Free War of the Eagles by Eric Walters

of it, you’d better forget about Kiyoka. She’s mine!” He tapped me across the side of my head, bounded up from where he sat and sprinted down the path, laughing.
    Up in Rupert there were plenty of natives as well as whites and Japanese. I always thought people got along okay, although mostly they stayed with their kind. The Japanese pretty much kept to themselves in the fishing villages. Other than me, there weren’t usually many whites or natives in Sikima unless they were there on business.
    The place where everybody did come together was school. The Japanese and the Indians came flowing in from the forest and the little fishing villages, and the whites came in from the town. Everybody got along and there really wasn’t much difference. Except for maybe in marks. The Japanese took their schooling very seriously. They worked harder, studied more, never missed days, even when they were sick, and they usually got the highest marks. Maybe this got a few people a little annoyed, but I figured it was only fair. Those who worked the hardest deserved to do best. Who could argue with that?
    The Japanese always worked hard. When the salmon were running, they’d go out on their boats before the sun rose and stay out there until after the sun set. When they weren’t fishing, they’d fix their nets, or till their little plots of garden between the rocks, or dig out those rocks to make their gardens bigger, or paint their houses. That was one of the biggest differences between my vil–lage and Sikima. Those Japanese didn’t believe in letting any wood go free without a regular coat of paint.
    My mother’s people are more relaxed about life. I couldn’t even picture any of them digging out a rock. They’ve learned to live around and with the rocks. It’s not that they’re lazy. They just don’t spend time doing things like that. It’s funny, my father seems stuck in the middle. He thinks the Japanese work too hard and the Tsimshian don’t work hard enough.
    What sticks in my head though aren’t the differences, but the sameness. I’ve never met any group of people who aren’t stubbornly proud of the way they do things, who don’t think they are right and the others wrong.

.6.
    â€œCan you go on a little trip?” my mother asked.
    I eyed her without answering. A “little trip” could mean just about anything.
    â€œDown to Rupert. Smitty is going down to pick up supplies. He asked if you could go and give him a hand.
    Are you interested?”
    â€œAre you kidding? Sure!”
    â€œHe’s leaving in ten minutes.”
    â€œFantastic! I heard Rupert gets pretty exciting on a Saturday night.”
    â€œIf you call a bunch of half-drunk men staggering around the streets exciting,” she replied. “Grown-up men, if that isn’t a contradiction in terms itself, acting like stupid little boys. You think they’d act so stupid if their wives or girlfriends or mothers were around?”
    â€œYou think Dad’s acting up where he is?”
    â€œNot your Dad. It’s not in his nature to act like that.
    Besides, he’s an old married man with a grown son.
    Most of these soldiers here are hardly old enough to shave.”
    â€œI’m old enough to shave,” I noted, stroking my hand over the few straggly hairs on my chin.
    â€œAlmost. But for tonight, anyway, you aren’t going to Third Avenue. The truck will meet the supply ship down off the main military pier. Before you go, make sure that eagle is okay. You feed it today?”
    â€œTwice. Changed the water too.”
    â€œIs it doing okay?” she asked.
    â€œAll right I think. It’s still pretty nervous when peo–ple get too close, but then again nobody is getting too close,” I answered.
    â€œCan’t say I blame them. That bird could rip a man open pretty good. I hope you’re being careful.”
    â€œI