Clutching the Coke bottle by the neck in one hand and the paper plate in the other, Omri sneaked back upstairs with a fast-beating heart. All was just as he had left it, except that the Indian was sitting on the edge of the shelf dangling his legs and trying to sharpen his knife on the metal. He jumped up as soon as he saw Omri.
“Food?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, but I don’t know if it’s what you like.”
“I like. Give, quick!”
But Omri wanted to arrange things a little. He took a pair of scissors and cut a small circle out of the paper plate. On this he put a crumb of bread, another of cheese, and one kernel of the sweetcorn. He handed this offering to the Indian, who backed off, looking at the food with hungry eyes but trying to keep watch on Omri at the same time.
“Not touch! You touch, use knife!” he warned.
“All right, I promise not to. Now you can eat.”
Very cautiously the Indian sat down, this time cross-legged on the shelf. At first he tried to eat with his left hand keeping the knife at the ready in his right, but he was so hungry he soon abandoned this effort, laid the knife close at his side and, grabbing the bread in one hand and the little crumb of cheese in the other, he began to tear at them ravenously.
When these two apparently familiar foods had taken the edge off his appetite, he turned his attention to the single kernel of corn.
“What?” he asked suspiciously.
“Corn. Like you have—” Omri hesitated. “Where you come from,” he said.
It was a shot in the dark. He didn’t know if the Indian ‘came from’ anywhere, but he meant to find out. The Indian grunted, turning the corn about in both hands, for it was half as big as his head. He smelt it. A great grin spread over his face. He nibbled it. The grin grew wider. But then he held it away and looked again, and the grin vanished.
“Too big,” he said. “Like you,” he added accusingly.
“Eat it. It’s the same stuff.”
The Indian took a bite. He still looked very suspicious, but he ate and ate. He couldn’t finish it, but he evidently liked it.
“Give meat,” he said finally.
“I’m sorry, I can’t find any tonight, but I’ll get you some tomorrow,” said Omri.
After another grunt, the Indian said, “Drink!”
Omri had been waiting for this. From the box where he kept his Action Man things he had brought a plastic mug. It was much too big for the Indian but it was the best he could do. Into it, with extreme care, he now poured a minute amount of Coke from the huge bottle.
He handed it to the Indian, who had to hold it with both hands and still almost dropped it.
“What?” he barked, after smelling it.
“Coca-Cola,” said Omri, enthusiastically pouring some for himself into a toothmug.
“Fire-water?”
“No, it’s cold. But you’ll like it.”
The Indian sipped, swallowed, gulped. Gulped again. Grinned.
“Good?” asked Omri.
“Good!” said the Indian.
“Cheers!” said Omri, raising his toothmug as he’d seen his parents do when they were having a drink together.
“What cheers?”
“I don’t know!” said Omri, feeling excessively happy, and drank. His Indian – eating and drinking! He was real, a real, flesh-and-blood person! It was too marvellous. Omri felt he might die of delight.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked.
“I better. You not better,” said the Indian. “You still big. You stop eat. Get right size.”
Omri laughed aloud, then stopped himself hastily.
“It’s time to sleep,” he said.
“Not now. Big light. Sleep when light go.”
“I can make the light go,” said Omri, and switched out his bedside lamp.
In the darkness came a thin cry of astonishment and fear. Omri switched it on again.
The Indian was now gazing at him with something more than respect – a sort of awe.
“You spirit?” he asked in a whisper.
“No,” said Omri. “And this isn’t the sun. It’s a lamp. Don’t you have lamps?”
The Indian peered where he was pointing. “That lamp?” he asked unbelievingly. “Much big lamp. Need much oil.”
“But this isn’t an oil lamp. It works by electricity.”
“Magic?”
“No, electricity. But speaking of magic – how did you get here?”
The Indian looked at him steadily out of his black eyes.
“You not know?”
“No, I don’t. You were a toy. Then I put you in the cupboard and locked the door. When I opened it, you were real. Then I locked it again, and you went back to being plastic. Then—”
He stopped sharply. Wait! What if – he thought furiously. It was possible! In which case …
“Listen,” he said excitedly. “I want you to come out of there. I’ll find you a much more comfortable place. You said you were cold. I’ll make you a proper tepee—”
“Tepee!” the Indian shouted. “I not live tepee! I live longhouse!”
Omri was so eager to test his theory about the cupboard that he was impatient. “You’ll have to make do with a tepee tonight,” he said. Hastily he opened a drawer and took out a biscuit tin full of little plastic people. Somewhere in here was a plastic tepee … “Ah, here!” He pounced on it – a small, pinkish, cone-shaped object with designs rather badly painted on its plastic sides. “Will this do?”
He put it on the shelf beside the Indian, who looked at it with the utmost scorn.
“This – tepee?” he said. He touched its plastic side and made a face. He pushed it with both hands – it slid along the shelf. He bent and peered in through the triangular opening. Then he actually spat on the ground, or rather, on the shelf.
“Oh,” said Omri, rather crestfallen. “You mean it’s not good enough.”
“Not want toy,” said the Indian, and turned his back, folding both arms across his chest with an air of finality.
Omri saw his chance. With one quick movement he had picked up the Indian by the waist between his thumb and forefinger. In doing this he pinned the knife, which was in the Indian’s belt, firmly to his side. The dangling Indian twisted, writhed, kicked, made a number of ferocious and hideous faces – but beyond that he was helpless and he evidently knew it, for after a few moments he decided it was more dignified to stop struggling. Instead, he folded his tiny arms across his chest once again, put his head back, and stared with proud defiance at Omri’s face, which was now level with his own.
For Omri, the feeling of holding this little creature in his fingers was very strange and wonderful. If he had had any doubts that the Indian was truly alive, the sensation he had now would have put them to rest. His body was heavier now, warm and firm and full of life – through Omri’s thumb, on the Indian’s left side, he could feel his heart beating wildly, like a bird’s.
Although the Indian felt strong, Omri could sense how fragile he was, how easily an extra squeeze could injure him. He would have liked to feel him all over, his tiny arms and legs, his hair, his ears, almost too small to see – yet when he saw how the Indian, who was altogether in his power, faced him boldly and hid his fear, he lost all desire to handle him; he felt it was cruel, and insulting to the Indian, who was no longer his plaything but a person who had to be respected.
Omri put him down gently on the chest-of-drawers where the cupboard stood. Then he crouched down till his face was again level with the Indian’s.
“Sorry I did that,” he said.
The Indian, breathing heavily and with his arms still folded, said nothing, but stared haughtily at him, as if nothing he did could affect him in any way.
“What’s your name?” asked Omri.
“Little Bull,” said the Indian, pointing proudly to himself. “Iroquois brave. Son of Chief. You son of Chief?” he shot at Omri fiercely.
“No,” said Omri humbly.
“Hm!” snorted Little Bull with a superior look. “Name?”
Omri told him. “Now we must find you another place to sleep – outside the cupboard. Surely you sleep in tepees sometimes?”
“Never,” said Little Bull firmly.
“I’ve never heard of an Indian who didn’t,” said Omri with equal firmness. “You’ll have to tonight, anyway.”
“Not this,” said the Indian. “This no good. And fire. I want fire.”
“I can’t light a real fire in here. But I’ll make you a tepee. It won’t be very good, but I promise you a better one tomorrow.”
He looked round. It was good, he thought, that he never put anything away. Now everything he needed was strewn about the floor and on tables and shelves, ready to hand.
Starting with some pick-up-sticks and a bit of string, he made a sort of cone-shape, tied at the top. Around this he draped, first a handkerchief, and then, when that didn’t seem firm enough, a bit of old felt from a hat that had been in the dressing-up crate. It was fawn coloured, fortunately, and looked rather like animal hide. In fact, when it was pinned together at the back with a couple of safety-pins and a slit cut for an entrance, the whole thing looked pretty good, especially with the poles sticking up through a hole in the top.
Omri stood it up carefully on the chest-of-drawers and anxiously awaited Little Bull’s verdict. The Indian walked round it four times slowly, went down on hands and knees and crawled in through the flap, came out again after a minute, tugged at the felt, stood back to look at the poles, and finally gave a fairly satisfied grunt. However, he wasn’t going to pass it without any criticism at all.
“No pictures,” he growled. “If tepee, then need pictures.”
“I don’t know how to do them,” said Omri.
“I know. You give colours. I make.”
“Tomorrow,” said Omri, who, despite himself, was beginning to feel very sleepy.
“Blanket?”
Omri fished out one of the Action Man’s sleeping-rolls.
“No good. No keep out wind.”
Omri started to object that there was no wind in his bedroom, but then he decided it was easier to cut up a square out of one of his old sweaters, so he did that. It was a red one with a stripe round the bottom and even Little Bull couldn’t hide his approval as he held it up, then wrapped it round himself.
“Good. Warm. I sleep now.”
He dropped on his knees and crawled into the tent. After a moment he stuck his head out.
“Tomorrow talk. You give Little Bull meat – fire – paint – much things.” He scowled fiercely up at Omri. “Good?”
“Good,” said Omri, and indeed nothing in his life had ever seemed so full of promise.
Within a few minutes, loud snores – well, not loud, but loud for the Indian – began to come out of the tepee, but Omri, sleepy as he was himself, was not quite ready for bed. He had an experiment to do.
As far as he had figured it out so far, the cupboard, or the key, or both together, brought plastic things to life, or if they were already alive, turned them into plastic. There were a lot of questions to be answered, though. Did it only work with plastic? Would, say, wooden or metal figures also come to life if shut up in the cupboard? How long did they have to stay in there for the magic to work? Overnight? Or did it happen straight away?
And another thing – what about objects? The Indian’s clothes, his feather, his knife, all had become real. Was this just because they were part of the original plastic figure? If he put – well, anything you like, the despised plastic tepee for instance, into the cupboard and locked the door, would that be real in the morning? And what would happen to a real object, if he put that in?
He decided to make a double trial.
He stood the plastic Indian tent on the shelf of the cupboard. Beside it he put a Matchbox car. Then he closed the cupboard door. He didn’t lock it. He counted slowly to ten.
Then he opened the door.
Nothing had happened.
He closed the door again, and this time locked it with his great-grandmother’s key. He decided to give it a bit longer this time, and while he was waiting he lay down in bed. He began counting to ten slowly. He got roughly as far as five before he fell asleep.
He was woken at dawn by Little Bull bawling at him.
The Indian was standing outside the felt tepee on the edge of the table, his hands cupped to his mouth as if shouting across a measureless canyon. As soon as Omri’s eyes opened, the Indian shouted:
“Day come! Why you still sleep? Time eat – hunt – fight – make painting!”
Omri leapt up. He cried, “Wait” – and almost wrenched the cupboard open.
There on the shelf stood a small tepee made of real leather. Even the stitches on it were real. The poles were twigs, tied together with a strip of hide. The designs were real Indian symbols, put on with bright dyes.
The car was still a toy car made of metal, no more real than it had ever been.
“It works,” breathed Omri. And then he caught his breath. “Little Bull!” he shouted. “It works, it works! I can make any plastic toy I like come alive, come real! It’s real magic, don’t you understand? Magic!”
The Indian stood calmly with folded arms, evidently disapproving of this display of excitement.
“So? Magic. The spirits work much magic. No need wake dead with howls like coyote.”
Omri hastily pulled himself together. Never mind the dead, it was his parents he must take care not to wake. He picked up the new tepee and set it down beside the one he had made the night before.
“Here’s the good one I promised you,” he said.
Little Bull examined it carefully. “No good,” he said at last.
“What? Why not?”
“Good tepee, but no good Iroquois brave. See?” He pointed to the painted symbols. “Not Iroquois signs. Algonquin. Enemy. Little Bull sleep there, Iroquois spirits angry.”
“Oh,” said Omri, disappointed.
“Little Bull like Omri tepee. Need paint. Make strong pictures – Iroquois signs. Please spirits of ancestors.”
Omri’s disappointment melted into intense pride. He had made a tepee which satisfied his Indian! “It’s not finished,” he said. “I’ll take it to school and finish it in my handicrafts lesson. I’ll take out the pins and sew it up properly. Then when I come home I’ll give you posterpaints and you can paint your symbols.”
“I paint. But must have longhouse. Tepee no good for Iroquois.”
“Just for now?”
Little Bull scowled. “Yes,” he said. “But very short. Now eat.”
“Er … Yes. What do you like to eat in the mornings?”
“Meat,” said the Indian immediately.
“Wouldn’t you like some bread and cheese?”
“Meat.”
“Or corn? Or some egg?”
The Indian folded his arms uncompromisingly across his chest.
“Meat,” said Omri with a sigh. “Yes. Well, I’ll have to see what I can do. In the meantime, I think I’d better put you down on the ground.”
“Not on ground now?”
“No. You’re high above the ground. Go to the edge and look – but don’t fall!”
The Indian took no chances. Lying on his stomach he crawled, commando-fashion, to the edge of the chest-of-drawers and peered over.
“Big mountain,” he commented at last.
“Well …” But it seemed too difficult to explain. “May I lift you down?”
Little Bull stood up and looked at Omri measuringly. “Not hold tight?” he asked.
“No. I won’t hold you at all. You can ride in my hand.”
He laid his hand palm up next to Little Bull, who, after only a moment’s hesitation, stepped on to it and, for greater stability, sat down cross-legged. Omri gently transported him to the floor. The Indian rose lithely to his feet and jumped off on to the grey carpet.
At once he began looking about with suspicion. He dropped to his knees, felt the carpet and smelt it.
“Not ground,” he said. “Blanket.”
“Little Bull, look up.”
He obeyed, narrowing his eyes and peering.
“Do you see the sky? Or the sun?”
The Indian shook his head, puzzled.
“That’s because we’re not outdoors. We’re in a room, in a house. A house big enough for people my size. You’re not even in America. You’re in England.”
The Indian’s face lit up. “English good! Iroquois fight with English against French!”
“Really?” asked Omri, wishing he had read more. “Did you fight?”
“Fight? Little Bull fight like mountain lion! Take many scalps.”
Scalps? Omri swallowed. “How many?”
Little Bull proudly held up all ten fingers. Then he closed his fists, opening them again with another lot of ten, and another.
“I don’t believe you killed so many people!” said Omri, shocked.
“Little Bull not lie. Great hunter. Great fighter. How show him son of Chief without many scalps?”
“Any white ones?” Omri ventured to ask.
“Some. French. Not take English scalps. Englishmen friends to Iroquois. Help Indian fight Algonquin enemy.”
Omri stared at him. He suddenly wanted to get away. “I’ll go and get you some – meat,” he said in a choking voice.
He went out of his room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
For a moment he did not move, but leant back against the door. He was sweating slightly. This was a bit more than he had bargained for!
Not only was his Indian no mere toy come to life; he was a real person, somehow magicked out of the past of over two hundred years ago. He was also a savage. It occurred to Omri for the first time that his idea of Red Indians, taken entirely from Western films, had been somehow false. After all, those had all been actors playing Indians, and afterwards wiping their war-paint off and going home for their dinners, not in tepees but in houses like his. Civilized men, pretending to be primitive, pretending to be cruel …
Little Bull was no actor. Omri swallowed hard. Thirty scalps … phew! Of course things were different in those days. Those tribes were always making war on each other, and come to that the English and French (whatever they thought they were doing, fighting in America) were probably no better, killing each other like mad as often as they could …
Come to that, weren’t soldiers of today doing the same thing? Weren’t there wars and battles and terrorism going on all over the place? You couldn’t switch on television without seeing news about people killing and being killed … Was thirty scalps, even including some French ones, taken hundreds of years ago, so very bad after all?
Still, when he tried to imagine Little Bull, full size, bent over some French soldier, holding his hair in one hand and running the point of his scalping-knife … Yuk!
Omri pushed away from the door and walked rather unsteadily downstairs. No wonder he had felt, from the first, slightly afraid of his Indian. He asked himself, swallowing repeatedly and feeling that just the same he might be sick, whether he wouldn’t do better to put Little Bull back in the cupboard, lock the door and turn him back into plastic, knife and all.
Down in the kitchen he ransacked his mother’s store-cupboard for a tin of meat. He found some corned beef at last and opened it with the tin-opener on the wall. He dug a chunk out with a teaspoon, put it absently into his own mouth and stood there chewing it.
The Indian hadn’t seemed very surprised about being in a giant house in England. He had shown that he was very superstitious, believing in magic and good and evil spirits. Perhaps he thought of Omri as – well, some kind of genie, or whatever Indians believed in instead. The wonder was that he wasn’t more frightened of him then, for genies, or giants, or Great Spirits, or whatever, were always supposed to be very powerful and often wicked. Omri supposed that if one happened to be the son of an Indian Chief, one simply didn’t get scared as easily as ordinary people. Especially, perhaps, if one had taken thirty scalps …
Maybe Omri ought to tell someone about Little Bull.
The trouble was that although grown-ups usually knew what to do, what they did was very seldom what children wanted to be done. What if he took the Indian to – say, some scientists, or – whoever knew about strange things like that, to question him and examine him and probably keep him in a laboratory or something of that sort? They would certainly want to take the cupboard away too, and then Omri wouldn’t be able to have any more fun with it at all.
Just when his mind was seething with ideas, such as putting in plastic bows and arrows, and horses, and maybe even other little people – well, no, probably that was too risky, who knew what sort you might land up with? They might start fighting each other! But still, he knew for certain he didn’t want to give up his secret, not yet, no matter how many Frenchmen had been scalped.
Having made his decision, for the moment anyway, Omri turned to go upstairs, discovering only halfway up that the tin of corned beef was practically empty. Still, there was a fair-sized bit left in the bottom. It ought to do.
Little Bull was nowhere to be seen, but when Omri called him softly he ran out from under the bed, and stood waving both arms up at Omri.
“Bring meat?”
“Yes.” Omri put it on the miniature plate he’d cut the night before and placed it before the Indian, who seized it in both hands and began to gnaw on it.
“Very good! Soft! Your wife cook this?”
Omri laughed. “I haven’t got a wife.”
The Indian stopped and looked at him. “Omri not got wife? Who grow corn, grind, cook, make clothes, keep arrows sharp?”
“My mother,” said Omri, grinning at the idea of her sharpening arrows. “Have you got a wife then?”
The Indian looked away After a moment he said, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Dead,” said Little Bull shortly.
“Oh.”
The Indian finished eating in silence and then stood up, wiping his greasy hands on his hair. “Now. Do magic. Make things for Little Bull.”
“What do you want?”
“Gun,” he answered promptly. “White man’s gun. Like English soldier.”
Omri’s brain raced. If a tiny knife could stab, a tiny gun could shoot. Maybe it couldn’t do much harm, but then again, maybe it could.
“No, no gun. But I can make you a bow and arrows. I’ll have to buy plastic ones, though. What else? A horse?”
“Horse!” Little Bull seemed surprised.
“Don’t you ride? I thought all Indians rode.”
Little Bull shook his head.
“English ride. Indians walk.”
“But wouldn’t you like to ride, like the English soldiers?”
Little Bull stood quite still, frowning, wrestling with this novel idea. At last he said, “Maybe. Yes. Maybe. Show horse. Then I see.”
“Okay.”
Again Omri rummaged in the biscuit tin. There were a number of horses here. Big heavy ones for carrying armoured knights. Smaller ones for pulling gun-carriages in the Napoleonic wars. Several cavalry horses – those might be the best. Omri ranged five or six of various sizes and colours before Little Bull, whose black eyes began to shine.
“I have,” he said promptly.
“You mean all of them?”
Little Bull nodded hungrily.
“No, that’s too much. I can’t have herds of horses galloping all over my room. You can choose one.”
“One?” said Little Bull sadly.
“One.”
Little Bull then made a very thorough examination of every horse, feeling their legs, running his hands over their rumps, looking straight into their plastic faces. At last he selected a smallish, brown horse with two white feet which had originally (as far as Omri could remember) carried an Arab, brandishing a curved sword at a platoon of French Foreign Legionnaires.
“Like English horse,” grunted Little Bull.
“And he’s got a saddle and bridle, which will become real too,” gloated Omri.
“Little Bull not want. Ride with rope, bare-back. Not like white soldier,” he added contemptuously, having another spit. “When?”
“I still don’t know how long it takes. We can start now.”
Omri lifted the cupboard onto the floor, shut the horse in and turned the key. Almost at once they could hear the clatter of tiny hooves on metal. They looked at each other with joyful faces.
“Open! Open door!” commanded Little Bull.
Omri lost no time in doing so. There, prancing and pawing the white paint, was a lovely, shiny-coated little brown Arab pony. As the door swung open he shied nervously, turning his face and pricking his ears so far forward they almost met over his forelock. His tiny nostrils flared, and his black tail plumed over his haunches as he gave a high, shrill neigh.
Little Bull cried out in delight.
In a moment he had vaulted over the bottom edge of the cupboard and, as the pony reared in fright, jumped into the air under its flying hooves and grasped the leather reins. The pony fought to free its head, but Little Bull hung on with both hands. Even as the pony plunged and bucked, the Indian had moved from the front to the side. Grasping the high pommel of the saddle he swung himself into it. He ignored the swinging stirrups, holding on by gripping with his knees.
The pony flung himself back on his haunches, then threw himself forward in a mighty buck, head low, heels flying. To Omri’s dismay, Little Bull, instead of clinging on somehow, came loose and flew through the air in a curve, landing on the carpet just beyond the edge of the cupboard.
Omri thought his neck must be broken, but he had landed in a sort of somersault, and was instantly on his feet again. The face he turned to Omri was shining with happiness.
“Crazy horse!” he cried with fierce delight.
The crazy horse was meanwhile standing quite still, reins hanging loose, looking watchfully at the Indian through wild, wide-apart eyes.
This time Little Bull made no sudden moves. He stood quite still for a long time, just looking back at the pony. Then, so slowly you could scarcely notice, he edged towards him, making strange hissing sounds between his clenched teeth which almost seemed to hypnotize the pony. Step by step he moved, softly, cautiously, until he and the pony stood almost nose to nose. Then, quite calmly, Little Bull reached up and laid his hand on the pony’s neck.
That was all. He did not hold the reins. The pony could have jumped away, but he didn’t. He raised his nose a little, so that he and the Indian seemed to be breathing into each other’s nostrils. Then, in a quiet voice, Little Bull said, “Now horse mine. Crazy horse mine.”
Still moving slowly, though not as slowly as before, he took the reins and moved alongside the pony. After a certain amount of fiddling he found out how to unbuckle the straps which held the Arabian saddle, and lifted it off, laying it on the floor. The pony snorted and tossed his head, but did not move. Hissing gently now, the Indian first leant his weight against the pony’s side, then lifted himself up by his arms until he was astride. Letting the reins hang loose on the pony’s neck, he squeezed with his legs. The pony moved forward, as tame and obedient as you please, and the pair rode once round the inside of the cupboard as if it had been a circus arena.
Suddenly Little Bull caught up the reins and pulled them to one side, turning the pony’s head. At the same time Little Bull kicked him sharply. The pony wheeled, and bounded forward towards the edge of the cupboard.
This metal rim, about two centimetres high, was up to the pony’s chest – like a five-barred gate to a full-sized horse. There was no room to ride straight at it, from the back of the cupboard to the front, so Little Bull rode diagonally – a very difficult angle, yet the pony cleared it in a flying leap.
Omri realized at once that the carpet was too soft for him – his feet simply sank into it like soft sand.
“Need ground. Not blanket,” said Little Bull sternly. “Blanket no good for ride.”
Omri looked at his clock. It was still only a little after six in the morning – at least another hour before anyone else would be up.
“I could take you outside,” he said hesitantly.
“Good!” said Little Bull. “But not touch pony. You touch, much fear.”
Omri quickly found a small cardboard box which had held a Matchbox lorry. It even had a sort of window through which he could see what was happening inside. He laid that on the carpet with the end flaps open.
Little Bull rode the pony into the box, and Omri carefully shut the end up and even more carefully lifted it. Then, in his bare feet, he carried the box slowly down the stairs and let himself out through the back door.
It was a lovely fresh summer morning. Omri stood on the back steps with the box in his hands, looking round for a suitable spot. The lawn wasn’t much good – the grass would be over the Indian’s head in most places. The terrace at the foot of the steps was no use at all, with its hard uneven bricks and the cracks between them. But the path was beaten earth and small stones – real riding-ground if they were careful. Omri walked to the path and laid the Matchbox carton down.
For a moment he hesitated. Could the Indian run away? How fast could such a small pony run? As fast as, say, a mouse? If so, and they wanted to escape, Omri wouldn’t be able to catch them. A cat, on the other hand, would. Omri knelt on the path in his pyjamas and put his face to the cellophane ‘window’. The Indian stood inside holding the pony’s head.
“Little Bull,” he said clearly, “we’re outdoors now. I’m going to let you out to ride. But remember – you’re not on your prairie now. There are mountain lions here, but they’re big enough to swallow you whole and the pony too. Don’t run away, you wouldn’t survive. Do you understand?”
Little Bull looked at him steadily and nodded. Omri opened the flap and Indian and pony stepped out into the morning sunlight.
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