With that he rode straight toward the vest-hill at full gallop, shouting out strange cowboy war cries and waving his gun, which, by Omri’s count, still had two bullets in it.
Little Bear had not expected this, but he was only outfaced for a moment. Then he coolly drew another arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow.
“Little Bear, if you shoot I’ll pick you up and squeeze you!” Omri cried.
Little Bear kept his arrow pointing toward the oncoming horseman.
“What you do if he shoot?” he asked.
“He won’t shoot! Look at him.”
Sure enough, the carpet was too soft for much galloping, and even as Omri spoke the cowboy’s horse stumbled and fell, pitching its rider over its head.
Little Bear lowered his bow and laughed. Then, to Omri’s horror, he laid down the bow among the folds of the vest, reached for his knife, and began to advance on the prostrate cowboy.
“Little Bear, you are not to touch him, do you hear?”
Little Bear stopped. “He try to shoot Little Bear. White enemy. Try take Indians’ land. Why not kill? Better dead. I act quick, he not feel, you see!” And he began to move forward again.
When he was nearly up to the cowboy Omri swooped on him. He didn’t squeeze him, of course, but he did lift him high and fast enough to give him a fright.
“Listen to me now. That cowboy isn’t after your land. He’s got nothing to do with you. He’s Patrick’s cowboy, like you’re my Indian. I’m taking him to school with me today, so you won’t be bothered by him anymore. Now you take your horse and get back to your longhouse and leave him to me.”
Little Bear, sitting cross-legged in the palm of his hand, gave him a sly look.
“You take him to school? Place you learn about ancestors?”
“That’s what I said.”
He folded his arms, offended. “Why you not take Little Bear?”
Omri was startled into silence.
“If white fool with coward’s face good enough, Indian Chief good enough.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy it—”
“If he enjoy, I enjoy.”
“I’m not taking you. It’s too risky.”
“Risky? Firewater?”
“Not whiskey—risky. Dangerous.”
He shouldn’t have said that. Little Bear’s eyes lit up.
“Like danger! Here too quiet. No hunting, him only enemy,” he said scornfully, peering over the edge of Omri’s hand at the cowboy, who, despite the softness of his landing place, was only just scrambling to his feet. “Look! He no use for fight. Little Bear soon kill, take scalp, finish. Very good scalp,” he added generously. “Fine color, look good on belt.”
Omri looked across at the cowboy. He was leaning his ginger head against his saddle. It looked as if he might be crying again. Omri felt very sorry for him.
“You’re not going to hurt him,” he said to the Indian, “because I won’t let you. If he’s such a coward, it wouldn’t do your honor any good anyway.”
Little Bear’s face fell, then grew mulish. “No tell from scalp on belt if belong to coward or brave man,” he said slyly. “Let me kill and I do dance around campfire,” he coaxed.
“No—” Omri began. Then he changed his tactics. “All right, you kill him. But then I won’t bring you a wife.”
The Indian looked at him a long time. Then he slowly put his knife away.
“No touch. Give word. Now you give word. Take Little Bear to school. Take to plasstick. Let Little Bear choose own woman.”
Omri considered. He could keep Little Bear in his pocket all day. No need to take any chances. If he were tempted to show the other children, well, he must resist temptation, that was all.
And after school he could take him to Yapp’s. The boxes with the plastic figures in them were in a corner behind a high stand. Provided there weren’t too many other kids in the shop, he might be able to give Little Bear a quick look at the lady Indians before he bought one, which would be a very good thing. Otherwise he might pick an old or ugly one without realizing it. It was so hard to see from their tiny plastic faces what they would look like when they came to life.
“Okay then, I’ll take you. But you must do as I tell you and not make any noise.”
He put him down on the seed tray and gently shooed the horse up the ramp. Little Bear tied it to its post, and Omri gave it some more rat food. Then he crawled on hands and knees over to where the cowboy was now sitting dolefully on the carpet, his horse’s rein looped around his arm, looking too miserable to move.
“What’s the matter?” Omri asked him.
The little man didn’t look up. “Lost mah hat,” he mumbled.
“Oh is that all?” Omri reached over to the baseboard and pulled the pinlike arrow out of the wide brim of the hat. “Here it is,” he said kindly, laying it in the cowboy’s lap.
The cowboy looked at it, looked up at Omri, then stood up and put the hat on. “You shore ain’t no reg’lar hallucy-nation,” he said. “I’m obliged to ya.” Suddenly he laughed. “Jest imagine, thankin’ a piece o’ yer dee-lirium tremens fer givin’ you yer hat back! Ah jest cain’t figger out what’s goin’ on around here. Say! Are you real, or was that Injun real? ’Cause in case you ain’t noticed, you’re a danged sight bigger’n he is. You cain’t both be real.”
“I don’t think you ought to worry about it. What’s your name?”
The cowboy seemed embarrassed and hung his head. “M’name’s Boone. But the fellas all call me Boohoo. That’s on account of Ah cry so easy. It’s m’soft heart. Show me some’n sad, or scare me just a little, and the tears jest come to mah eyes. Ah cain’t help it.”
Omri, who had been somewhat of a crybaby himself until very recently, was not inclined to be scornful about this, and said, “That’s okay. Only you needn’t be scared of me. And as for the Indian, he’s my friend and he won’t hurt you, he’s promised. Now I’d like you and your horse to go back into that big crate. I’ll stick the knot back in the wood, you’ll feel safer. Then I’ll get you some breakfast.” Boone brightened visibly at this. “What would you like?”
“Aw shucks, Ah ain’t that hungry. Coupla bits o’ steak and three or four eggs sittin’ on a small heap o’ beans and washed down with a jug o’ cawfee’ll suit me jest dandy.”
“You’ll be lucky,” thought Omri.
Breakfast Truce
He crept downstairs. The house was still asleep. He decided to cook breakfast for himself and his cowboy and Indian. He was quite a good cook, but he’d mostly done sweet stuff before; however, any fool, he felt sure, could fry an egg. The steaks were out of the question, but beans were no problem. Omri put butter in the frying pan on the stove. The fat began to smoke. Omri broke an egg into it, or tried to, but the shell, instead of coming cleanly apart, crumpled up somehow in his hand and landed in the hot fat mixed up with the egg
H’m. Not as easy as he’d thought. Leaving the mess to cook, shell and all, he got a tin of beans out of the cupboard and opened it without trouble. Then he got a saucepan and began pouring the beans in. Some of them got into the eggpan somehow and seemed to explode. The egg was beginning to curl and the pan was still smoking. Alarmed, he turned off the heat. The center of the egg still wasn’t cooked and the beans in the pan were stone cold, but the smell in the kitchen was beginning to worry him—he didn’t want his mother coming down. He tipped the whole lot into a bowl, hacked a lopsided slice off the loaf of bread, and tiptoed up the stairs again.
Little Bear was standing outside his longhouse with hands on hips, waiting for him.
“You bring food?” he asked in his usual bossy way.
“Yes.”
“First, Little Bear want ride.”
“First, you must eat while it’s hot, I’ve been to a lot of trouble to cook it for you,” Omri said, sounding like his mother.
Little Bear didn’t know how to take this, so he burst into a rather forced laugh and pointed at him scornfully. “Omri cook—O
mri woman!” he teased. But Omri wasn’t bothered.
“All the best cooks are men,” he retorted. “Come on, you’re going to eat with Boone.”
Little Bear’s laughter died instantly.
“Who Boone?”
“You know who he is. The cowboy.”
The Indian’s hands came off his hips and one of them went for his knife.
“Oh knock it off, Little Bear! Have a truce for breakfast, otherwise you won’t get any.”
Leaving him with that thought to chew over, Omri crossed to the crate, in which Boone was grooming his white horse with a wisp of cloth he’d found clinging to a splinter. He’d taken off the little saddle, but the bridle was still on.
“Boone! I’ve brought something to eat,” said Omri.
“Yup. Ah thought Ah smelt some’n good,” said Boone. “Let’s git to it.”
Omri put his hand down. “Climb on.”
“Aw shucks—where’m Ah goin’? Why cain’t Ah eat in mah box, where it’s safe?” whined Boone. But he clambered up into Omri’s palm and sat grumpily with his back against his middle finger.
“You’re going to eat with the Indian,” said Omri.
Boone leaped up so suddenly he nearly fell off, and had to grab hold of a thumb to steady himself.
“Hell no, Ah ain’t!” he yelled. “You jest put me down, son, ya hear? I ain’t sharin’ m’vittles with no lousy scalp-snafflin’ Injun and that’s m’last word!” It was, as it happened, his last word before being set down within six inches of his enemy on the seed tray.
They both bent their legs into crouches, as if uncertain whether to leap at each other’s throats or turn and flee. Omri hurriedly spooned up some egg and beans and held it between them.
“Smell that!” he ordered them. “Now you eat together or you don’t get any at all, so make up your minds to it. You can start fighting again afterward if you must.”
He took a bit of clean paper and laid it, like a tablecloth, under the spoon. Then he broke off some crumbs of bread-crust and pushed a little into each of their hands. Still with their eyes fixed on each other’s faces, Indian and cowboy sidled toward the big, steaming “bowl” of food from opposite sides. Little Bear, after hesitating, was first to shoot his arm out and dip the bread into the egg. The sudden movement startled Boone so much he let out a yell and tried to run, but Omri’s hand was blocking the way.
“Don’t be silly, Boone,” he said firmly.
“Ah ain’t bein’ silly! Them Injuns ain’t jest ornery and savage. Them’s dirty. And Ah ain’t eatin’ from the same bowl as no—”
Boone, said Omri quietly, Little Bear is no dirtier than you. You should see your own face.”
“Is that mah fault? What kinda hallucy-nation are ya, anyways, tellin’ me Ah’m dirty when ya didn’t bring me no washin’ water?”
This was a fair complaint, but Omri wasn’t about to lose the argument on a side issue.
“You can have some after breakfast. But if you don’t agree to eat with my Indian, I’m going to tell him your nickname.”
The cowboy’s face fell. “Now, that ain’t fair. That plumb ain’t no ways fair,” he muttered. But hunger was getting the better of him anyway, so, grumbling and swearing under his breath, he turned back and marched to his side of the spoon. By this time Little Bear was seated cross-legged on the piece of paper, a hunk of bean in one hand and a mess of egg in the other, eating heartily. Seeing this, Boone lost no time in tucking in, eyeing the Indian, who ignored him.
“Whur’s mah cawfee?” he complained after he’d eaten a few bites. “Ah cain’t start the day till Ah’ve had mah jug o’ cawfee!”
Omri had completely forgotten about coffee, but he was beginning to be pretty well fed up with being bossed around by ungrateful little men, so he settled down to eat the remains of the food and simply said, “Well, you’ll have to start this one without any.”
Little Bear finished his breakfast and stood up.
“Now we fight,” he announced, and reached for his knife.
Omri expected Boone to leap up and run, but he didn’t. He just sat there munching bread and beans.
“Ah ain’t finished yit,” he said. “Ain’t gonna fight till Ah’m plumb full o’ vittles. So you kin jest sit down and wait, redskin.”
Omri laughed. “Good for you, Boone! Take it easy, Little Bear. Don’t forget your promise.”
Little Bear scowled. But he sat down again.
Boone ate and ate. It was hard not to suspect, after a while, that he was eating as much and as slowly as possible, to put off the moment when he would have to fight.
At last, very reluctantly, he scraped the last bit of egg from the spoon, wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers, and stood up. Little Bear was on his feet instantly. Omri stood ready to part them.
“Looka here, Injun,” said Boone. “If we’re gonna fight, we’re gonna fight fair. Probably ain’t even a word for ‘fair’ in your language, but Ah’m here to tell ya, with me it’s fight fair or don’t fight atall.”
“Little Bear fight fair, kill fair, scalp fair.”
“You ain’t gonna scalp nobody. Less’n ya take it off with yer teeth.”
For answer, Little Bear raised his knife, which flashed in the morning light. Omri, his hands on his knees, waited.
“Yeah, Ah see it. But you ain’t gonna have it much longer. And why aincha? Because Ah ain’t got one. Ah only got m’gun, and m’gun’s run plumb outa bullets. What Ah got, and all Ah got, is m’fists. Oh—and one other thing. Ah got mah hallucy-nation here.” He waved a hand at Omri without taking his eyes off Little Bear for a second. “And Ah know he don’t want to see this here purty red scalp o’ mine hangin’ from no stinkin’ redskin’s belt. So if Ah fight, it’s gonna be fist to fist, face to face—man to man, Injun! D’ja hear me? No weapons! Jest us two, and let’s see if a white man cain’t lick a red man in a fair fight. Less’n mebbe—jest mebbe—you ain’t red atall, but yeller?” And Boone stepped around the bowl of the spoon, threw his empty gun on the ground, and put up his fists like a boxer.
Little Bear was nonplused. He lowered his knife and stared at Boone. Whether Little Bear had completely understood the cowboy’s strange speech was doubtful, but he couldn’t mistake the gesture of throwing the gun away. As Boone began to dance around him, fists up, making little mock jabs toward his face, Little Bear was getting madder and madder. He made a sudden swipe at him with his knife. Boone jumped back.
“Oh you naughty Injun! Ah see Ah’ll have to set mah hallucy-nation onto you!”
But Omri didn’t have to do anything. Little Bear had got the message. Throwing down the knife in a fury, he hurled himself onto Boone.
What followed was not a fist fight, or a wrestling match, or anything so well organized. It was just an all-in, no-holds-barred, two-man war. They rolled on the ground, pummeling, kicking, and butting with their heads. At one point Omri thought he saw Boone trying to bite. Maybe he succeeded, because Little Bear suddenly let him go and Boone rolled away swift as a barrel down a slope and onto his legs, and then, with a spring like a bowlegged panther, onto the Indian again. Feet first.
Little Bear let out a noise like “OOOF!” He caught Boone by both ankles and heaved him off. Little Bear picked up a clod of compost and flung it after him, catching him full in the face. Then Little Bear got up and ran at him, holding both fists together and swinging them as he had swung the battle-ax. They caught the cowboy a heavy whack on the ear, which sent him flying to one side. But as he flew, he caught Little Bear a blow in the chest with one boot. That left them both on the ground.
The next moment each of the men found himself pinned down by a giant finger.
“All right, boys. That’s enough,” said Omri, in his father’s firm end-of-the-fight voice. “It’s a draw. Now you must get cleaned up for school.”
School
He brought them a low type of egg cup full of hot water, and a corner of soap cut off a big cake, to wash with. They sto
od on each side of the “bowl.” Little Bear stripped off his bandolier, which left him naked to the waist. Then he lost no time plunging his arms in and began energetically rubbing the whole of the top part of his body with his wet hands, throwing water everywhere. He made a lot of noise about it and seemed to be enjoying himself, though he ignored the soap.
Boone was a different matter. Omri had already noticed that Boone was none too fussy about being clean, and in fact didn’t look as if he’d washed or shaved for weeks. Now he approached the hot water gingerly, eyeing Omri as if to see how little washing he could actually get away with.
“Come on, Boone! Off with that shirt, you can’t wash your neck with a shirt on,” said Omri briskly, echoing his mother.
With extreme reluctance, shivering theatrically, Boone dragged off his plaid shirt, keeping his hat on.
“I should think your hair could do with a wash too,” said Omri.
Boone stared at him.
“Wash mah hair?” he asked incredulously. “Washin’ hair’s fer wimmin, ’tain’t fer men!” But he did consent to rub his hands lightly over the piece of soap, although grimacing hideously as if it were some slimy dead thing, and wash at least the palms of his hands. Then he rinsed them hastily, smeared some water on his face, and reached for his shirt without even drying himself.
“Boone!” said Omri sternly. “Just look at Little Bear! You called him dirty, but at least he’s washing himself thoroughly! Now you just do something about your neck and—well, under your arms.”
Boone’s look was now one of stark horror.
“Under mah arms!”
“And your chest, I should think. I’m not taking you to school all sweaty.”
“Hell! Don’t you go runnin’ down sweat! It’s sweat that keeps a man clean!”
After a lot of bullying, Omri managed to get him to wash at least a few more bits of himself.
“You’ll have to wash your clothes sometime, too,” he said.
But this was too much for Boone.
“Ain’t nobody gonna touch mah duds, and that’s final,” he said. “Ain’t bin washed since Ah bought ’em. Water takes all the stuffin’ outa good cloth, without all the dust ’n’ sweat they don’t keep ya warm no more.”
The Indian in the Cupboard Page 8
