The Return of the Indian (9 page)

“Send back now! Most soon! I well, I better
now!”
Little Bear shouted. Bright Stars came running to calm him, but he wouldn’t be calmed. He began shouting at her in their own language. She seemed very excited, and clapped her hands and looked up at Omri with the shining eyes that had given her her name.

“Spirits know Omri save,” she said. “Save village, too!”

But Little Bear had something else on his mind. “Now-guns,” he said.

“What?” Omri asked, not understanding.

“Now-soldiers no good. But now-guns
good.
Get Iroquois brave, plass-tick, many, many, then give braves now-guns like one make hole in bed.”

The boys ate lunch decorously downstairs, so as not to arouse suspicions, though it was sheer agony to leave the attic bedroom when so much was going on. Little Bear was absolutely in torment, they could see, and though Omri, for his part, was in no hurry to send him back, he felt they must do something as soon as possible to further the plan.

Omri’s parents were full of the party they were going to that evening. Adiel and Gillon were going to the movies and were arguing fiercely about which one. Gillon was carrying on a side argument with his parents about the desirability of hiring a video, which, he assured them, would save far more than it cost in the end. Parental reaction to this excellent idea was, as usual, automatic and negative.

All this could not help seeming ridiculously trivial to Omri, with so much on his mind.

They had been out to the model shop before lunch. Omri had taken along one of his books on Indians and tried to find the ones who were dressed in the distinctive Iroquois clothes: floppy leggings with feather decorations, moccasins gathered around the ankles, a sort of sporran-thing hanging like an apron from the waist, turkey feathers in a band around the forehead. Only, there weren’t many like that. It was extraordinary what a variety of Indian costumes there were, and the model shop had what appeared to be representatives from a dozen tribes.

Omri knew how bitter the hatred between warring tribes could be. The Algonquins, for instance, were the Iroquois’s mortal enemies—it would be no use bringing any of
them.
But since there weren’t anything like enough that he was sure were Iroquois, Omri had bought some others he wasn’t sure of, in the hope that Little Bear would recognize them as belonging to some friendly Indian nation who would agree to help the Iroquois in their hour of trial.

Patrick, book in hand, was at another shelf, looking at English soldiers of differing periods. He wanted to find some who might have fought the French in America. Omri wasn’t keen on bringing any white men into it, but Patrick said they were in it already.

“I bet they’d handle modern weapons better than a bunch of primitive Indians, anyhow.”

Omri told him not to be so racist, but when Patrick found some that looked right, according to an illustration in the book, Omri made no objection to buying even one mounted officer. The horse, a handsome black, made him much more expensive.

The whole lot—about fifty assorted Indians and five soldiers—set them back over ten pounds, which for Omri was two weeks’ pocket money. Patrick chipped in, though he hadn’t brought much.

So now they had this bagful of potential allies for Little Bear and the boys couldn’t wait to get started. As soon as lunch was over, the rest of the family scattered and the house became quiet. On the way upstairs, Omri said, “Do you think we dare bring them outdoors?”

“I want to start putting things in the cupboard,” said Patrick.

“So do I! I meant, bring the cupboard out too. Then, if any shooting should start, it won’t be so dangerous.”

“Why should it be less dangerous outdoors?”

“I don’t know … It just feels as if it would be.”

“Well … okay. But what if your father or anyone comes out in the garden?”

“Dad’s painting in his studio. Anyway there’s a hedged-off bit down at the bottom which is just shrubs; he never goes there.”

They found the little people waiting for them anxiously.

“Where Omri go so long time?” Little Bear demanded at once.

“Calm down, we’ve been getting the men.”

Little Bear sat up straight, his eyes glowing. “Show!”

“In a minute.”

Carefully Omri lifted the matchbox bed onto the seed tray. “Bright Stars, cover him up warmly. We’re going outside.”

She put the glove-finger around him to the armpits while Boone ran up the ramp and pulled it up behind him. The two ponies were munching grass in their fenced-off paddock. Omri picked the whole thing up, while Patrick took the cupboard and the bag of new men. As an afterthought he slipped Matron in his pocket. Omri did a quick reconnaissance to see that nobody was around. Then they cautiously trooped down the stairs and out the kitchen door into the back garden.

It was really a lovely place, far better than their old garden. It was not just a rectangle of lawn with a few flower beds. It had nooks and crannies. Omri headed for his favorite corner, a clump of bushes with a patch of grass in the middle, where rhododendrons and other tall plants kept prying eyes at bay. The sun was high and the place was sheltered from the wind. Still, Omri suggested Little Bear should be put into the longhouse to keep warm.

“No! Not want! Want be in sun! Sun give
orenda.”

“What’s that?”

Little Bear looked baffled. “Not know
orenda? Orenda
for all men. Life strength. Sun give. And rain.
Orenda
in animal, plant, all thing. Master of Good make. Now Omri
be Master of Good! Make brave, many, fight for Little Bear people.”

Omri felt a cold shiver. He didn’t like the idea of playing God. But it was too late to back out now.

They laid the seed tray and the cupboard on the grass. Boone at once put the ramp back in position, saddled his pony, tested his lasso, which he kept coiled around the pommel, and set off for a ride. It was rough going, as the grass in the shrubbery was not often mowed, but he didn’t seem to mind. “You fellas settle things. Ah’m goin’ for a gallop!”

“Keep us in sight,” said Patrick.

“That’s same as sayin’, keep the Rocky Mountains in sight!” laughed Boone. He waved his hat at them and went racing off between the grass-stems shouting “Yippee!” in the approved cowboy fashion. One of the most satisfying things about Boone was the fact that he always behaved exactly as the boys expected. This helped to balance Little Bear. They never knew what to expect from him.

The boys now began to set out the little men they’d bought in lines for Little Bear to inspect. Even though the Indian was well aware they couldn’t see him, he seemed to feel ashamed before them, lying in what he called “white man bed.” He made Bright Stars help him off it and onto a stack of rhododendron leaves he ordered to be laid on the earth. It looked very grand, like stiff layers of shiny dark green leather, but not very comfortable, Omri thought.

Little Bear sat cross-legged and stared narrowly at the Indian figures one by one. Several times he demanded that one of them be brought and laid before him for closer inspection. Some he discarded with an imperious wave of his hand. Once, he uttered a deep growl.

“Why bring Algonquin enemy?”

“Sorry,” said Omri, hastily removing the offending figure. “I thought he was a Mohawk. He dresses like one.

“Mohawk part of
Iroquois
nation. Omri not see difference? Stupid. Big eyes not best.”

About three quarters of the men they’d bought were eventually approved. Then Little Bear turned his eyes to the British soldiers.

They were rather splendid in their white breeches, scarlet coats, and three-cornered hats, but Omri didn’t think they looked very businesslike. The white bands crossed on their chests and backs made ideal targets. But perhaps the brilliance of their uniforms was intended to intimidate the enemy. Anyway they were all armed with muskets tipped with fearsome-looking blades. Omri bent one easily with his finger, thinking how sharp and lethal they would be when the cupboard had done its work and these bayonet swords became gleaming steel.

“These no good,” Little Bear pronounced abruptly.

Patrick and Omri were astonished.

“What’s wrong with them?” said Patrick. “Are they from the wrong time?”

“Right time. Near right. English soldier like that fight French in big battle soon before. French win.”

“Oh! Why?”

“Fight better. But also English dress stupid. This—this—”
He pointed contemptuously to the red coats and white trimmings. “Catch sun. Call eye of French soldier. Gun point. Pshooo!” He made a shooting noise. “No good if soldier proud. Must dress so enemy not see.”

“How do the English soldiers dress—er—now?”

“More like Indian. Earth colors. Like leaf. Shadow. More good for hide. Jump out on enemy. White man learn much from Indian.”

“Now who’s proud?” Patrick whispered to Omri.

“LITTLE BEAR HEAR THAT!” the Indian roared. Really, he had ears like a bat.

“Well, anyway, so you don’t want us to bring these men to life?” said Patrick hurriedly.

“Not need. Enough with braves and now-guns.”

The boys exchanged glances. This was tricky. Little Bear
was
proud and he wouldn’t like the suggestion that the white men might be better with modem weapons.

“Listen, Little Bear—” Omri began coaxingly.

Suddenly they froze. Omri heard his mother’s voice calling him from the house.

“Omri!
Omn!”

“What?” he called back, getting quickly to his feet.

“Darling, Kitsa’s caught a bird! Or a mouse or something. Anyway, she’s playing with it on the big lawn. Can you—?”

Omri’s mind seemed to blow hollow like an egg. He stopped hearing what his mother was saying. But Patrick was up and off in a flash, charging through the bushes
like a madman. Omri came behind him, the branches smacking him across the face.

On the main lawn was Kitsa, her blackness and whiteness beautiful, sleek and deadly in the sunshine. She was crouched and concentrated; her tail tip just twitching, all else about her perfectly still.

There was something small and helpless and alive in the grass in front of her.

“KITSA!”

Omri screamed out her name. Startled, she turned her head. Both boys were peking towards her. Furious at the interruption, she turned back and with one quick wiggle of her hips, she pounced. At almost the same second, Patrick reached her.

Without time to think, he kicked her, or rather, kicked at her. She started to jump away at the same second so that his foot, though it did just about connect with her, merely accelerated her flight through the air. With a yowl of outrage, empty-mouthed and thwarted, she fled.

Omri and Patrick fell to their knees on the spot Kitsa had so hastily vacated.

The white horse was lying on its side. Its legs were
moving but it was obviously hurt. It kept raising its head and whinnying and then letting its head drop back again. Boone was lying half under it. He didn’t move.

Patrick very gendy shifted the pony until he could lift Boone clear. Suddenly Boone shot to his feet and shouted, “Am Ah daid? Did it kill me?”

“You look okay to me,” said Patrick. His voice sounded to Omri like the voice of a complete stranger. It was deep and gruff, like a man’s. Boone was looking around in a daze.

“Whut was it?”

“A cat.”

“A
cat!
It was the biggest danged critter Ah ever seen in mah en-tire life! It jest come from nowhere—one minute Ah was ridin’ along, mindin’ mah own business, and suddenly—”

Then his eyes fell on his horse.

It raised its head again and whickered softly, as if asking him to help it. There was a terrible moment of silence. Boone crouched by the horse’s head, stroking it, running his hands over it. He unbuckled the saddle and lifted it clear, and very gently ran his hands over its white side.

Then he took off his hat. It was a strange gesture. Omri had seen men do it in films when they heard of someone’s death. A gesture of respect, of something stronger than respect. Boone stood up.

“Ribs is broke,” he said. “Have t’ finish him.”

“Oh, no!”
Omri heard himself say in a desperate voice.

“Ain’t no use keepin’ him alive t’ suffer. He’s mah pal.”

His voice, which cracked and dissolved into tears at the least thing, was now perfectly steady.

Slowly he reached for his revolver.

Omri couldn’t bear it. “Please, Boone! Don’t! Surely we can save him!”

Boone shook his head. “He’s too far gone. I gotta do it.” He looked up again. His face was strained but dry-eyed. “You boys turn yer backs. This ain’t fer kids to see.

Omri turned his back. Patrick didn’t. Boone bent down. He whispered something briefly into the horse’s ear. Then he put his revolver to its head. Omri didn’t see this, but he heard the shot. Tears spurted from his eyes. He couldn’t check them. He wiped them hard and furiously with both hands.

Why should he, who hardly ever cried any more, cry over the death of Boone’s horse, when Boone, who cried all the time, was so controlled? Turning around, seeing Boone standing quietly beside the horse’s body with his hat in one hand and his smoking revolver in the other, Omri tried to feel ashamed of his own weakness, but he couldn’t. It was his fault, partly, that this disaster had happened. They had been so preoccupied with the Plan and the exciting prospect of bringing more little people to life that they had let Boone ride off into a monstrous wilderness, full of deadly dangers. That it should have
been Omri’s own beloved little cat who had done this, just made everything worse.