Free Flight by Sherman Alexie Page B

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