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

up over the rim and dived in head first. Hanging onto the rim by his boots, he started lapping up the dregs of whiskey like a puppy.
    Omri couldn’t help laughing.
    “Oh, come on, Boone! You can’t be that thirsty. Remember, you’re supposed to be civilized.” And he hiked him out and poured the last drops into a toothpaste-cap mug. “Save some for Little Bear.”
    Boone looked shocked.
    “Ya cain’t go givin’ likker t’ Injuns, don’t ya know that? Drives ’m crazy. They just ain’t got the heads fer it. Anyways, ya couldn’t give
him
any. He’s too sick.”
    “When you were wounded you said whiskey made you feel better.”
    “Yeah, guess Ah did, at that.” He gazed sorrowfully down into his mug. “Wal, if’n you’re ready t’ risk it—only don’t blame me if he goes loco—here.” He handed the mug to Omri, who passed it to Little Bear, who was sitting up again, examining the bullet holes in his bed.
    “Boone sent you some whiskey, Little Bear.”
    “Not want,” said the Indian at once.
    “Why not? I thought you liked it.”
    “Firewater for feast. For make happy. Take from trouble. Little Bear must keep head. Must think, then act. Give firewater Boone. He not need think.”
    Boone received his drink back without reluctance. Omri picked up some bits of Ryvita and olive from the floor and soon the little people were all munching, though their opinion of olives was evidently not high.
    “So mah idee could work,” Boone remarked after draining his drink. “Ten fellas like them, with guns likethat, an’ those Frenchies would be on their knees, if they had any left, beggin’ the redskins to make powwow.”
    Patrick, who had been standing at the window, turned around. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.
    Omri felt quite exasperated. How could they both be so stupid?
    “What do you think, Little Bear?” Patrick asked eagerly. “What if we made lots of soldiers like that real, and then joined them all to you somehow and sent you all back together to your village? They could fight the Frenchmen for you.”
    Little Bear grew still. His black eyes moved under his scowling brows from one of them to another. For a moment Omri feared he would jump at this tempting solution. But then, reluctantly, he shook his head.
    “No good,” he said gruffly.
    “Aw! Why not? They’d jest shoot ’em to mincemeat in two minutes, and ya’d be rid o’ them forever. They’d never dare come back to bother ya no more!”
    “Now-soldiers not belong,” said Little Bear. “They not fight for Little Bear people. They fight on side of French soldier.”
    “If at all,” said Omri. “Much more likely, they’d just sit down and refuse to fight anyone, once they realized they weren’t where they ought to be.”
    “We could explain to them,” said Patrick.
    “You try explaining to a whole bunch of soldiers who’re probably in the middle of World War II or in Northern Ireland, that they’re not to fight the Nazis orthe IRA, they’re to go off and shoot eighteenth-century Frenchmen in the middle of Virginia!”
    “Well, who
could
you explain it to?”
    And that was when Omri had his brain wave.
    “Fil tell you who!
Other Indians.”
    Little Bear’s head came around. He saw the point at once.
    “Yes!” he cried immediately.
    “What?” asked Patrick.
    “Whatcha mean, kid?” asked Boone.
    “Listen, listen!” cried Omri excitedly. “What we have to do is go out and buy loads of Indians. Iroquois, like Little Bear. He’ll tell us what sort of clothes and things to look out for—though I think I know anyway. Then we’ll bring them to life, and Little Bear can talk to them, and we can send them all back together when Little Bear’s better, and—”
    “Send back now! Most soon! I well, I better
now!”
Little Bear shouted. Bright Stars came running to calm him, but he wouldn’t be calmed. He began shouting at her in their own language. She seemed very excited, and clapped her hands and