Flight

  We are attacked as we ride through the camp. A few of the women have bows and arrows, too. And a few old men.

  And one tiny Indian boy. He can’t be more than five years old. He holds a bow. He is Bow Boy. Is he strong enough to even use his weapon? Can he pull back the string and let loose an arrow?

  No, he can’t.

  He bloodies his fingers on the taut string. And he cries out in pain. But he keeps trying to shoot us. And he bloodies his hand again and again.

  I see a soldier slam his horse into an old woman. She falls. The soldier spins his horse around and tramples her. He spins again and rides over her one more time.

  A soldier dismounts and chases down a woman and her little daughter. He shoots the woman in the back. She falls. The daughter drops to her knees beside her mother. Daughter wails. The soldier shoots at the daughter. But his gun jams. He pulls the trigger again. Nothing. So he grabs the barrel of his rifle, still so hot that it burns his hands. But he doesn’t feel the pain, not yet, as he smashes the gun down on the girl’s skull. He hits her again and again. Keeps hitting her until his rifle breaks in half.

  A group of soldiers, seven or eight of them, drag two screaming and kicking women into a tent.

  A soldier jumps up and down on the belly and chest of an old man.

  And everywhere, everywhere, other soldiers are shooting Indians.

  Bullet after bullet after bullet after bullet.

  I see General Mustache down on one knee, taking careful aim at the women and children and old people who flee from us. They run toward the faraway hills. To the thick woods on the faraway hills. Two or three miles away.

  The general pulls the trigger. Again and again. And a person falls each time he shoots.

  It’s madness.

  I wish I had kept my rifle so I could shoot myself. I don’t want to see anymore. I want to be blind. I want to leave this place. I don’t care where I go. I don’t care about which body or time period is waiting for me. I will gladly float in the nowhere. I will gladly be a ghost, if I can be a ghost who can’t see or hear.

  And then a stray bullet strikes my horse. Blows my horse’s head into pieces. Covers me with blood and launches me toward the sky.

  I think the quickest prayer of my life as I fly: Lord, please break my neck.

  And then I crash into the ground and roll through a campfire and land on a pile of dead bodies.

  I scream.

  I look up to see Bow Boy running. Oh, my God. He’s only five years old. His hands are bloody. His father must have died with the other warriors. And his mother, oh, where is his mother?

  And now I see a soldier running after Bow Boy. The soldier carries a saber—a sword—the simplest killing machine. This white soldier, a boy himself, maybe sixteen years old, chases Bow Boy.

  Oh, Jesus, stop this. Oh, God, reach down and crush all of us like insects.

  But when have Jesus and God ever stopped a man from taking revenge?

  Bow Boy runs fast. The white soldier cannot catch him. Bow Boy spins in circles, dodges, ducks, and spins back toward me.

  I stagger to my feet. I will protect him. I will save him.

  I run toward Bow Boy, but I am old and hurt. My knees give out, and I stagger and fall again. I bloody my face in the dirt.

  I look up to see Bow Boy fall, too. With saber raised high, the white soldier races toward Bow Boy. I am going to watch this murder.

  This is my punishment. Yes, this is God’s final punishment for me. I will watch this boy die.

  But, no.

  Wait.

  Without stopping, that white soldier reaches down and picks up Bow Boy. Cradles the child in one arm. And the white soldier keeps running. He’s running toward the faraway hills. Toward those faraway trees. Toward cover. Toward safety. Carrying an Indian child, a white soldier is running with Indians.

  I can’t believe it. It can’t be true. But it is true.

  That white soldier, a small saint, is trying to save Bow Boy.

  I wonder if the other escaping Indians see this. I wonder if it gives them hope. I wonder if this act of love makes it easier for them to face death.

  In the midst of all this madness and murder, one soldier has refused to participate. He has chosen the opposite of revenge. Somehow that one white boy, that small saint, has held on to a good and kind heart. A courageous and beautiful heart.

  I have to help him.

  The other soldiers haven’t noticed Small Saint’s escape. They are too busy with blood.

  But they will see him soon enough. And they will kill him, too.

  I stand and run-limp, looking for a rifle and a horse. My tools. I need my tools. The tools of war. The tools of revenge. The tools of offense and defense. Of attack and protection. Of good and evil.

  I find a rifle, stringed with beads and buckskin, lying on the ground. One of the fallen warriors’ guns, an ancient single-shot rifle. I don’t even know if it works. But I pick it up and run after a painted pony that spins in circles. The pony doesn’t know where to go.

  I reach him, crawl painfully onto his back, and race after Small Saint and Bow Boy.

  As I ride, I see that General Mustache has finally noticed them, too.

  “It’s a deserter!” Mustache yells. “He’s gone Indian!”

  What does that mean, gone Indian? I don’t know. Mustache aims at Small Saint’s back. Aiming for the center of mass. A kill shot. He will not miss.

  I ride hard toward Mustache. He doesn’t know I am coming. I don’t know if I will reach him before he fires.

  Small Saint runs with Bow Boy. Confused, terrified, Bow Boy struggles to get free. But Small Saint will not let go. He runs and runs and runs.

  General Mustache takes careful aim. He wants to kill this traitorous soldier. He hates soldiers who refuse to kill. And he hates the ones who have killed but refuse to kill again. The ones who drop their weapons and run. The ones who drop their weapons and stand still. The ones who shoot themselves in the foot, heart, and head.

  Traitors, all traitors.

  I scream as I reach General Mustache. He turns, and fires his weapon at me. But he misses wide as I swing my rifle and smash him in the face. He falls.

  And I ride after Small Saint and Bow Boy.

  Other soldiers pursue me. I can hear the curses and hoofbeats behind me. I can hear and feel their gunfire. All around me, running Indians, the old people, women, and children, so many of them fall to gunfire.

  How many rifles are behind me? How many soldiers? I don’t know.

  Some part of me, the part that is Gus, wants me to stop, to turn around and re-swear my allegiance to the other soldiers. But I can defeat Gus now. I am doing the right thing. I am trying to save the soldier who is trying to save Bow Boy.

  My painted pony is fast, faster than the other horses. He runs for his life, too. I wonder if the soldiers’ horses are cursing this Indian pony. I wonder if horses judge each other based on their human riders.

  I catch up to Small Saint and Bow Boy. For a second, Small Saint thinks he’s been caught, that I am there to kill them.

  But I reach out a hand, Small Saint grabs it, and I haul him and the boy on the horse, all of this at full gallop.

  With his ancient broken body, Gus could never have done that. I own this body now.

  And how can this small pony carry three people and not collapse or slow down?

  Because of fear. Because of grace. Because we want to live.

  Terrified, overloaded, on our powerful pony we outrace the soldiers and their horses.

  We all race for the faraway hills. The faraway trees. Getting closer now, so close.

  Faster, faster now, faster than I thought possible. I wonder if the pony will catch fire. If the pony has caught fire. If the pony is leaving behind hoofprints that spark and smolder.

  We are two hundred yards from the trees, one hundred yards, fifty yards.

  I don’t want to look behind me, but the sounds of gunfire and hooves and curses grow fa
inter and fainter. We are leaving our enemies behind. They will not catch us on horseback. But they can still catch us with gunfire.

  I hear the bullets sizzle past us.

  Thirty, twenty, ten yards. The pony leaps into the air. It grows wings and flies into the forest.

  No, of course not. It doesn’t grow wings. How can a horse grow wings?

  That kind of extraordinary magic is not permitted here. No, the only magic here is ordinary. It’s so ordinary that it might not be magic at all. It might only be luck.

  But I’ll take luck.

  As we crash through the underbrush and leap over stumps and fallen trees, I praise luck. As we leave behind the soldiers who want to kill us, who have killed so many others, I praise luck. As I hear the weeping of Small Saint and Bow Boy, who are happy to be alive, however temporarily, I praise luck. As we outrun horses and bullets, as we outrun that monster revenge, I praise luck.

  Twelve

  THIS IS WHAT IT feels like to be old.

  After crashing headfirst off a horse into a campfire, and swinging two people onto the back of your pony with one arm, and all the excitement of outrunning killer soldiers with rifles, you have a few bruises and burns and scrapes and cuts and sore muscles.

  In fact, after you ride fast and hard a mile or two into the trees, and think you have left behind your enemies, you need to slow down.

  And when an old guy relaxes, when the fear juices leave his body, he is immediately reminded of exactly how old he is.

  How old am I? How old is this body?

  After I relax, my back seizes up. It goes completely stiff, like I’m made out of steel. And I fall off my pony.

  I hit the ground and hurt my ribs. I think I might have cracked something. I can barely breathe.

  Small Saint and Bow Boy are still on the horse. Small Saint has taken the reins and spins the pony back toward me.

  There are sixteen tiny little men with sharp knives slashing my spine. I’m curled into a ball. And every time I try to straighten up, or even move or breathe, another tiny little guy shows up with a sharp knife.

  If the soldiers caught up to us right now, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself. They could walk right up to me and I’d just be curled into a ball like a bug. And one of them, or all of them, would raise their boots and squish me.

  I’m useless.

  And then it’s over. My back relaxes. The knife-wielding little guys run away. And I can slowly straighten my back. I don’t want to stand up yet. I can still feel little tremors in my muscles, as if my body was just waiting and preparing for another big quake. Or for those little bastards to come back with chain saws.

  So I lie on the ground and I look up at Small Saint and Bow Boy still on the pony. The Indian boy has curled into the white soldier. Has his little arms wrapped around the soldier’s neck. Bow Boy loves Small Saint like he was his father. Or his mother. Or both.

  I remember I used to be like that little boy, holding tightly on to anybody who showed me even the tiniest bit of love. I haven’t been like that in a long time.

  “Are you okay, sir?” Small Saint asks me.

  “Define okay,” I say.

  Small Saint smiles. He’s missing half his teeth. I guess dental care wasn’t a high priority in the nineteenth century.

  “We can’t stay here long, sir,” Small Saint says. “They’re going to be coming after us. They’re not going to let us go.”

  He’s right. I’m not a soldier, but I know that we just did about two million of the worst things any soldier can do. We disobeyed orders. I smacked a general in the face with a rifle. I might have killed him.

  And I think I broke my rifle. I notice I’m still holding on to it. The rifle covered with buckskin and beads. It was an Indian warrior’s rifle; now it’s mine. I wonder if it works. Did I break it when I smashed it over the general’s head?

  And how much I already love this weapon. It saved me. It saved Small Saint and Bow Boy. I didn’t have to fire a bullet to use it.

  Even after falling off the pony, I kept hold of this rifle. An old soldier’s reflexes, I guess. Or maybe it’s because my hands are frozen shut from that arthritis stuff.

  I’m not much of a hero.

  Small Saint and I saved an Indian kid. That makes us traitors. And traitors are never, ever forgiven or forgotten.

  “I just need to rest a few more minutes,” I say. “My back is fucked. I’m afraid it will knock me down again if I try to stand up too soon.”

  I laugh at my accent. I’m trying to sound like me, but I can only sound like Irish Gus.

  “I’m Irish,” I say.

  “My granddaddy’s from there, sir,” Small Saint says.

  Bow Boy doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you about ready to get up, sir?” Small Saint says. He keeps looking back and listening hard. “They’re out there coming. I can feel them.”

  “I think I might have broken a rib,” I say. “It hurts to breathe.”

  “I know you’re hurting, sir,” Small Saint says. “I’m hurting. Indian boy’s hurting. We’re all hurting, sir, but we’re going to be hurting a lot more if they catch us.”

  I know I should get up. I want to get up. But I can’t seem to find the willpower.

  All I know is that I need to stand, shake off the pain and fear, get back on that pony, and ride away from here.

  And I’m going to get up in a minute.

  I’m going to stand in a second.

  Any moment now.

  Right now.

  Pretty soon.

  Any moment.

  “Sir,” Small Saint says. “I hate to bother you again. But we really need to go now. Right now. I can hear them coming.”

  I listen hard. I can’t hear anything. But I’ve got old ears. I’m tired and broken and beaten, and I don’t know if I can get up. Part of me wants to become a part of the dirt and grass.

  Other soldiers are coming to kill me, and I can’t even find the courage or strength to stand up. I know that it would be easier to give up than to stand up. Easier for me.

  But Bow Boy and Small Saint need me.

  I need me.

  So I roll over onto my stomach, onto my hands and knees, and push myself up. I’m on my feet. My back trembles. I can feel the little pain that wants to be bigger pain.

  Come on, Gus! Toughen up!

  I take a little step. I’m walking! I take a big step! I look around for my adoring audience. I feel like I need applause. I’m up and ready to go. I’m up and ready to run from the killers.

  “All right, kid,” I say to Small Saint. “Let’s go.”

  “You want to ride with us?” he asks.

  “No, I think it’s better for my back if I walk.”

  So Small Saint and Bow Boy ride the pony and I walk. And we begin our slow-motion escape.

  With my old ears, I can hear the soldiers catching up to us.

  “How far back you think they are?” I ask Small Saint.

  “Maybe three miles, sir. Probably closer to two.”

  “Can we outrun them?” I ask.

  I know that Gus is supposed to be the experienced scout, but I’m not going to make guesses. This kid knows more than I do.

  He’s thinking hard.

  “Can we outrun them?” I ask again.

  “Probably not, sir,” he says. “But we have to try.”

  “How long before they catch us?”

  “At this rate, ten-fifteen minutes, maybe.”

  “All right, then,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. And then I think to ask something else. “Hey, kid,” I say. “Why’d you do it?”

  “Do what, sir?” Small Saint asks.

  “Why’d you save the Indian boy?”

  Small Saint thinks for a moment. “I joined the military to defend people,” he said. “And that’s what I’m doing right now.”

  I will never be as good or as brave as this kid.

  I try to walk faster, and then I jog a bit. My knees and bac
k are hurting. But I pick up the pace. I’m trying to replace Gus’s old body with my young spirit.

  I’m trying to replace Gus’s knees with my knees.

  And so Small Saint pushes the pony to a slow trot. And I’m pushing Gus to a slow trot. And we go.

  I know I won’t be able to keep up this pace. I know this chase is unfair. But we have to run. We have to keep running.

  And so we run.

  Behind us, the curses and hoofbeats of the cavalry. Ahead of us, who knows?

  Behind us, death.

  And so we run.

  And then I trip over a fallen branch and fall beside it. My back seizes up again. I curl. And I scream.

  “Sir!” Small Saint shouts. “Sir! Are you okay?”

  All I can do is scream. The pain is so huge, like a thousand little men are digging a train tunnel through my back.

  Please, please, make the pain stop.

  “Sir!” Small Saint shouts. “Sir! What should I do?”

  The soldiers are so close now, I imagine I can smell them. I smell gunpowder and sweat and blood and hate.

  “Go!” I yell. “Run!”

  “But what about you, sir!” Small Saint shouts. “I wont leave a man behind, sir!”

  “You have to! Go! Go!”

  “No, sir! No, sir!”

  I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s ready to make his stand here. That he will fight a million soldiers to save the Indian boy.

  But this is not supposed to be his end.

  There are two children riding that pony. They’re supposed to be children and stay children for as long as possible.

  “You have to save him!” I shout. “Save the kid!”

  And now Small Saint understands. He knows he might escape if he leaves me behind. He knows he has a better chance. It’s a horrible choice to make, but he must make it.

  “I’ll hold them off,” I say. “I’ll buy you more time.”

  How crazy. I can’t even uncurl my back and I’m going to fight charging cavalry soldiers?

  “Go,” I say. “Please.”

  It’s the please that does it. Funny how a little politeness can change people’s minds.

  Small Saint salutes me and then he’s off, galloping at full tilt, to disappear into the dark trees.