by Janette Oke
Perhaps it was a deer or an antelope that had come looking for water. Maybe it was a coyote sniffing through the ruins of the cabin. But she was sure that she had heard something.
Quickly she pulled her uncooperative body to an upright position, tilted back her head and cried, “Help,” as loudly as she could. There was no response.
“Help,” she cried again. The one word echoed back at her, bouncing off the concrete walls.
She listened. Still no footsteps to indicate that anyone had heard and was moving toward the cistern.
She mustered all her strength, braced herself against the concrete structure, and called again. “Help.”
Silence.
It must have been an animal, she concluded, deeply disappointed. Her voice had frightened it away.
She slumped back down into a sitting position, her back against the coolness. She could no longer make herself pretend that the firmness that pressed against her was the cool granite stone of the mountain camp.
From overhead a voice called down, its loudness in the silence startling her, “Halloo. Anybody there?”
She jerked upright, her head tilting back to see who was above her, bumping hard against the concrete. “Yes,” she cried before the person could move away. “Yes—I am down here.”
There was some surprised murmuring. Running Fawn heard English words. Then there was a loud shout. “Parson. Parson—I found the girl. She’s down here. The cistern.”
Running Fawn sank back into the water. They had come. She was saved. She laid her head on the arms across her pulled-up knees and let all of her pent-up emotions escape in quiet sobs.
“Running Fawn. Are you all right?”
Running Fawn recognized the voice of Reverend Forbes. She willed herself to stop her trembling, to wipe away the trace of her tears. “I am well,” she called back with a faltering voice.
“Thank God,” came the intense response.
There was some anxious discussion, then he called again.
“We will throw down a rope. Can you manage it?”
“I … I think so,” she responded, her voice trembling.
More discussion.
“I am coming down,” called the missionary. “Stand aside.”
Running Fawn looked around her. The cistern was not very wide across. Where was she to move to be out of his way?
She managed to get back to her feet just as the missionary lifted his body over the rim of the cistern and began his descent. Running Fawn pushed herself flat against the concrete wall. She could not get her right leg to cooperate at all, so she had to shuffle her weight around.
He landed with a splash beside her and reached out an anxious hand.
“I had about given up,” he said huskily as he pulled her to him and pressed her head to his shoulder. “We searched everywhere—day and night. The people from the Reserve—neighboring farmers and ranchers. All of us. We thought … I was afraid—I … I have never prayed so hard in my entire life.”
Up above, a hoarse voice called down, “Ya got ’er?”
Reverend Forbes released her, for the first time seeming to realize his actions. “Yes,” he called up, “she is here. She is fine.”
“Get the ropes fixed and give us a holler. We’ll bring ya up.”
Man With The Book turned to Running Fawn, held her gently at arm’s length. “I’ll send you up first,” he told her and proceeded to tie a large loop in the rope.
“I am … I am afraid I cannot move … well,” she shivered. “I—seem to have hurt my ankle.”
Immediately he dropped down on a knee as his fingers gently sought out the injury. “It’s badly swollen,” he stated, his voice showing deep concern.
“Yes,” agreed Running Fawn.
“Can you stand the pain? The lift?”
“I think so.”
“Perhaps I should hold you.”
“No,” quickly said Running Fawn, who was already trembling from her last experience of being unexpectedly held. “I will be fine.”
He slipped the loop over her head, and she positioned it so that she could sit in the rope.
“Use your hands,” he cautioned. “Use your hands to keep from scraping against the sides.”
She did not tell him that her whole body was so stiff from the confinement and the cold that she wasn’t sure any part of her would function properly, but she clasped the rope with one hand, clinging for dear life, and kept the other hand free to direct her way back to the surface.
She was bumped and juggled as she was hoisted up, but she felt that the additional bruises would not add much to her pain. At last she was seized by outstretched hands and gently eased over the side of the cistern and deposited on the charred prairie sod.
Hands lifted the rope from around her. She did not even look up to see whose faces were bending over her. She was conscious only of the fact that she was free. Free. Safe. The sun in the western sky was just dipping behind the distant hills. Off toward the river a coyote bayed. Another answered. And then the owl called again.
You were wrong—this time, Running Fawn whispered inwardly. I did not die. You were wrong.
In spite of her discomfort, she smiled softly to herself as she thrust a hand deeply into the warmth of the blackened soil beneath her.
“I am so sorry,” whispered Running Fawn when the missionary knelt beside her on the ground. “Your home—the church—everything—gone.”
To her surprise he laughed. A soft yet joyous laugh.
“Not quite everything,” he said happily. “Look.”
Running Fawn turned to follow his pointing finger. There, to her amazement, stood the little church. The charred trail of the fire ran directly up to its door—and then stopped.
“But I thought—” began Running Fawn.
“We were all afraid that it would be burned. During the fire, the Christians got together and prayed and prayed—until the rain came.”
Her eyes widened. “You do rain ceremonies?” she asked incredulously.
He really laughed then, throwing back his head and letting the sound ring across the prairie. The other men in the search party were busily engaged in building a fire and preparing to cook something in a pot over the flame. They turned to look at him in surprise.
“No,” he answered her. “No, our prayers are quite different from rain ceremonies.”
“But—”
“God does answer our prayers. He did. See. There is the answer.”
Running Fawn could not argue against the evidence before her. The little church was still standing.
“That was not all we prayed for,” he went on solemnly, softly.
She looked at him, her dark eyes soft in the gathering twilight.
“I was afraid we had lost you. We found your water bucket. Scorched black. There was no sign of you. I was afraid—” He did not finish the words, just looked at her, his eyes intense, his lips trembling. Running Fawn lowered her gaze. She did not understand the message that he seemed to be sending her.
Chapter Twenty-two
Chief Calls Through The Night
The fire had been confined to a rather narrow strip across the Reserve. Its reign of terror had been shortened by the soaking rain riding in on the wind. Seven campsites had been lost to the flames, and to the sorrow of the residents, one elderly woman had died from the smoke and a child had sustained burns. It was not good news, but it could have been much worse. Running Fawn was relieved to discover that her father was safe, as were Crooked Moose and Laughing Loon, though the expected child had arrived prematurely.
They named the little girl Born Too Soon and nursed her with great tenderness. Running Fawn was not recovered enough from her ordeal to make the short journey to see her, so as soon as they deemed the baby strong enough to travel, they brought her to the camp of her grandfather, Gray Hawk, and her aunt Running Fawn.
The grandfather was allowed the first peek. He took the baby gingerly, but then his arms circled her as though to pro
tect her from all earth’s evils.
“We have come for your blessing, Father,” spoke Crooked Moose.
Gray Hawk lifted eyes full of light. “And I shall happily give it.” Then he looked down at the infant sleeping in his arms and spoke softly. “At last I have a blessing worthy to give, not in the old tradition of our people. It is the blessing of a mighty God.”
He looked up into the eyes of the son who towered above him. Running Fawn knew he was asking for permission to break with the old.
Crooked Moose said nothing but exchanged glances with his wife. At last he turned back to his father and gave a short nod.
With a hand on the head of the infant, the man lifted his voice in blessing, speaking in his own tongue. Running Fawn felt that she had never heard his voice so strong. So sure.
“The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you. And be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace. Amen.”
There was silence following the prayer.
Running Fawn saw Crooked Moose swallow and then shift his weight to his other foot. He seemed uncomfortable with his deep emotion. “So—little sister,” he asked in a louder voice than necessary, “do you wish to greet your new niece?”
Born Too Soon was gently taken from her grandfather and carried to her aunt Running Fawn.
Reclining on a heavy robe, her bound ankle stretched straight before her, Running Fawn smiled as the small bundle was placed in her arms. “What a beautiful baby,” she said with deep feeling.
Crooked Moose smiled his pleasure and Running Fawn hoped that the coming of the child had erased the final bitterness from his heart.
“She looks like Mother,” she said, glancing up at her older brother.
He nodded. “It is as I said,” he responded.
Laughing Loon only smiled softly. Let them exclaim over my baby, her expression said. It was a good omen for the father’s family to claim family resemblance, connection, with the child.
“She is so tiny,” exclaimed Running Fawn as she fingered the dainty hand.
“She is strong,” put in the father with pride.
All eyes lifted at the sound of an approaching horse. Running Fawn recognized immediately the brown gelding of the missionary. She held her breath. How was her brother going to react to a visit from the reverend?
But Crooked Moose, though not enthusiastic in his welcome, was courteous. Nor did he refuse to share a cup of the coffee that Man With The Book prepared over the open fire.
“One good thing the white man brought us,” he even joked as he raised his cup. The white man at the fire laughed good-naturedly.
When the coffeepot was empty, Crooked Moose and Laughing Loon bundled their baby back in her cradle board and prepared to leave. The missionary stepped forward just before they mounted their ponies.
“We would be happy to have you bring your new daughter when she is old enough for Christian training,” he said without hesitation or apology.
Running Fawn wished he had not spoken so directly. It had been an amiable visit. Surely he should not push so soon. She saw a frown crease her brother’s forehead.
But it was Laughing Loon who spoke. “We have been talking,” she said forthrightly. “We will decide soon.”
The pastor offered his hand to one, then the other, a smile lighting his face.
He said no more.
“Chief Calls Through The Night is not well,” her father said as he entered the tent where she sat on her buffalo robes. Running Fawn raised her head from her beadwork.
“How ill?” she wondered aloud.
“The medicine from the white man’s chest does not seem to work,” replied her father.
“They have tried the white man’s medicine?” Running Fawn was surprised.
“They have tried.”
Running Fawn laid aside her handwork and pushed herself into a more upright position.
“Have they tried the medicine of the people?” she asked directly.
He sighed. “They tried,” he answered. “First.”
“And neither has helped?”
“Neither.”
Gray Hawk lowered himself to a robe across the fire pit from her. It was a warm day. There was no need for an inside fire. He sat staring into the cold ashes from fires of the past. Running Fawn felt that she must speak. Her father had been a friend of the chief for many years. They had traveled many trails together. Had sat around many council fires.
“The chief is old,” she said as gently as she could. “Perhaps he wishes to make his final journey.”
Gray Hawk raised his eyes. “The chief is not ready for the last journey,” he said with great sorrow. “He still clings to the past. He has not bowed his proud heart before Almighty God.”
The words cut Running Fawn to the quick. She had given little thought to the Christian God since her release from the watery pit that she feared would be her grave. Several times Man With The Book had pressed her to think carefully regarding her future—her faith—but she had managed to put him off, saying that as soon as her ankle was recovered she would think about attending the little church.
Running Fawn reached for her beadwork again. She needed to fill her trembling hands.
“Perhaps … perhaps the … the Christian God will give him … another chance,” she replied, her voice a bit shaky. “They say He is a God of mercy.”
Her father nodded his head in acknowledgment of her words. “But His mercy will not last forever,” he responded, and a new sadness had entered his voice.
Silver Fox did not wait for word that his father had died. As soon as news came that his father was ill, he made haste to return to the Reserve. Running Fawn heard of his arrival from Man With The Book when he dropped by for his daily check on “his patient.”
Running Fawn knew the missionary had no idea of the conflict in her heart at the announcement that Silver Fox was back. She hoped her eyes did not give her away as she quickly bent over the fire to add more fuel.
“I have no idea how soon he plans to return to the mission,” the missionary added.
“He will not go back,” Running Fawn said quietly before she thought to check herself. Her face warmed at her own words. She hoped the missionary would blame it on the heat of the flame.
“What do you mean? Have you talked with him?”
“No. No—not since—his return,” Running Fawn floundered. “I—he is to be chief. He will not hold his—duties lightly.”
She did not add that Silver Fox had already given his word—and Silver Fox did not give his word lightly either.
The missionary seemed to be pondering her statement. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “Perhaps you are right.”
Running Fawn changed the subject. “How is the chief?”
“Not well. It is a wonder that he has held on as long as he has. They are saying he is calling for a council fire. Perhaps—like you say—he wishes to name Silver Fox as his successor.”
They were right back to Silver Fox again.
“Perhaps,” said Running Fawn as she threw another buffalo chip on the fire and turned to the man before her. Her face was flushed, her thoughts confused, but she had no desire to speak further of Silver Fox. “It is becoming harder and harder to find enough fuel for the fires,” she said in English, surprising even herself. “The buffalo are gone and soon all of the chips that they have left behind will be gone also. What are we to do then?”
Her unusual vehemence seemed to surprise and amuse the man by her fire. After his initial look of shock he began to chuckle softly. “Give me your baskets,” he offered good-naturedly, “and I will go gather you some. I am sure it is not easy to hobble out after buffalo chips when you need the aid of a cane.”
Running Fawn did not argue. She retrieved the baskets, thrust them into his hands, and watched him go.
At least it had not been an untruth. It was harder and harder to find fuel for her fire. It was also the only thing t
hat she could think of to get the missionary away from her campfire while she tried to sort out her troubled thoughts.
Dear Brethren,
Much has been happening on our Reserve. As I have explained in the past, each Indian nation is comprised of tribes, and each tribe is made up of smaller bands. The Blackfoot band that I have chosen to work with has been until recently under the leadership of Calls Through The Night, a wise and noble chief. He lived to an old age—exactly how old, even he did not know. He lost his first two families in one raid or another and some of his third family through sickness. However, he does have a son of his old age. I have written of him before. The young man was one of the first children to attend my classes. He then went away to mission school in Fort Calgary, and except for a brief time home a year ago last spring, he has been at the school ever since.
He is a good student. All reports from the school have been commendable.
He knew when he left the last time that his father was growing old. His father wanted him to gain all the knowledge of the white man that he could so he could lead the people wisely into the new life that has been forced upon them.
Through the diligent teaching of the administrators and faculty of the school, he has accepted the Christian faith, for which we praise God.
He was recently called home because of the illness of his father. He did arrive in time for the old chief to call a council meeting. I was privileged to attend.
It is with both sorrow and joy that I report.
I had shared the Gospel with Chief Calls Through The Night many times since my arrival some ten years back. He always showed polite interest, but also found some way to postpone his decision. I have felt that he was the key to winning the entire band.
At the last council meeting, with two warriors supporting him so that he could sit up, he made his final speech. “I am old,” he said, “and I go to my fathers.
“Over the years I have listened much to Man With The Book. Perhaps he has the right way. I do not know. I have lived by the old ways. I die by the old ways. It is the way I know.