The Drums of Change (17 page)

Running Fawn waited.

“I’m sorry. Your father also is ill.”

“I must go to my father,” Running Fawn said, her voice quiet yet determined.

“I’m sorry. I know how you must feel, and I wish … I wish there was some way for us to get you home. But the men are all away right now. There is no one to take you to the Reserve. I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Nicholson.

“I can go—”

“Oh no. You must not even think of such a thing. The trail is long and difficult—even for a man with horses. You would never make it alone.”

“Please … please … perhaps Silver Fox would travel with me.”

“That wouldn’t be at all proper.”

Proper? Running Fawn could not understand why traveling back to their own people would not be proper.

“The menfolk will be back in a week or so. We will see what can be done then,” comforted Mrs. Nicholson. “Perhaps by then your father will be well again and the long trip will not be necessary.”

Perhaps by then he will be dead
, was Running Fawn’s silent but desperate response.

“I have been told that another supply of medicines has just been procured for the Reserve,” the lady added. “Your father will be in good hands. Reverend Forbes—”

“Reverend Forbes is also ill,” cut in Running Fawn, her agitation making her careless about her manners.

“Reverend Forbes? Oh, my. How ill?” said the woman, concern in her face.

“Very ill,” responded Running Fawn. “Chief Calls Through The Night sent one of the men for medicine.”

“Oh, my,” said the woman again. “We must have special prayers—”

“Yes—I was to tell you. Silver Fox brought the word. The chief wished for the mission to pray.”

“Does that mean that the chief has become a believer?” asked Mrs. Nicholson, enthusiasm in her voice, though concern still showed in her expression.

“A believer?”

“In God.”

Running Fawn shook her head. “We have our own gods,” she replied evenly.

“But—” began the woman and then stopped. Running Fawn knew she was a big disappointment to the faculty. In spite of their teaching, their prayers, their earnest desires, she would not accept their God.

Running Fawn turned to go, her head up proudly.

“Martha,” the woman called softly after her.

Running Fawn turned slightly, her head still up.

“Do you … do you mind if we include your father … in our prayers?” the woman asked gently.

For one moment Running Fawn stared at the face of the woman. She saw only love and concern there. Not contempt or ridicule. At last she nodded.

“If you wish,” was all she said as she left to go to her room.

All through the long hours of the night and into the next day, Running Fawn worried about her father, her thoughts circling back to the same place. She should be there. She should. He needed her to care for him. He did not even have the help of the missionary. The white man also was sick. Why did this strange man stay with her people? Why had he not left them after the buffalo were no longer? After all the illnesses had smitten the little band? Why had he not gone back to his own—to the comforts of the white man’s lodge?

It was a puzzle to Running Fawn. She knew she would not stay with the white man if the situation were reversed. Were she free to go, she would leave immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation.

I am free
, came the startling thought.
I am not a prisoner. I am not bound. I can go. I will go!

Running Fawn’s head whirled into motion with plans. She needed supplies—yet she had nothing, and she would not steal. She really did not know the way—she would have to count on her instincts alone to guide her. She could not run off with the clothing that belonged to the school—yet she did not know where her own had been taken, and if she had them they doubtless would no longer fit. She had been a much younger, smaller girl when she had been brought to the boarding school almost two years earlier.

What could she do?

At last she concluded the only thing was for her to borrow from the school. She would leave a note, explaining her dilemma. She would promise to pay back her debt at the earliest opportunity. Surely there would be some way to clear her obligation in the future. She could not wait for the men to return. She had to get to her father.

Late that night Running Fawn stripped the pillowcase from her pillow and crept soundlessly toward the kitchen. The first thing she placed in her makeshift sack was a length of kitchen cord. She had no thongs to help her with her journey, so the cord would have to do. She placed a small loaf of bread in the pillowcase. Only one—she would allow herself no more. She sliced one wedge of cheese, carefully noting the portion size. She should have meat for strength on the journey, but there was none that was properly prepared. The cheese would have to do. After hiding the case with its contents in the bushes by the rear entrance, she returned to her room and took one blanket from the bed, then sat down to write her note to the matron.

“Please forgive me,” the note said, “but I must see my father. He needs me. I cannot wait. I will pay you back for all that I have taken as soon as I am able.” Following the statement was an itemized listing of all that she had that was not properly hers. The list was a lengthy one. She included the oxford shoes, the white shirtwaist, and the gray skirt.

Quickly she changed her mind and hurried to remove the school uniform she was wearing, arranging the blanket about her body in a long, loose robe. She would need the shoes, she decided. Her feet no longer were used to the hard rocks of the trails. She scratched the clothing items from her list, glad that she would not have so much to repay at a later date. Carefully folding the articles that were to be left behind, she laid them on her empty bed. She wished she would have had time to wash and iron each piece, but she could not delay her departure. Casting a last glance about the room, she left as quietly as the hard-soled shoes would allow.

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.