Free The Return of the Indian by Lynne Reid Banks Page A

his mother had laid forlunch. She was not much of a fancy table-layer, and all there was, for the moment, was Ryvita, butter and some rather tired-looking olives, but that was better than nothing. He grabbed a bit of each and hurried upstairs again.
    He should have known better than to leave the room.
    As he opened the door, he was greeted by a noise that sounded like a loud chattering of teeth. Then there was a distinct pop, and something went
ping
against the glass of whiskey he was carrying.
    His eyes flashed to the cupboard. There, on the shelf in the middle of it, were five miniature soldiers, raking the room with machine-gun fire. On the chest below were several more. They were manning a small but lethal-looking artillery piece.
    Omri had no time to think. Dropping everything he threw up his hand to protect his face and dashed forward through a hail of tiny bullets that bit into his palm like wasp stings.
    Patrick was standing aghast, too stunned, it seemed, to do anything. Omri fell on the little men in their khaki uniforms, scooped them up, weapons and all, and, shoving them back into the cupboard, slammed the door. He heard another couple of rounds and the muffled boom of an exploding hand grenade against the inside of the door before he could gather his wits and turn the key.
    Silence fell in the bedroom.
    Omri’s first act was to glance over his shoulder to check that Little Bear, Bright Stars and Boone were all right. There was a line of bullet holes through the top ofthe headboard of the matchbox bed, but mercifully Bright Stars must have persuaded Little Bear to lie down just before the shooting started, and he was okay.
    Bright Stars was holding the two horses, which were on Patrick’s paddock. They were rearing and plunging with terror, letting out shrill neighs, while Bright Stars hung onto their reins.
    Boone was, at first glance, nowhere to be seen, but then Omri made out a tiny pair of cowboy boots and spurs sticking out from under the ramp. He must have dived for cover when the attack began. Not particularly heroic, but certainly by far the most sensible move open to him at the time.
    Next, Omri gave his attention to his hand. Half a dozen droplets of blood oozed from as many tiny breaks in the skin. Remembering when Patrick had had a bullet in his cheek from Boone’s gun, once, Omri quickly started squeezing out the bullets, lodged just under his skin, between finger and thumbnail. He didn’t say a word to Patrick. What was the use? Some people just never learn.
    But Patrick had something to say, and in a voice that shook. “I could’ve got them all killed.”
    Omri bit his lip. The bullets were actually just visible, minute black specks. It hurt, getting them out, but it was rather satisfying, like squeezing a blackhead.
    “I just wanted to see what would happen,” Patrick went on pleadingly.
    “Well, now you’ve seen. Thanks a lot.”
    “Sorry.”
    “You’re always desperately sorry when you’ve done something thick.”
    Patrick didn’t argue. He bent down and pulled Boone out from under the ramp by the feet. “It’s okay, Boone. They’ve gone.”
    The little man was gibbering and shaking from head to foot. “Who in tarnation were those guys?” he managed to ask.
    “Soldiers.”
    “From when?”
    “Now. Approximately.”
    “Boy! Am Ah glad Ah’ll be daid before
that
kinda shootin’ starts!” he said fervently. “Did they getcha, kid?” he asked Omri anxiously as a drop of blood splashed onto the chest beside him.
    “Only a bit,” said Omri, pressing a wedge of Kleenex to his hand.
    “Did ya git any of the hard stuff?” Boone asked eagerly. “Now Ah
really
need some!”
    “Oh—I must’ve dropped it!”
    Boone’s face fell. But when Omri went to the door, he found that although the glass had fallen to the floor, spilling most of the scotch, it hadn’t broken, and there was still a little left in the bottom. He offered the glass to Boone, who promptly heaved himself