by Janette Oke
He stood to his full height. He was a tall man. Taller than the Indian people with whom he worked. Running Fawn, sitting on the robe beside the fire, had to look way up to see his face.
He looked serious now. Serious but excited. “I have written the mission,” he said, and his usually controlled voice was husky with intensity. “I am awaiting their reply. If they have no objection—and I do hope they will not, I would so much rather be able to stay with the mission—then—”
He stopped and began to pace as though agitated. Running Fawn continued to look at him, a frown creasing her smooth forehead.
He spun around to face her, took a deep breath and continued, slowly, as though he wished her to catch every word.
“Then I plan … to ask you to be my wife.”
Running Fawn was shocked. Her head reeled, her voice failed her. She wanted to stand to her feet, but she was sure that they would never hold her weight. She looked up at him, then quickly down.
“You may see this as … sudden,” he went on. “It is not. I have given it much thought. I have prayed … and waited. I could not speak until … until you had accepted the faith. You will never know the agony of the waiting. The—”
Running Fawn finally rose shakily to her feet. She must speak before he could say more. She held out a hand imploring him to be silent. He seemed to understand her gesture but not her message. He stepped closer and took the trembling hand in his.
“I—you must—I cannot—”
He quickly interrupted. “I know that you must care for your father. We will care for him … together.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, her eyes begging for his understanding. “No … it is not that way. I … I am … promised.”
He looked confused.
“Promised?” For a moment he looked stunned, then he seemed to brighten. “Your father is a Christian now. He would not hold you to the old ways. He would not give you to a man who does not share your faith. He—”
“My father did not make the promise,” said Running Fawn quietly, yet with firmness.
“Then who—?”
“Running Fawn,” she answered, laying her free hand on her heart.
“You … but … I do not understand.” He looked totally baffled. “When?” he asked her.
“Many years.”
“But … but how do you know—? What of the … the … man? Does he expect you to—? Does he share your faith?”
He faltered, then added one more direct question. “Does he still wish to marry?”
Running Fawn withdrew her hand and shook her head in the soft glow of the firelight. Her eyes had softened, her head slowly dipped. “I do not know,” she replied in a whisper.
“Then—?” He stepped closer. “Then perhaps … perhaps … surely, if he has not made his intentions clearly known, then you are free—”
“I do not wish to be free,” she said, raising her head and standing tall. “I have decided. If he does not wish to—” for an instant her head lowered again, “—marry … then … I will stay at my father’s fire.”
The Reverend Forbes met her eyes and his expression acknowledged that he was seeing the light of a woman in love. He stepped back in recognition that he had no right to this woman. She belonged to another.
“I see,” he said softly, and his hands lifted and rubbed together in agitation, then raised to nervously run through his thick brown hair.
He turned back to the fire.
“I am sorry,” whispered Running Fawn with sympathy.
All was quiet for many moments. Only the crackling of the fire broke the stillness of the night. Running Fawn wished to speak—wished to make some sort of statement that would ease the pain she saw in the missionary’s eyes. But she did not know what to say or how to say it. Not in either of the languages that they shared.
He finally broke the silence. “May I ask who—the man?” he said, his voice still strained.
Running Fawn felt her back straighten as she stood to her full height, her chin up, her head held high. “Silver Fox,” she said softly, and there was love and pride in the whispered name.
“Silver Fox?”
Silence again.
“Silver Fox.” Then a whispered acknowledgment, “I should have known.”
He turned from her and appeared to be studying the brightness of the stars overhead for a very long time. She wondered if he was just thinking—or praying. At last she heard him sigh, then he looked back at her, appearing composed now.
“Silver Fox,” he agreed, with a nod of his head. He seemed to have accepted the bitter truth she had revealed.
Running Fawn waited before she spoke again.
“He—if—” she swallowed, finding it hard to continue. “If—then we will want a church wedding,” she managed, a hint of question in the comment. Would the missionary be able—and willing—to perform the ceremony?
He nodded. “Of course,” he replied.
“Would you rather we traveled to the mission?”
“No. No—it is right that you be married here—on the Reserve.”
“I am sorry,” she said again.
He turned to her. He even managed a smile. He extended his hand and she accepted it. “I wish you both God’s richest blessing,” he said sincerely. “I think that you will … will make an excellent wife for the new chief. Together you will do much good for your people.”
Running Fawn nodded silently. She could feel tears forming in her eyes. In the distance she heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching horse. Her father was finally coming home.
And then a few days later, another horse and rider rode up to their campsite.
“I have news,” Silver Fox said, and though his voice held excitement, his shoulders drooped. A frown of concern creased Running Fawn’s brow. He looked so weary. As though he had been riding for days.
She passed him a cup of coffee, her hand trembling.
“I wished to make the trip to the government offices before the winter storms made travel more difficult,” he explained, as though to give answer to the questions racing through her mind. “I am sorry that I have been gone—so long.”
She nodded and lowered her head. She was not yet ready to share the secret she knew would show on her face. She must be patient. Must give him time to warm himself at her fire. To speak of his own news.
She dished out a plate of heated food and turned the bannock in the pan.
“I must not stay long,” he apologized. “I should have waited until morning, but I wanted you to be the first to know.”
It was hard for her to keep her eyes on the pan.
“Soon you will no longer need to hunt for the buffalo chips.”
Her head came up. He sounded so pleased with his announcement.
“I have been to see the government counselors. They will assist in getting the coal mines opened. Soon we will have plenty of fuel for our fires. More than we need for the people. We will even have coal to sell. Perhaps we will not need the government supplies. We will be free to make our own way.”
His eyes shone in the firelight. She felt immensely proud of what he had accomplished in such a short time. There had been idle talk about mining the coal for years, but nothing had been done.
She smiled softly. “That is good,” she acknowledged.
He lifted his eyes to hers and studied her closely, the fork in his hand forgotten.
“You have read the Book,” he said softly. He did not put it as a question.
She nodded, silently, her whole being wanting to shout her news aloud.
He sat, mute and motionless, too moved to speak, the firelight reflecting in his shining eyes.
“I have been baptized,” she said in little more than a whisper.
He reached down and set aside his unfinished plate of food. One hand reached out to her, brushing back a wisp of straying black hair. For a long moment he looked into her eyes, sharing her joy, whispering prayers of thankfulness, then he stood, a
nd without a backward glance or a spoken word, he mounted the pony and rode off quickly into the night.
The midday sun had picked up a little warmth. Running Fawn made her rambling way over the cold, browned prairie, bending now and then to add another chip to her basket. She found it difficult to concentrate on the simple daily chore. Her thoughts kept returning to Silver Fox.
He had promised that soon she would no longer need to make the daily treks for fuel. She would be burning coal. He had come first to her fire upon his return from the city. He was pleased that she now shared his faith. His eyes had danced. His hand had gently touched her face. She pressed her hand against the very spot, remembering his touch. Holding it to her.
Now if only …
But she had to be patient. Had to hold herself in check. There was nothing she could do. It was up to Silver Fox. He would decide if she was indeed to become his wife. The one who shared his campfire. The warmth of his tepee against nature’s storms.
But is was so hard to keep her thoughts on what she should be doing. No matter how much she willed her mind to stay with her task, it kept switching back to thoughts of Silver Fox.
“I must build up the fire,” she scolded herself. “Perhaps, with God’s help, Father will be successful in the hunt today.”
Some of her joy momentarily slipped away as she thought of the unsuccessful hunts of late. Yet, they had not gone hungry. As her father continued to declare, God always provided—enough. Enough for the cooking pot. Enough blankets against the chill. Enough hides to dress for new buckskins. Yes, enough. For that Running Fawn was thankful. But on many days, stretching what they had to make it enough was most difficult.
But God would continue to care for their needs, she declared inwardly and her face brightened. Just as she had read in the morning’s Scripture passage, “But my God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory, through Christ Jesus.” It was a wonderful promise.
Running Fawn turned her steps and her thoughts toward home. If her father had been blessed with success he may be home soon. She would start the fire.
The sound of an approaching rider caught Running Fawn’s attention from the small flame she was coaxing into life. Her father was early. That would mean a successful hunt.
But it was not her father’s horse that was moving briskly toward the camp. Running Fawn recognized the mount immediately as the pony of Silver Fox.
She lifted herself from her stooped position. Standing perfectly still she raised a hand to shade her eyes against the setting sun. Her heart began to flutter within her. She had not expected him back so soon. She knew the duties of the young chief consumed his days and he would have his exciting report to give to his council. Then there would be much to do to prepare for the opening of the mine.
As he drew nearer she could see that he had a bundle in front of him across his mount, but her curiosity never drew her further. Her thoughts were too busy with the fact that he was coming again to her fire.
Her hand dropped to her side, limp and lifeless, just as she herself seemed to be, except for the rapid pounding of her trembling heart. Had he come to tell her that he had reconsidered—that he was making other arrangements? Was he—?
He dismounted in one easy motion and hoisted the bundle from the back of the pony to his own shoulders. He lowered the robe to the ground and began to unwrap the contents. Running Fawn silently watched the proceedings, willing her heart to begin beating again.
It was fresh venison wrapped in deer-hide that he drew forth from the heavy buffalo skin. Still without speaking, he lifted it up in his arms and moved silently toward her. With his eyes looking deeply into hers he extended the offering. The renewal of his promise of long ago.
She was too moved to speak. Too filled with joy to form words. A small tear trickled down the soft curve of her cheek. She answered the look in his eyes with a steady gaze that did not need to lower in confusion or embarrassment. She understood perfectly well his message. The hint of a smile belied the tear as she reached out her arms to accept his gift. His promise. Their fingers touched briefly as the exchange was made and his eyes held hers. She wondered if she saw a tear glistening in his eyes as well.
And then he turned and was gone, but she did not call to him. Did not worry. She knew that he would soon be back.
With a confident smile she reached up to wipe the tears of joy from her sun-warmed cheek and straightened her back to her fullest height in the way of her people. Her heart sang with the song of the released spring-waters when winter snows were first melted by the strength of the warming sun. Man With The Book would soon be performing a wedding ceremony.
