Personal Narrative: Running Deer

In my arms, my young daughter took her last breath. Her once-strong, -lively body was now as frail as a wilted flower. And her eyes—her black, playful eyes—were peacefully closed, never again to open. I listened hopelessly to the women’s song of mourning, sung in our native Cherokee tongue. At my side, my wife, Yellow Blossom’s, voice rang out smoothly and softly, but intermittently interrupted by brief sobs. Across from me stood my son, Black Fox—now my only child; his eyes, streaming with tears, focused intently on his dead sister, as if they were willing breath back into her small, lifeless body. As the song came to a close, the women broke into a chant of the dead child’s name: Running Deer, Running Deer, Running Deer…
Could it be that

However, once I reached her, I saw that she most assuredly dead. Naturally, I was immensely proud of my son’s skilled shot. The large, sturdy carcass would fetch a sizable amount of venison. As I stood examining her, the sudden snapping of twigs behind me caught my attention.
I turned around promptly, but no one was there; the noise persisted, it source shielded by the thick forest. As I listened attentively, I gathered that whatever it was walked on two legs, but it could not be my son—too heavy—and its trudging was much too clumsy for one of my fellow hunters. I fetched my rifle and Black Fox’s bow and quiver, which he had flung to the ground in his excitement, and dove behind a nearby bush. For fear that the emerging creature would turn out to be an enemy, I fixed the butt of my rifle to my shoulder, ready to fire if need be.
I sat in wait, until the figure emerged from between two trees, stammering from side-to-side. It was a white man, obviously drunk, who had most crossed into Cherokee territory in search of gold.
Since the discovery of gold on our land, we had been overrun by whites, so much so that many of our people were fearful of leaving their houses, half-expecting to return to whites settled