Silver Fox spoke again, determination edging his voice. “I will go,” he said quietly.
Mrs. Nicholson quickly swung around to face him. “Do you think you can find her? Will you be able to catch up to her?”
He nodded.
“Oh, please, then. Take supplies. Go after her. I’m so worried. Bring her back.”
Silver Fox shook his head.
“No. I will not bring her back. I will take her home.” He did not wait for any further response but went to his room to prepare for the trip.
By the time Silver Fox returned, dressed in clothing more suitable for the trail than his white shirt and gray flannels, Mrs. Nicholson was anxiously standing on the porch, a large canvas bag of supplies at her feet.
“We have your provisions ready.” Her words tumbled over each other.
Silver Fox nodded, then dropped down on one knee to quickly sort through the bundle. Two piles began to appear. One grew much more rapidly than the other.
“Could I have some matches, please?” he asked. “A sharp knife—and string—sturdy string—and a canteen with water. I will need a rifle and some shells—and one more blanket.”
Mrs. Nicholson gestured toward Miss Brooke, who ran to collect the additional items.
Silver Fox gathered the small pile together and returned them to the bag.
“Thank you,” he said, standing to his feet. He nodded toward the large pile of hastily sorted provisions that still lay on the porch. “I will not need those,” he said simply.
“But—”
“They will slow my travel.”
Mrs. Nicholson nodded.
Miss Brooke returned, out of breath from scurrying. “I have sent Otis for the gun,” she explained as she thrust the other items toward the young man.
“A horse,” exclaimed Mrs. Nicholson. “You will need a horse.”
Silver Fox was surprised. It was one thing for them to give generously of their supplies. It was quite another for them to offer a horse. Especially one of the fine animals that Silver Fox had groomed when he had his turn at the barns.
“I know nothing of horses. You choose. And a saddle. Help yourself,” encouraged Mrs. Nicholson.
“I will not need a saddle, thank you,” replied Silver Fox. “But a horse would speed my travel.”
Otis, the elderly groundskeeper, arrived with a fine-looking Winchester and a small bag of shells. “Six or eight will do,” said Silver Fox.
“Take them all,” cried Mrs. Nicholson. “Take them. You may need them.”
Silver Fox was tempted to argue but there wasn’t time. He nodded politely instead and placed the shells with his bundle.
“Otis, help him with a horse,” commanded Mrs. Nicholson, still distraught. “Oh, I should have listened. I should have known how she was feeling. If anything happens to Martha, I will never forgive myself.”
Miss Brooke slipped a comforting arm around the older woman’s waist.
Silver Fox reached up to tip his school-supplied hat, nodded politely, and again expressed his thanks.
Then he laid the formal hat carefully on the porch bench. He would not need it on the trail. A rancher’s Stetson would have been far more suitable for the ride ahead, but one was not available.
“May God go with you,” Mrs Nicholson called after him as he left with Otis to select a horse.
Silver Fox turned one last time and lifted a hand to the two ladies who stood together on the porch. Miss Brooke was wiping tears with a cambric handkerchief, while Mrs. Nicholson held her hands tightly before her as though in prayer.
For the first time, Silver Fox genuinely hoped they were right. That the God they served really was as powerful as they claimed—and that He cared.
All through that first long day she traveled, stopping once to drink from a stream and eat a small piece of the bread with cheese. Her stomach growled and her burning feet complained at the rough treatment. The hot prairie sun overhead beat down upon her with dizzying relentlessness. But she had no intention of stopping any more than she absolutely had to. She would walk until darkness fell, and if the moon should light her way, she would continue to walk throughout the night as well.
It was early evening before she stopped again. But it was not for long. A shallow pond provided water to quench her thirst. She drank long and deeply and bathed her painful feet.
<
br /> A lone coyote bayed out its lonely cry and another answered from a ridge to her right. Coyotes. She smiled. Where there were coyotes there were also other small animals. When her meager food supplies ran out, she would pursue other nourishment possibilities.
The half moon rose in the sky to the east. Running Fawn greeted it with thankfulness in her heart. She could keep on traveling in spite of aching back and legs and the stiffness in her shoulders, though the pack she carried was small. She shivered and pulled the blanket closer about her. A sharp wind blew out of the west, making her cold since the sun had gone down. All but her swollen feet. Her feet burned so badly she had to force one step after the other. If only she had some skins. Even bits of moss. But there was nothing she could do to protect her feet from the rocks and sharp grasses of the trail.
Toward morning she found another stream and drank again. It helped to ease her hunger pangs to fill her stomach with cool water. She lowered herself to the bank and pushed her feet under the surface until they reached into the soft mud. She wished there were some way that she could take the soothing mud along with her. She was tempted to tear a piece from the blanket and wrap her feet with muddied strips, but she quickly decided that she should not damage it. The boarding school would want their own blanket returned.
Again she journeyed on. She would walk as long as she could before the heat of the day overtook her. Then she would find a cool place in the gentle hills and lie down for a rest in the shade of the stubby shrubs.
She slept longer than she had intended. She roused herself, shook some of the pain from her aching muscles, and picked up her small pack. She was sorry to see that the sun had moved quite a distance toward the west.
The wind that had blown the night before had long since quieted, leaving the whole world stifling under dancing heat waves that shimmered over the brown prairie grasses.
For a moment, Running Fawn felt dizzy. She wondered if she had lost her way. But as she shaded her eyes against the sun and judged the time of day, she knew again the way she must travel. Home was somewhere beyond those distant southeasterly hills.
The rays of the hot sun streamed to earth with no mercy, and Silver Fox found himself wishing that he had kept the flimsy hat. Anything to protect his head.
He had no doubt that Running Fawn was somewhere ahead of him. How far had she traveled? What time during the night had she left? How much had she rested since being on the trail?
Miss Brooke had reported that she wore the oxfords. She would not be able to travel fast in the clumsy shoes. Nor would her feet hold up in them for long, he reasoned. Oxfords with no protective stockings would soon begin to form blisters.
He was sure that her sense of direction would take her toward the village as the crow flies. Many miles had been added when they had traveled with the men from the mission in the buggy, zigzagging across the prairie to stay in touch with settlers or ranchers. But Running Fawn would not be confused by that. She would not try to backtrack their original journey and would head directly for home.
The prairie swept in all directions for miles and miles. There were few farms and ranches and even fewer towns. She would need water. He had the canteen. Running Fawn did not. Would she follow the curving river to be sure that she had water? It would add miles to her journey.
So Silver Fox faced a decision. Should he turn his horse directly toward the distant campsite of his people or should he follow the rambling river as it generally made its way southeasterly?
He turned his horse toward the river, determining to follow the winding stream for some miles and check for signs along that bank that the girl had been there. If there was no indication that she had traveled the riverbanks, he could then adjust his course.
Running Fawn entered a shallow draw and knelt in the shade of some small saskatoon bushes that offered some escape from the hot midday sun. She lifted her bread and cheese from the small bundle. The supply was already getting low, even though she had carefully rationed her daily intake. The bread was now dry and crumbly, and the cheese was becoming moldy and strong-smelling from the heat.
She broke off a small portion of each and ate the pieces slowly. She had already stopped to drink from the river just down the slope from where she rested.
If only I didn’t have to keep going off course to find water, she thought to herself. It would be much faster if I could just keep walking directly. I should have thought to bring a canteen or a bottle or some sort of container.
But she hadn’t thought. In their band’s travels they made sure that they were never too far from a water source.
She finished her scant meal and reached up to loosen her hair. Now that she was not at the school she allowed her long, shiny black braids to hang over her shoulders instead of pinning them up in Miss Brooke’s judgment of proper fashion.
But the braids had become disarrayed. Nimbly her fingers plaited them again and wound round the bit of hair she had taken from her own head to tie the ends.
It was so hot. So unmercifully hot. And the way was so long.
She lifted shaded eyes to the blazing sky and blinked at its brightness.
There in the sky was her god. The white people at the boarding school had much to say of the Christian God and His love. Did her god love her? If so, he had a strange way of showing it. There was no mercy being shown to her on this day. And her journey must be hastened. If she did not get home quickly she might never see her father again.
Running Fawn felt her heart quake within her. She had to be on the trail. But she was so weary. So weary. She would first take just a little rest and allow her burning feet to cool.
Silver Fox had found no sign of Running Fawn. He decided to leave the river and head in a direct line toward the Reserve. Perhaps he should have done that to begin with. First he would need to rest his horse. The animal was sweaty and tired from the long hours in the burning sun.
He wondered if he should have brought the horse. He could have pushed on had he been on foot. But he could not disregard the weariness of the animal.
He had tried to pick wisely, choosing instead of the prancing thoroughbreds a rangy little pony that had been used as a dray animal. It was not particularly attractive but it looked solid and, he hoped, would have endurance. Now as he slipped from its back, he wondered if he should have left the little roan in the stable.
He ran a hand over its sweating side, feeling for tightened muscles that would indicate soreness. He laid his small pack on the ground beside the Winchester and began to rub down the horse with handfuls of dried grass.
When he was done he slipped on some handmade hobbles, turned the pony loose to feed, and went to rummage for his own evening meal.
There was nothing to do but to curl up in one of the blankets and take advantage of the time to sleep. The horse would not be able to travel farther until it had rested.
I made the wrong choice, he murmured to himself as he settled in the blanket. I should have headed directly home. She has lengthened the distance between us now. I will need to be up at first light. If the pony isn’t ready to travel, I will send him home. I cannot have him holding me back.
One day blurred into another. Running Fawn’s bread and cheese were gone. Her feet were swollen and cut and bruised from sharp grasses and ragged stones. Still she stumbled on.
I must get home, was the constant refrain in her head. One that pushed Running Fawn forward, even though she was forcing one foot in front of the other with little awareness or direction. But a new thought was trying hard to surface. One that she had been fighting against. She was in trouble. Confused. She had lost her sense of bearing. Her ability to think rationally. At last, common sense prevailed. I must rest and refresh myself or I will never make it, she scolded gently.
For a moment she sat where she had dropped, her head whirling, her senses numbed. She had to think. Had to reason. She could not keep pushing forward, without food, without water. She pressed her hand to her forehead and willed the buzzing sen
sation to stop.
Water.
First I need water.
The river was off to her left. She knew that much. But she had no idea how far away it was or if she would be able to make it. Wait, a small voice inside seemed to dictate. Wait until the day cools.
She lifted her head and looked for shade. Off to her right was a small bush. She had to go there. Had to rest in the shade.
She dragged herself back on her painful feet and slowly moved to the small growth and fell in its shadow.
I will sleep, she told herself. I will sleep until nightfall.
She curled up in a ball, her blanket-dress pulled tightly around her, and allowed herself to drift off into a deep sleep.
The little pony proved to have a stout body and willing heart, and though Silver Fox knew he had to rest the horse at night, it was always willing to go on with the first light of dawn. As he traveled, the young man’s respect for the small animal grew. As he rubbed him down at the end of another sweltering day, he knew now that it would have been hard for him to turn the horse loose, hoping it would find its way home. He had become attached to the plucky little pony.
“You are a tough bronc, I’ll hand that to you,” he said as he slipped on the hobbles. He let his hand trail down the horse’s neck, sending it off to graze with an affectionate pat.
As he turned from the animal, his thoughts turned to more troubling ones. He had been on the trail for four days, and he had found no sign of Running Fawn. By now her supplies would have run out. What was she doing for food? Was she still okay? What should he be doing that he wasn’t?
He sat and pondered hard as he munched on his rations. At long last he had made up his mind. He would backtrack. He must have passed her by. He would backtrack and then zigzag back and forth across the prairie. It would add many miles to the distance he must travel, but it seemed to be his only chance of finding her.
