The Return of the Indian

by Lynne Reid Banks

  “Are you okay now, Boone?”

  “Me? Ah’m jest fine! Y’ cain’t kill Boo-hoo Boone s’ easy, even if’n he does look a mite soft. So whur’s Li’l Bear? Lemme shake the hand that shot me, t’ show thur ain’t no hard feelin’s!”

  Bright Stars didn’t understand much of this, but she heard Little Bear’s name. She took Boone by the arm and drew him over to the bed. When Boone saw the prostrate figure of the Indian he stopped short.

  “Holy smoke, whut happened t’ him?”

  “He got shot too. By Frenchmen,” Omri added in a low voice, and signaled to Boone not to ask questions. But Boone was not the most tactful of men.

  “Jee-hoshaphat! Never did trust them Frenchies. Got one runnin’ our saloon. Someday someone’s gonna run him … right outa town! Waters the whiskey, y’ know,” he added confidentially to Bright Stars.

  At the word “whiskey,” Little Bear opened his eyes (he had dropped off to sleep) and tried to sit up. When he saw Boone bending over him he let out a cry of recognition, and then fell back again with a hand to his bandaged chest.

  “Gee, the pore ol’ savage!” said Boone, shaking his head. He sniffed. “Not that he probably didn’t deserve it, they’re allus up to no good, but all th’ same Ah cain’t stand to see a man in pain.”

  He wiped away a tear.

  “He’s much better now,” said Patrick. “There’s nothing to start crying about.”

  Boone blew his nose loudly and plonked himself down on the bed.

  “Tell me th’ whole thing,” he said.

  “Not now,” said Omri hurriedly.

  “Why’n thunder not? Ah gotta hear sometime. C’mon, Injun. Or are ya ashamed o’ somethin’ ya done to that Frenchie t’ make him take a shot at ya?”

  Little Bear lay on the bed and stared up at Boone. There was suddenly tension in the air as they all—Bright Stars, too—waited for him to remember … to ask.

  Slowly he raised himself onto his elbows. His eyes had gone narrow, his face taut and scowling. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide and let out a wild cry. “Aaiiiiii!”

  Bright Stars put her hands to her face, turned and fled up the ramp and into the tepee.

  “Whut got into her?” Boone asked, looking after her, puzzled.

  But another anguished cry transfixed them all.

  “Little Bear remember! Soldiers come—burn village! Burn corn! Many … many …” He opened and closed his hands rapidly, holding up ten fingers again and again. “Iroquois braves fight—but not enough—not got guns—horses … Enemy break—burn—steal—kill … kill …”

  His voice cracked. He stopped speaking.

  Another man might have broken down and wept. But Little Bear just stared, wild-eyed and frozen-faced. His mouth was shut in a straight line, like a knife-cut in his hard face. Only his hands quivered at his sides, and his fingers became hooks.

  “Gee whiz, fella,” muttered Boone at last. “That’s too bad.”

  There was a long silence. Nobody moved. Little Bear lay on his back, his eyes open. He seemed to be neither fully awake, nor asleep. Omri passed a finger back and forth in front of those staring eyes—they didn’t respond. Omri, Patrick and Boone looked anxiously at each other.

  “What shall we do?”

  “Nuthin’,” said Boone. “Pore guy’s had a shock. Happened t’ me once’t. Came to after Ah got knocked out in some kinda ruckus … couldn’t remember a thing. Started in talkin’ and drinkin’ jes like ever’thin’ was normal, when all of a sudden, it come back t’ me. A lynchin’. A mob of coyotes just strung a fella up for somethin’ he didn’t even do. Most horriblest thing Ah ever saw. Ah jest laid there, seein’ it all over agin. Took me a danged long time t’ git over it. An’ that wasn’t s’ bad, neither, as what he’s a-seein’ now, pore critter …”

  Tears of sympathy were streaming down the cowboy’s leathery cheeks.

  “Them rotten Frenchies … Mixin’ in … Sneakin’ up on ’em that-a-way an’ skeerin’ thur wimmenfolk an’ all. Gee. Ah sure would like to help them pore folk, if’n it hadn’t a happened s’ long ago!”

  This showed an extraordinary change of heart for Boone, who had been absolutely down on Indians when they’d first known him. Omri said, “If we sent them back now, it would be all still going on. If you wanted to help, maybe we could send you back to their time—if Little Bear just held on to you, you’d all go back together.”

  Boone, who had had his face buried in his red bandanna, froze for a moment. His eyes slowly appeared above the red spotted cloth.

  “Me?” he said in a quavering voice.

  “Well, you said you’d like to help. You’ve got a gun, after all. And you don’t like Frenchmen. Maybe you’d like to shoot a few of them—”

  “—Before they shoot me!” finished Boone. “That’s a great idee, thanks a lot. Things is tough and dangerous enough whur Ah come from, Ah mean, when Ah come from, without goin’ back a hundred years t’ when things wuz ten times worse. Come t’ that … what’s stoppin’ you from lendin’ a hand t’ the redskins if’n yer s’ crazy about ’em?”

  Patrick and Omri looked at each other, startled.

  “We can’t go back!” Patrick exclaimed. “How could we? We can’t fit into the cupboard!”

  Boone looked at them, looked consideringly at the small bathroom cabinet, less than a foot high, and then back at the boys again.

  “That’s true,” he said grudgingly. “Ah reckon Ah cain’t argue ’bout that. But thur’s still a way Ah kin think of, that ya could help ’em, ifn you’d a mind ter.”

  “How?” they asked at once.

  “What’s that, down over yonder? It’s s’ danged far away, Ah cain’t see properly, but it looks to me like a whole bunch o’ folks layin’ in a heap in a box.”

  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, bu
t 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.

  Chapter 11

  Target Omri!

  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.