The Drums of Change by Janette Oke Page B

word came that no animals were seen across the vast Canadian plains either.
    A few wise elders came to the conclusion that the Sun God, angry that the tribes had let in the white settlers to desecrate the land, had made a huge hole in the ground and had run the large herds into the bowels of the earth. Their source of food and clothing and livelihood had been totally consumed. The people were stunned. Lost. Bewildered. Had their gods forsaken them? The nightly ceremonies and dancing seemed to go unanswered. They were a people set adrift in an unknown, uncaring world.

    There was nothing to do but to return home to familiar territory. Chief Calls Through The Night gave his order to break camp one crisp spring morning when the wind from the north still carried a hint of late skiffs of snow.
    It was not a wise time to be making such a long trek over open prairie, but there was no choice. Montana would not sustain them longer.
    Wearily they dismantled their tents and packed their bundles for the long journey. But exactly where it might take them—and how many of their number would actually arrive at the destination—were questions no one asked aloud.
    Running Fawn secretly feared for her mother. She had not really gained back her strength since the long trip south when she had become ill. Would the return trip be too much for her?
    Moon Over Trees insisted on walking as the trek began. Running Fawn fell in step beside her, anxious but afraid to speak. By the end of the first day’s journey, she noticed that her mother’s usual firm step was already faltering. Day by day the wind became more bitter, the rations more scarce. Soon members of the small band were coughing, others were gasping for sufficient air, and the pace of the whole group slowed considerably.
    By the end of the sixth day they buried the first body. From then on it seemed to be a somber part of each day’s march. As the numbers slowly dwindled, old folk, children, the weak, and the worn gradually disappeared from the evening campfires.
    Running Fawn’s fear clamped her stomach in knots. Her mother had taken to riding the travois now. She barely had the strength to build the cooking fire at the end of the day. Fortunately, Bright Star seemed not to be suffering from the journey. For that Running Fawn was thankful. The small child would keep her mother fighting to live.

    By the time they reached their old winter’s campsite in the sheltering arms of the Rockies, the band was half the size it had been when they had left it. Running Fawn, beginning her eleventh winter, was so glad to be back again. Surely now in these familiar, beloved surroundings things would return to normal. Surely now her mother, who was still clinging to life, would get completely well. There were no buffalo in their hills, but they could make do with the deer and elk and moose. The animals had always provided for their needs in the past, and they would continue to sustain the band now. There was no need to trek out to the plains each summer. There were no more buffalo to hunt. They could live in their hills—forever.

    Life returned to its rhythm and routine. Running Fawn picked up her bucket and headed down the familiar path to the spring. Her first action upon arrival was to carefully scan the entire area to make sure that she was alone. Assured that the white missionary was not occupying a seat on a nearby rock, she lowered her pail to the ground and stepped back until her shoulder gently brushed the granite rock.
    They were later than usual in setting up the winter camp, and snow already dusted the landscape with white. That long trail home from Montana had seemed to stretch farther with every step they took, but now they were home. Back where they belonged.
    Running Fawn sighed in contentment. There was a security in the wind brushing through the pine needles. A security in the soft murmur of the nearby stream, still not entirely frozen over. And there was security in the cold,