The Return of the Indian Read Online Free PDF Page A

knew that Tommy didn’t live to be an old man. That one of those big German shells he had talkedabout, those “Minnies,” or perhaps some other weapon, had Struck him down. His snubby, cheerful face, his bravery and his gentle hands were gone, with so many thousands of others, into the mud of the trenches.
    Omri had never experienced death at close hand. No one he knew well had ever died. An uncle had “jumped the twig,” as his father called it, last year, but in Australia. A boy at school had been killed in a car crash, but he wasn’t in Omri’s class.
    The realization of Tommy’s death—even a whole year after he had last seen him—came as a ghastly shock. He had no one to share this with—and in any case, there was no time. Standing at his elbow was the pony, tossing his head as if in impatience and heedlessness of anything which delayed attention to his master. Bright Stars’ enormous eyes were fixed on him. Waiting.
Trusting
.
    Later.
He would think about Tommy, and mourn for him, later. Who would understand better than Tommy that you have to look after the wounded before mourning the dead? Rubbing his hand across his mouth, Omri looked around helplessly, and then he faced Bright Stars.
    How much English did she know? During her brief time with him, before, he had never spoken directly to her—she had only spoken to Little Bear, in their own language. Now he must make her understand.
    “No good,” he said slowly. “No help.”
    She looked blank, although the shining hope faded a little from her face. To make matters plain, Omri opened the cupboard again and took Tommy’s plastic figure—whichhad come back, replacing the pitiful little pile of his uniform—and stood it before the Indian girl. She slipped from the pony’s back and, holding the rope, touched the figure.
    She seemed to realize at once that there was no help to be looked for there. She turned swiftly back toward Omri.
    “Help. You,” she said in a clear, silvery voice.
    Omri felt sheer desperation clamp down on his heart, already heavy with sadness. He followed Bright Stars’ pointing finger at the lifeless-looking body across the pony.
    “We must lay him flat,” he said at last. It was all he could think of. But it could not be all he could do. He must think—he must think!
    He watched Bright Stars struggling to lift Little Bear’s heavy body off the horse. He helped as much as he dared, terrified his big clumsy fingers would damage him, but at least he could make his hand into a kind of platform to lower Little Bear to the ground. With his other hand he pulled his box of tissues toward him and made a make-shift mattress out of several of them. At least they were soft and clean. Soon Little Bear was lying stretched on his stomach.
    Omri had been through something like this before. When Little Bear had shot the cowboy, Boone. That time, Tommy had been brought in to help. He had had some tiny instruments, dressings and medicine. Crude as his old-fashioned methods were, they had worked. Omrifelt poignantly the absence of an old friend, as one does—not just missing the person, but missing his skills, his role in one’s life. For a moment, he felt almost angry with Tommy for being dead when he was so badly needed.
    Bright Stars, who was kneeling beside Little Bear, looked up. She said something. It was some Indian word. Omri shook his head. Bright Stars wrung her hands. She pointed to the two bullet wounds, and said the word again, louder. It must be some special Indian remedy she wanted. And for the first time, Omri thought: She might be better off where she came from. She’d know what to do there.
    But at least he could clean the wounds. He knew how to do that much. He had some mouthwash, horrible stuff his mother made him gargle with when he had a cold. The bottle was on his shelf. He jumped up and fetched it. His head was spinning. He was beginning to realize how insane it had been to start up with this business again; he was