The Drums of Change by Janette Oke Page A

the top one and curled up on the floor. This floor was covered with a strange kind of blanket all its own. Running Fawn found it much softer than the bare planks.
    From then on she stopped counting. Stopped thinking. Day after day they traveled, and night after night they stopped in one strange place after the other.
    Running Fawn had spoken no word since leaving the Reserve. Silver Fox passed questions from the two black-coated men on to her and she nodded or shook her head, her only response. She did not want to speak to the white men, even though she recognized most of the words they used. She did not like the white men, nor their self-proclaimed mission that was taking her far from her home and family. She had no intention of responding to any of their rather obvious overtures of friendship.
    They allowed for frequent stops and moments of privacy. For that, Running Fawn was grudgingly grateful.
    They ate more strange food along the way. Roasted beef wrapped between pieces of bread. Bits of dried fruits that were bigger than any berries Running Fawn had ever seen, and different flavors as well. These white people mixed various things in big pots and let them simmer and simmer. Running Fawn had never tasted these dishes before and did not like the taste now. They drank hot drinks, cooked over an open fire, even though the days were warm and a cool drink would have been preferred.
    The men on the buggy seat seemed to chatter incessantly. Running Fawn wondered if white people ever stopped long enough to make time for thinking. They laughed a lot too. Hearty chuckles or loud guffaws. It made Running Fawn nervous.
    She wished she could get down and walk. The jostling buggy had her bones aching. Besides, the dust from the wagon’s wheels and hooves of the horses filled her eyes and her nose, making her want to sneeze.
    The sun beat down unmercifully. She wished she had a hat like the men up front. She was tempted to place her small bundle on her head, but she didn’t want to be noticed or seen in need of help.
    She still had not spoken to Silver Fox. She felt angry with him. Angry that he was such a good student. Angry that he didn’t seem at all concerned about leaving their home and people. She was sure that her situation was due to his diligence. The strangers would not have picked her for the long journey had not Silver Fox done so well and gotten Man With The Book to think of Mission School for him. And they couldn’t send just one from the small band. It would look like favoritism for the chief’s son. But why couldn’t it have been one of the boys? Or even Laughing Loon? She would not have minded leaving her family’s campfire nearly as much as Running Fawn.
    But it was not one of the boys, and it was not Laughing Loon. She, Running Fawn, was sitting on the buggy seat, forlornly watching the miles slip away beneath the wheels that lifted dust to settle on her dark buckskin skirts.
    She had left her heart with her own people in the little community on the prairie that she knew and loved.

    “Are you well?” It was the first that Silver Fox had spoken to her directly. He did not use the English words they had learned but spoke in their native tongue.
    She turned to look at him. His face looked genuinely concerned.
    Taking a break from the heat of the day, they sat side by side in the shade of some scrubby bushes near the edge of the Bow River that they generally had been following. It felt good to get out of the sun. It was good to hear the song of the flowing water. It had been good to kneel on the cool, damp ground and lift the cold wetness to splash on her flushed and dusty face.
    The two men in the black coats had walked on along the river. She did not trouble herself to wonder where they were going—or if they were coming back.
    She now turned away from Silver Fox. His question, asked kindly, threatened to bring the tears to her eyes. She shook her head slowly. She was not well.
    “Did you not wish to