Free The Drums of Change by Janette Oke Page A

prairie sod. A few log homes were scattered among the many tepees that dotted the plains, and the owners moved in and out, back and forth, between the two kinds of dwellings as suited their fancy. Running Fawn could not imagine herself in a wooden home. How could one breathe freely? How would the smoke from the fire escape through the solid roof? It did not seem like a healthy or a comfortable way to live.
    The little group had arranged for their own piece of land and set up their tepees. Nearby dogs barked and children pointed as the new occupants set about making these prairie lands their home.
    Running Fawn let her eyes drift over the area around them. Where was the stream? The spring for a water supply? She knew the Bow River lay just over the nearby hills, but surely one did not need to make daily treks all the way to its banks through the heat of the summer sun to fill the water buckets? Eventually she saw a strange-looking apparatus with a wooden handle that someone was working vigorously up and down until a small stream of water poured from its iron mouth. Here was where one filled the buckets, she was told. But it was still a long way from their tepee settlement. It was almost closer to walk to the river.
    But they were not given a choice. Those responsible for the welfare of the Indian people explained that all water for cooking or drinking must be taken from the hole in the ground—the well—for the sake of their health.
    It puzzled Running Fawn. They had been drinking from the streams and rivers all their lives.
    She would close her ears to the words and follow the ways of her people.

    As the weeks slipped by, Running Fawn felt the tension and inner turmoil slowly slipping away—for though much had changed, much was still the same.
    They lived, to a large part, as they had always lived. There were the hunting parties who left the camp each morning and, more often than not, returned with game by day’s end. There were still the sturdy tepees lifting their proud heads toward the blue of the sky. There were still the busy women, bent over tanning skin or stirring the cooking pot. There were still the campfires, lazily sending curls of blue-gray smoke into the haze of twilight, even though now it came from hundreds of campfires scattered throughout the hilly plains.
    The slender girl, now grown strong and skillful in Indian ways, even promised herself that come the next spring, she would learn how to plant a garden and make the turnips, potatoes, onions, and carrots readily available for the cooking pots.
    And then her world changed again. She was informed by the smiling Man With The Book that the chief had authorized a new tent school, and she was one of the fortunate ones who would be returning to classes.
    Her heart sank. She had no desire for more lessons. More learning, yes. Lessons from the white man’s books, no. But when she glanced toward her father, she read in his eyes such pride that she knew he would not understand the disappointment of her heart. She lowered her eyes in submission. When the classes began again, she knew she would be in attendance.

    In spite of her reluctance, she worked hard at school. She had a natural thirst for learning, and she told herself that if she learned quickly all that was intended for her, she would soon be done and be able to go about her normal life again.
    In spite of her diligence, she could not keep up to Silver Fox, who was still eagerly studying in spite of his years.
    All through the winter months and into the spring they pored over their books. Running Fawn was greatly relieved when the missionary announced that they would take a break for the planting season. She stood in line at the small post for her allotment of garden seed and learned from a neighbor how to place them in the warm prairie soil. Soon little sprouts were raising their heads to reach for sun, and Running Fawn’s heart quickened. She tended them as she would have cared for a child. Watering