by Janette Oke
Running Fawn switched her thoughts to other things. It was too much for her to untangle.
Chapter Eighteen
Choices
Running Fawn lifted her head at the sound of an approaching horse. It was the pony, Little Giant, ridden by Silver Fox. She felt her heartbeat quicken and dipped her head back to the hide she was tanning.
He ground-tethered the small animal and moved to stand before her. Only a portion of his fringed leggings resting on the tops of his beadless moccasins were in her view.
“I see your hands are busy,” he observed in their own tongue.
She looked up then and nodded slightly.
For several moments he stood silently while her long, slim fingers worked at the leather. “You do the tanning well,” he said at length.
She laid aside the deer hide and stood to her feet, her shyness seeping away. After all, they had spent many days together on the journey home. She managed to lift her eyes.
“It is a long time since you have graced our fire,” she said with just a touch of reproof in her voice.
She could see in his eyes that he acknowledged her rebuke.
“Silver Fox has not done well,” he admitted softly.
His words surprised her. She had not expected him to show any embarrassment about his absence. His next words surprised her even more.
“Could you spare a moment for a walk to the river?”
She let her eyes lift to his and saw conflict there. What was bothering Silver Fox?
She turned briefly toward the tepee where her father rested from the afternoon sun. She was sure she would not be needed in the immediate future. She nodded, then began to move slowly toward the path that would take them to the water.
He followed closely, and when the path widened, he moved up to walk by her side.
They did not speak. She knew he had something to say that he considered important, but she did not press or pry. He would speak his mind when he chose to do so.
They reached the river and walked down the grassy slope to stand near the river’s edge. Small bushes clung closely to its winding sides, their roots stretching down to draw from the stream’s coolness. Birds dipped above the murmuring current, swinging up on tireless wings and dipping again. Running Fawn felt her inner being becoming at one again with nature as it had when she was a child.
It was cooler along the banks. Cool and peaceful. The ripples sang softly as they passed by, even though the water’s flow of high summer was rather shallow after the passage of spring’s melting snow. And as the stream moved through the parched land, the sun also spent much of its moisture in steady evaporation. Daily the nearby ground soaked up the life-giving water, just as did the deer, the antelope, and the people. Still the water did not fail. Still it continued to give. The river. The source of relief, of sustenance, of life to the prairies.
Silver Fox made a motion with his hand, and Running Fawn eased herself to the soft, cool grass, her ears still full of the laughter of the stream.
“I have much on my heart,” the young man began, and Running Fawn knew he felt the time was right to express whatever it was that was on his mind. Silently she waited for him to go on.
“The chief is old,” continued the young brave, and Running Fawn acknowledged that fact with a slight nod. She also knew there would be little doubt of Silver Fox being the next chief of the band. Perhaps one day he might even be head chief of the whole Blackfoot tribe. Who was to know?
“I need wisdom to lead my people,” Silver Fox continued. He reached down to pick up a small stone and with a quick flick of his wrist sent it skipping across the stream. Three jumps. One skip was the most Running Fawn had ever been able to accomplish—and Silver Fox had not even really tried.
“When Chief Calls Through The Night leaves us, I must be ready.”
Running Fawn thought that the young man was already prepared. She had no doubt that, though he was young, he would make a good leader for the people.
“My father says he wants me to go back to the mission school and—”
But Running Fawn turned off his words. She did not wish to hear them. As a young maiden approaching her sixteenth winter, she had hoped that Silver Fox had brought her to the river to speak of other things.
“You will go back?” she interrupted, her voice choked and incredulous.
“I must.”
She felt like jumping to her feet and arguing with him. But she did not stir. Instead she spoke slowly, softly, “What if Calls Through The Night does not live until your return?”
“Our good-byes will be spoken.”
“What if, in your absence, someone decides to challenge your place as chief?”
“Sam Tall Man will send for me. I will be here for my father’s burial.”
“And after—? Will you … go back to the school after—?”
Running Fawn could not finish the question, but Silver Fox answered simply, “I will stay with my people.”
Running Fawn felt a wave of excitement sweep through her. He would be back. He would not stay with the white man to live in the new world that he seemed to think held so much promise. He would return to his people and their ways. Dared she hope that he would also return—to her?
But he was speaking again.
“Your father is much better.”
Running Fawn nodded.
“Perhaps Crooked Moose will take a wife soon.”
Running Fawn looked up in surprise. She knew nothing of Crooked Moose and his plans. She found him to be moody and uncommunicative, and mostly absent from his father’s fire.
“Perhaps he will bury his sorrow,” continued Silver Fox.
Running Fawn’s dark eyes held many questions.
“You do not know?” asked Silver Fox quietly.
Running Fawn shook her head.
Silver Fox leaned forward slightly and picked at the pebbles near his hand. “You did not know that Crooked Moose was to marry? His future wife had taken the Christian faith. White Cloud wished to be married in the church and the day was set. She wished for Crooked Moose to also take the faith, and he was meeting with Man With The Book to learn of the Scriptures. But White Cloud became sick and soon died.”
Why had she not heard? Why had they not told her? She had no idea that Crooked Moose had gone through such sorrow. No wonder he was so cynical. So angry. No wonder he had such intense feeling against the missionary and the church. She shook her head, trying hard to sort through her own troubling thoughts.
“I thought you knew,” apologized Silver Fox.
“No—I did not know.”
“I am sorry—”
“No—I should have been told. Father … says little … and Crooked Moose is never home, and when he is he just …” She let the words hang. She felt sudden compassion for her brother.
“But you say he—” she began, deliberately pulling her attention back to Silver Fox’s other words.
“He may marry?” he said to finish her question. He nodded. “He has been leaving his offerings at the tent of Laughing Loon.”
“Laughing Loon?” exclaimed Running Fawn. She could hardly believe that the friend of her childhood might soon be a part of her family.
Then a sobering thought stopped her excitement. Laughing Loon was close to her age. If Laughing Loon was old enough to become a bride, wasn’t she, Running Fawn? Her cheeks flushed slightly and she stirred restlessly.
Silver Fox began to speak again. “With your father much better and Crooked Moose soon to bring a wife to his fire, I was wondering—”
Running Fawn’s heart began to race.
“—would you consider returning to school to finish your education?”
Disappointment, then anger filled the heart of Running Fawn. She did stand to her feet now, but she did not lash out at the young man who had also risen. As he waited silently for her answer, he seemed totally oblivious to the pain and frustration he had just brought upon her.
When at last she was able
to speak, her voice was low and controlled, though edged with an icy chill.
“I will not go back to the mission school of the white man,” she said with finality. “I was not happy there. I missed my people. Their ways. Their gods. I was not one of them. Will never be one of them. Their school, their God, their ways, they are for them—not for the Blackfoot. Let them teach their own people. I will live and be buried with mine.”
Silence followed. Running Fawn used the time to quiet her troubled spirit, and Silver Fox looked off in the distance, his eyes mirroring deep, troubled thoughts. At last he spoke.
“And if Crooked Moose brings another woman to your father’s fire—?”
“Let Crooked Moose build his own fire. Let him raise his own tepee. I will care for my father,” she said sternly.
“And who will bring meat for the cooking pot?”
“My father is not a tottery old man. He is still wise in the hunt.”
“But you need—”
She swung to look at him, her dark eyes challenging any statement that he might intend to make. “We need no one,” she said, her voice full of vehemence.
“Then I—” began Silver Fox, and Running Fawn saw his shoulders sag and heard the disappointment in his voice even as he began.
“Go,” she said, turning away from him.
She did not hear his footsteps retreat. Did not see the lithe frame leave her side, but as the silence slowly seeped in against the background of the gentle singing of the flowing stream, she knew that he had gone. She was alone.
The days that followed contained great sorrow for Running Fawn. She wondered if she had done the right thing. She added to her pain by picturing how it might have been had things turned out according to her dreams. She longed to turn back the clock in order to give opportunity to plead with Silver Fox to stay—or else to agree to go with him. But there was no way to take back what had already transpired.
She continued her nursing duties. Her father really needed little care. He had improved rapidly over the weeks that she had been home. But the missionary still needed daily provisions and care.
The first few visits had been in accordance with her father’s orders, and Running Fawn had resented them, but obeyed. As she saw the grave condition of the young missionary, the journeys to his home became filled with compassion. Now that he was gradually recovering, the daily jaunts with the nourishing food became a welcome break in her otherwise busy but troubling day, and she found herself looking forward to them. The diversion took her thoughts from Silver Fox and his absence and Crooked Moose and his plans. What really would become of her? Would Crooked Moose bring Laughing Loon to his father’s tent? Would there be one too many women at the fire?
The day came when she was surprised to find the missionary seated at the table, his Black Book spread out before him. He smiled as he lifted his head to greet her.
“You are up,” she said as she entered the small cabin. She stopped to place her small basket on the shelf by the door. “Are you sure—?”
“I have been in that bed for quite long enough,” he replied in English. “If I stay there any longer I will grow attached. I have no desire to become part of it—so I am up. And I plan to be up each day from now on.”
She smiled, pleased that he had improved to such an extent.
As she moved about the room to light the fire and heat his simple meal he continued to speak, “I need to get back to the council fires. The news I am hearing is very disturbing.”
Running Fawn raised her eyes. Was he speaking of Silver Fox and his leaving? She had said nothing. Surely it wasn’t of Crooked Moose. It was true that Laughing Loon had not accepted the Christian faith as had the other—what had Silver Fox said her name was?—White Cloud, that was it. White Cloud. She had been a Christian—had wished to marry in the church, Silver Fox had said. But Crooked Moose still had not taken the white man’s faith. Surely it wouldn’t disturb the missionary if he married in keeping with the old traditions of the people?
“Is there much talk around the campfires?” asked the missionary.
“We have few people visit our campfire,” Running Fawn replied. “I hear little talk. I have been busy caring for my father.”
“Of course,” agreed the missionary, slipping back into the tongue of the Blackfoot as easily as he had slipped into the English of his birth. “Two of the elders came at last moon’s rising. They spoke of much trouble. A man by the name of Riel is planning a rebellion.”
Running Fawn stopped short her meal preparations. Who was Riel—and why would his rebellion affect her people?
“He is a Metis—and is asking his full-blood brothers to join his cause,” went on the missionary.
“But why? In what?” asked Running Fawn weakly.
“He is angry with the white settlers. He wishes to drive them from the land. Reclaim it for the Indian people.”
“Metis are not Indian,” said Running Fawn with a hint of scorn, but at the same time her blood began to pound in her veins. Drive out the white settlers. Reclaim the land. It was an exciting thought and one that carried with it great possibilities of fully returning to the old ways of life.
“No—they are mixed blood—but they are more Indian than white. They have more sympathy for the Indian cause,” went on the missionary.
She let the statements go without further challenge.
“So far the chiefs have not given an answer. But they will soon be pressed to make some reply. To stand for one side or the other.” He was speaking in English again. He sounded concerned and, yes, tired, as though the thought of what lay ahead weighed heavily upon him.
“Will Calls Through The Night be given a choice?” she asked quietly.
“Yes—all the chiefs will need to make a choice,” he answered. “Chief Crowfoot will listen to the counsel of his lesser chiefs.”
Chief Crowfoot. Yes. He would be the one to speak for the people. Running Fawn envisioned the great chief as she had seen him on more than one occasion as a child. Majestic. In his movement. His manner. He carried himself proudly, with great dignity, and when he spoke, even the white man listened. She felt deep pride for their chief. Surely he would consider carefully. Would choose wisely. Perhaps the white man would soon be gone from the land. Perhaps there would be no white mission school. Perhaps Silver Fox would soon be back with his people.
But even if all of that happened, what would it mean to her? She had sent him away. She, a young maiden, daring to dismiss the son of the chief. Had her years at the white school cost her dearly? Had she forgotten the ways of her people? Was it already too late to reclaim much of the past? Sorrowfully she turned back to the white missionary.
“What do you think they will decide?” she asked softly.
“The Bloods are already itching for war,” he said frankly. “It has been too long since the young braves have spilled blood. They are restless—perhaps bored. They are crying for a chance to become involved in the conflict.”
Running Fawn nodded. The Bloods were known for their warring. Life on the Reserve was undoubtedly unexciting compared to their past ways.
“The Bloods are fierce fighters,” she agreed, remembering how she had often thanked the Sun God that the Bloods were not her enemies. “They are also a strong nation with many warriors. If they join the Metis—”
“Oh, they are not looking to join the Metis,” cut in the missionary. “Bull Shield has asked the Mounties for rifles. He says they will put down the Metis rebellion quickly.”
Running Fawn could not believe her ears. Yes, the Metis were not Indian. But they were much closer to being Indian than the whites who had taken the land. Would her people really side with the whites in a conflict? It was hard for her to believe.
“I fear there are going to be some difficult days ahead,” said the missionary, his weary shoulders slumping, “and some hard decisions to make. I need to get back to the council fires.”
The discussions were lively. The Indian bands were rest
less, agitated, and feeling deprived of what had been their rights. Living on the Reserve was not the same as living on the great plains, even if they had in the past needed to defend their borders and their herds of horses from the attacks of neighboring tribes. There were those who were anxious to put their strength behind the Metis. Drive out the whites. Take back their land.
Cooler heads reasoned. The white lived peaceably. The North West Mounted Police patrolled the land. There had not even been reason to fear attacks from other Indian bands since their coming. The law was to protect everyone, regardless of race or tribe. The government had kept the promise to provide tools, guns, and the medicine chest. True, there had been times when the food supplies had been scant and the medicine chest had been empty, but those in charge had sought to correct the situation and live up to their part of the treaty.
Besides, the buffalo were gone. The animals would no longer supply the food and clothing needed. That meant quite simply that the Indian peoples could no longer care for their own needs. If the white man was driven out, how would they survive?
It was not easy to find the answer. The chiefs thought long and hard, seeking wisdom from their gods for the answer. When the last council fire had been reduced to ashes and the great Chief Crowfoot rose to speak for his people, his answer was unswerving, his voice strong. The Blackfoot Nation would not join the Metis of Louis Riel. They would have no part in the rebellion.
Some of the Crees of the north chose to fight. They had long been enemies of the Blackfoot, so it was a surprise to many when, over the months that followed, renegade Cree families were silently welcomed to Crowfoot’s fire and given nourishment from his cooking pot.
He may not have thought it wise to go to war for the land, but neither would he turn his back on those of kindred blood, even if through the long years on the prairies they had, in the past, lived as his enemies.
Chapter Nineteen