The Return of the Indian (8 page)

The boys looked where he was pointing. Down on the floor was the biscuit tin full of Omri’s collection of plastic figures. He’d gone up to the loft that morning to fetch it. Now he lifted it and put it on the chest, the top of which was now getting rather crowded.

“Lift me up and lemme look,” ordered the little man.

Patrick put his hand down close to him. Boone heaved himself on to it as if he were scrambling on to a horse without a saddle. Patrick “flew” him over the box. He lay down flat and peered over the side of Patrick’s hand, hanging on to his precious hat.

“Lookit that! Whatcha think ya got down there, if’n it ain’t all kindsa men with all kindsa shootin’ irons? If’n you could stick ’em all in the cupboard and bring ’em to life and then send ’em back with the Injuns, they’d come out th’ other end and send them Frenchies scooting back to France as fast as greased lightnin’!”

Omri and Patrick looked at each other.

“Would it work?” breathed Patrick, his eyes alight.

Omri could see that it was not just the possibility of helping the Indians that was getting him excited. From the very beginning, Patrick had wanted to experiment with the cupboard. Omri had barely been able to prevent him from stuffing dozens of soldiers in, bringing whole armies to life and making them fight … This looked like just the excuse he’d been wanting.

The idea had a strong appeal for Omri, too. But he was more cautious.

“We’d have to think about it,” he said.

Patrick almost slammed his hand, with Boone on it, down again on the chest.

“You’re always
thinking!”
he said disgustedly. “Why don’t we just try it?”

Omri was frowning, trying to imagine. “Listen.” He picked up a knight in chain mail with a big helmet and a shield with a red cross on a white ground. “If we put this one in, for instance, he’d come to us from the time of Richard the First. He wouldn’t know a thing about Indians. He’d want to go off to Palestine and kill Saracens.” He put the knight down and picked up a soldier in a flat cap and khaki shorts. “This one’s a French Foreign Legionnaire. We couldn’t even talk to him. Let alone to an Arab tribesman or a Russian Cossack. They were great fighters, but they wouldn’t just agree to be in an army fighting Frenchmen in America on the side of the Indians. They’re not
toys.
Every one of them’s a person—I mean, if we brought them to life. We’d have to explain everything, half of them wouldn’t believe it, others might think they’d gone crazy—”

But Patrick interrupted in high impatience. “Oh, what are you on about? Who’s talking about soldiers with swords and axes and old-fashioned popguns? What about
these?”

He dug his hand into the tin and came up with a fistful of British soldiers. Some had self-loading rifles, others had submachine guns. There was a howitzer, a 37-mm.
antitank gun, three rocket launchers, and a variety of grenades. Omri stared at the firepower bristling out between Patrick’s fingers. They had an army there, all right!

Patrick was already moving toward the cupboard, the handful of soldiers ready to thrust in.

“No,” said Omri, as he had once before. “Stop!”

“I’m going to do it!” said Patrick.

Just at that moment, they heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

As one, they turned and sat on the very edge of the chest, facing the door, forming a human screen.

Omri’s mother put her head in.

“Patrick, your mother just rang. Your cousin Tamsin has had a nasty fall off her bicycle and your mother’s going to stay and help your aunt, so you won’t be going home today.”

Patrick’s face lit up. “Great! That means I can stay the night here!”

“I’m sorry about your poor cousin.”

“I’m not,” said Patrick promptly. “I hope she broke a leg.”

“Really, Patrick! That’s not nice.”

“Nor is she,” said Patrick feelingly.

Omri’s mother was looking at them curiously. “You do look odd, sitting there like Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” she said. “Are you hiding something from me?”

“Yes,” said Omri. It was always better to be quite frank
with his parents if possible. Luckily they didn’t expect to be in on everything he did.

“Oh, well,” she said, “I hope it’s nothing too awful. There’ll be a bite of lunch in a little while. I’ll call you.”

And she went off.

Patrick slumped with relief. “She’s just not normal, your mum,” he muttered. “Mine wouldn’t have rested till she’d had a good look …” He brought his hand from behind his back and opened it and looked at the soldiers. The uncontrollable impulse to put them in the cupboard had subsided, but he still wanted to very badly. Omri could see that.

Bright Stars was calling them.

She had come to Little Bear’s bedside again and was now helping him to struggle into a sitting position.

“I don’t think he should sit up yet,” said Omri anx-iously. “Not—sit—up.” Bright Stars looked very wor-ried, but Little Bear brushed her aside, gritting his teeth.

“Little Bear sit. Stand. Go back and fight!”

“No. You can’t. You’re not strong enough.”

“I strong enough! I chief. Chief not sit in far place when tribe in trouble! Omri put in box. Omri send back! Chief Little Bear say.”

But Omri was adamant. “You’re not going anywhere till you’re better.”

He looked into the Indian’s face. He understood very
well how he must be feeling. Like a deserter, even though his getting shot, and being here, were no fault of his own at all.

Once, Omri had been away on a week’s school trip and when he got back he found that while he’d been gone, his mother, alone in the house, had cut herself very badly on a broken bottle. With her hand pouring blood she had managed to get to the phone, an ambulance had come and she was soon in hospital and safe. None of all this was any fault of Omri’s or anyone’s. But he felt terrible—really guilty—about having been so far away.

So it wasn’t hard to imagine how badly Little Bear felt the need to get back to help his people. After all, he was their chief; he was responsible for them. Who knew what was happening at the Indian encampment at this very moment? Bright Stars was thinking about it too. She was torn, Omri could see, between wanting to keep Little Bear in bed and wanting him to go back and do what he had to do.

“Let’s tell him about Boone’s idea,” suggested Patrick. “It might take his mind off going back right away himself.”

“Yeah! Ah had me a idee, all right!” chimed in Boone. “Say, why don’t we all have us a bite t’ eat, not to mention a swig o’ likker? And talk my idee over? Ain’t mithin’ like whiskey fer helpin’ yer brain work, ain’t that so, kid?”

So Omri crept downstairs and extracted a small glassful of scotch from his parents’ drinks cupboard, and some food from the table which his mother had laid for
lunch. She was not much of a fancy table-layer, and all there was, for the moment, was Ryvita, butter and some rather tired-looking olives, but that was better than nothing. He grabbed a bit of each and hurried upstairs again.

He should have known better than to leave the room.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by a noise that sounded like a loud chattering of teeth. Then there was a distinct pop, and something went
ping
against the glass of whiskey he was carrying.

His eyes flashed to the cupboard. There, on the shelf in the middle of it, were five miniature soldiers, raking the room with machine-gun fire. On the chest below were several more. They were manning a small but lethal-looking artillery piece.

Omri had no time to think. Dropping everything he threw up his hand to protect his face and dashed forward through a hail of tiny bullets that bit into his palm like wasp stings.

Patrick was standing aghast, too stunned, it seemed, to do anything. Omri fell on the little men in their khaki uniforms, scooped them up, weapons and all, and, shoving them back into the cupboard, slammed the door. He heard another couple of rounds and the muffled boom of an exploding hand grenade against the inside of the door before he could gather his wits and turn the key.

Silence fell in the bedroom.

Omri’s first act was to glance over his shoulder to check that Little Bear, Bright Stars and Boone were all right. There was a line of bullet holes through the top of
the headboard of the matchbox bed, but mercifully Bright Stars must have persuaded Little Bear to lie down just before the shooting started, and he was okay.

Bright Stars was holding the two horses, which were on Patrick’s paddock. They were rearing and plunging with terror, letting out shrill neighs, while Bright Stars hung onto their reins.

Boone was, at first glance, nowhere to be seen, but then Omri made out a tiny pair of cowboy boots and spurs sticking out from under the ramp. He must have dived for cover when the attack began. Not particularly heroic, but certainly by far the most sensible move open to him at the time.

Next, Omri gave his attention to his hand. Half a dozen droplets of blood oozed from as many tiny breaks in the skin. Remembering when Patrick had had a bullet in his cheek from Boone’s gun, once, Omri quickly started squeezing out the bullets, lodged just under his skin, between finger and thumbnail. He didn’t say a word to Patrick. What was the use? Some people just never learn.

But Patrick had something to say, and in a voice that shook. “I could’ve got them all killed.”

Omri bit his lip. The bullets were actually just visible, minute black specks. It hurt, getting them out, but it was rather satisfying, like squeezing a blackhead.

“I just wanted to see what would happen,” Patrick went on pleadingly.

“Well, now you’ve seen. Thanks a lot.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re always desperately sorry when you’ve done something thick.”

Patrick didn’t argue. He bent down and pulled Boone out from under the ramp by the feet. “It’s okay, Boone. They’ve gone.”

The little man was gibbering and shaking from head to foot. “Who in tarnation were those guys?” he managed to ask.

“Soldiers.”

“From when?”

“Now. Approximately.”

“Boy! Am Ah glad Ah’ll be daid before
that
kinda shootin’ starts!” he said fervently. “Did they getcha, kid?” he asked Omri anxiously as a drop of blood splashed onto the chest beside him.

“Only a bit,” said Omri, pressing a wedge of Kleenex to his hand.

“Did ya git any of the hard stuff?” Boone asked eagerly. “Now Ah
really
need some!”

“Oh—I must’ve dropped it!”

Boone’s face fell. But when Omri went to the door, he found that although the glass had fallen to the floor, spilling most of the scotch, it hadn’t broken, and there was still a little left in the bottom. He offered the glass to Boone, who promptly heaved himself up over the rim and dived in head first. Hanging onto the rim by his boots, he started lapping up the dregs of whiskey like a puppy.

Omri couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh, come on, Boone! You can’t be that thirsty. Remember, you’re supposed to be civilized.” And he hiked him out and poured the last drops into a toothpaste-cap mug. “Save some for Little Bear.”

Boone looked shocked.

“Ya cain’t go givin’ likker t’ Injuns, don’t ya know that? Drives ’m crazy. They just ain’t got the heads fer it. Anyways, ya couldn’t give
him
any. He’s too sick.”

“When you were wounded you said whiskey made you feel better.”

“Yeah, guess Ah did, at that.” He gazed sorrowfully down into his mug. “Wal, if’n you’re ready t’ risk it—only don’t blame me if he goes loco—here.” He handed the mug to Omri, who passed it to Little Bear, who was sitting up again, examining the bullet holes in his bed.

“Boone sent you some whiskey, Little Bear.”

“Not want,” said the Indian at once.

“Why not? I thought you liked it.”

“Firewater for feast. For make happy. Take from trouble. Little Bear must keep head. Must think, then act. Give firewater Boone. He not need think.”

Boone received his drink back without reluctance. Omri picked up some bits of Ryvita and olive from the floor and soon the little people were all munching, though their opinion of olives was evidently not high.

“So mah idee could work,” Boone remarked after draining his drink. “Ten fellas like them, with guns like
that, an’ those Frenchies would be on their knees, if they had any left, beggin’ the redskins to make powwow.”

Patrick, who had been standing at the window, turned around. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.

Omri felt quite exasperated. How could they both be so stupid?

“What do you think, Little Bear?” Patrick asked eagerly. “What if we made lots of soldiers like that real, and then joined them all to you somehow and sent you all back together to your village? They could fight the Frenchmen for you.”

Little Bear grew still. His black eyes moved under his scowling brows from one of them to another. For a moment Omri feared he would jump at this tempting solution. But then, reluctantly, he shook his head.

“No good,” he said gruffly.

“Aw! Why not? They’d jest shoot ’em to mincemeat in two minutes, and ya’d be rid o’ them forever. They’d never dare come back to bother ya no more!”

“Now-soldiers not belong,” said Little Bear. “They not fight for Little Bear people. They fight on side of French soldier.”

“If at all,” said Omri. “Much more likely, they’d just sit down and refuse to fight anyone, once they realized they weren’t where they ought to be.”

“We could explain to them,” said Patrick.

“You try explaining to a whole bunch of soldiers who’re probably in the middle of World War II or in Northern Ireland, that they’re not to fight the Nazis or
the IRA, they’re to go off and shoot eighteenth-century Frenchmen in the middle of Virginia!”

“Well, who
could
you explain it to?”

And that was when Omri had his brain wave.

“Fil tell you who!
Other Indians.”

Little Bear’s head came around. He saw the point at once.

“Yes!” he cried immediately.

“What?” asked Patrick.

“Whatcha mean, kid?” asked Boone.

“Listen, listen!” cried Omri excitedly. “What we have to do is go out and buy loads of Indians. Iroquois, like Little Bear. He’ll tell us what sort of clothes and things to look out for—though I think I know anyway. Then we’ll bring them to life, and Little Bear can talk to them, and we can send them all back together when Little Bear’s better, and—”