I don’t want to look behind me, but the sounds of gunfire and hooves and curses grow fainter and fainter. We are leaving our enemies behind. They will not catch us on horseback. But they can still catch us with gunfire.
I hear the bullets sizzle past us.
Thirty, twenty, ten yards. The pony leaps into the air. It grows wings and flies into the forest.
No, of course not. It doesn’t grow wings. How can a horse grow wings?
That kind of extraordinary magic is not permitted here. No, the only magic here is ordinary. It’s so ordinary that it might not be magic at all. It might only be luck.
But I’ll take luck.
As we crash through the underbrush and leap over stumps and fallen trees, I praise luck. As we leave behind the soldiers who want to kill us, who have killed so many others, I praise luck. As I hear the weeping of Small Saint and Bow Boy, who are happy to be alive, however temporarily, I praise luck. As we outrun horses and bullets, as we outrun that monster revenge, I praise luck.
Twelve
THIS IS WHAT IT feels like to be old.
After crashing headfirst off a horse into a campfire, and swinging two people onto the back of your pony with one arm, and all the excitement of outrunning killer soldiers with rifles, you have a few bruises and burns and scrapes and cuts and sore muscles.
In fact, after you ride fast and hard a mile or two into the trees, and think you have left behind your enemies, you need to slow down.
And when an old guy relaxes, when the fear juices leave his body, he is immediately reminded of exactly how old he is.
How old am I? How old is this body?
After I relax, my back seizes up. It goes completely stiff, like I’m made out of steel. And I fall off my pony.
I hit the ground and hurt my ribs. I think I might have cracked something. I can barely breathe.
Small Saint and Bow Boy are still on the horse. Small Saint has taken the reins and spins the pony back toward me.
There are sixteen tiny little men with sharp knives slashing my spine. I’m curled into a ball. And every time I try to straighten up, or even move or breathe, another tiny little guy shows up with a sharp knife.
If the soldiers caught up to us right now, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself. They could walk right up to me and I’d just be curled into a ball like a bug. And one of them, or all of them, would raise their boots and squish me.
I’m useless.
And then it’s over. My back relaxes. The knife-wielding little guys run away. And I can slowly straighten my back. I don’t want to stand up yet. I can still feel little tremors in my muscles, as if my body was just waiting and preparing for another big quake. Or for those little bastards to come back with chain saws.
So I lie on the ground and I look up at Small Saint and Bow Boy still on the pony. The Indian boy has curled into the white soldier. Has his little arms wrapped around the soldier’s neck. Bow Boy loves Small Saint like he was his father. Or his mother. Or both.
I remember I used to be like that little boy, holding tightly on to anybody who showed me even the tiniest bit of love. I haven’t been like that in a long time.
“Are you okay, sir?” Small Saint asks me.
“Define okay,” I say.
Small Saint smiles. He’s missing half his teeth. I guess dental care wasn’t a high priority in the nineteenth century.
“We can’t stay here long, sir,” Small Saint says. “They’re going to be coming after us. They’re not going to let us go.”
He’s right. I’m not a soldier, but I know that we just did about two million of the worst things any soldier can do. We disobeyed orders. I smacked a general in the face with a rifle. I might have killed him.
And I think I broke my rifle. I notice I’m still holding on to it. The rifle covered with buckskin and beads. It was an Indian warrior’s rifle; now it’s mine. I wonder if it works. Did I break it when I smashed it over the general’s head?
And how much I already love this weapon. It saved me. It saved Small Saint and Bow Boy. I didn’t have to fire a bullet to use it.
Even after falling off the pony, I kept hold of this rifle. An old soldier’s reflexes, I guess. Or maybe it’s because my hands are frozen shut from that arthritis stuff.
I’m not much of a hero.
Small Saint and I saved an Indian kid. That makes us traitors. And traitors are never, ever forgiven or forgotten.
“I just need to rest a few more minutes,” I say. “My back is fucked. I’m afraid it will knock me down again if I try to stand up too soon.”
I laugh at my accent. I’m trying to sound like me, but I can only sound like Irish Gus.
“I’m Irish,” I say.
“My granddaddy’s from there, sir,” Small Saint says.
Bow Boy doesn’t say anything.
“Are you about ready to get up, sir?” Small Saint says. He keeps looking back and listening hard. “They’re out there coming. I can feel them.”
“I think I might have broken a rib,” I say. “It hurts to breathe.”
“I know you’re hurting, sir,” Small Saint says. “I’m hurting. Indian boy’s hurting. We’re all hurting, sir, but we’re going to be hurting a lot more if they catch us.”
I know I should get up. I want to get up. But I can’t seem to find the willpower.
All I know is that I need to stand, shake off the pain and fear, get back on that pony, and ride away from here.
And I’m going to get up in a minute.
I’m going to stand in a second.
Any moment now.
Right now.
Pretty soon.
Any moment.
“Sir,” Small Saint says. “I hate to bother you again. But we really need to go now. Right now. I can hear them coming.”
I listen hard. I can’t hear anything. But I’ve got old ears. I’m tired and broken and beaten, and I don’t know if I can get up. Part of me wants to become a part of the dirt and grass.
Other soldiers are coming to kill me, and I can’t even find the courage or strength to stand up. I know that it would be easier to give up than to stand up. Easier for me.
But Bow Boy and Small Saint need me.
I need me.
So I roll over onto my stomach, onto my hands and knees, and push myself up. I’m on my feet. My back trembles. I can feel the little pain that wants to be bigger pain.
Come on, Gus! Toughen up!
I take a little step. I’m walking! I take a big step! I look around for my adoring audience. I feel like I need applause. I’m up and ready to go. I’m up and ready to run from the killers.
“All right, kid,” I say to Small Saint. “Let’s go.”
“You want to ride with us?” he asks.
“No, I think it’s better for my back if I walk.”
So Small Saint and Bow Boy ride the pony and I walk. And we begin our slow-motion escape.
With my old ears, I can hear the soldiers catching up to us.
“How far back you think they are?” I ask Small Saint.
“Maybe three miles, sir. Probably closer to two.”
“Can we outrun them?” I ask.
I know that Gus is supposed to be the experienced scout, but I’m not going to make guesses. This kid knows more than I do.
He’s thinking hard.
“Can we outrun them?” I ask again.
“Probably not, sir,” he says. “But we have to try.”
“How long before they catch us?”
“At this rate, ten-fifteen minutes, maybe.”
“All right, then,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. And then I think to ask something else. “Hey, kid,” I say. “Why’d you do it?”
“Do what, sir?” Small Saint asks.
“Why’d you save the Indian boy?”
Small Saint thinks for a moment. “I joined the military to defend people,” he said. “And that’s what I’m doing right now.”