The Drums of Change (33 page)

The day was cool but there was no wind blowing. Running Fawn stood on the shore of the river with the five other new believers and listened carefully to the words spoken by the man standing knee-deep in the frigid stream, his black suit soaking up the water swirling about his legs.

She had been disappointed to learn that Silver Fox would not be in attendance. He had gone to the city on important government business for his people. She had not as yet been able to tell him about her new faith.

At first she wondered if she should postpone her baptism so he could be there. But she had quickly changed her mind. It was important for her to be baptized, and this was the last opportunity before the cold northern winds would move in to lock them in another prairie winter.

“The Holy Scripture admonishes us to ‘repent and be baptized,’ “said the missionary. “Those of you who stand before me today have repented. You have accepted the work of Jesus Christ on Calvary as your atonement and have asked His forgiveness for your sin. He has accepted you—as He promised. Now you have come to be buried with Him in baptism—to rise again to new life as one of His followers.”

Running Fawn felt excitement tingle through her. She was a follower of Jesus. A new spiritual being. A child of God—now fit for heaven through acceptance of His atonement. It filled her with such remarkable joy that she wondered if she would be able to contain it.

Chapter Twenty-four

The Answer

The missionary sat at Running Fawn’s campfire enjoying a warm cup of coffee on a chilly autumn evening. He seemed to be deep in thought. Running Fawn could feel his eyes on her as she stitched the moccasin in her hands. She was making sure that her father had proper footwear for the coming winter. The white man’s shoes did not keep the winter frost from freezing feet.

Running Fawn felt restless. Her ears were straining for the sound of her father’s returning horse, and her eyes pierced the darkness to try to make out an approaching form. He had not yet returned from picking up their allotment at the agency. It was not that she was in need of supplies. It was just that, for some reason, she felt uncomfortable in the present circumstance.

The missionary broke the silence.

“How old are you?”

It seemed a strange question.

“I am past my seventeenth year,” she answered and returned to her sewing.

Perhaps he feels that it is strange that a girl my age has not taken her own campfire
, she reasoned. Her face flushed slightly.

He chuckled softly, bringing her head up. She had no idea what was amusing to him.

“You have always seemed so mature,” he said softly. “I had supposed you were a bit older than that. But looking back—yes, you were merely a child when I first arrived.”

He was silent again, then said, “I thought I was quite grown up at nineteen. Imagine.” He laughed again—softly and to himself. “Well, I have done some growing up—some aging—since then. Many things have changed.”

He shook his head as though sorting through all the difficult years that he had shared with her people.

“So you are seventeen,” he continued to muse, staring at the dancing flame of the fire, the cup of coffee forgotten in his hand. “I have just turned thirty. Thirty.” He shook his head as though it was hard to believe. Then he looked up and asked candidly, “Do you think that is too old?”

Running Fawn frowned. Too old? Why, her father was much older than that and he still rode in the hunt. Planted the grain.

“No,” she said quickly. “Thirty is not too old.”

He smiled, then leaned to set aside his coffee cup. “Good,” he said and he sounded greatly relieved.

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, and without a backward glance or a spoken word, he mounted the pony and rode off quickly into the night.