Flight

Eleven

THIS IS WHAT REVENGE can do to you.

I lead those one hundred soldiers down the hill toward the Indian camp.

We are killers.

As we ride to the bottom of the hill and race the short distance across the flats toward camp, I can feel Gus’s rage and grief leaving my body. With each hoof-beat, I lose pieces of my rage, until I am left with only my fear.

I had wanted to kill, but now I just want to stop.

I throw away my rifle. I don’t want to use it. But I keep riding. I am unarmed. I think I want to die. I think I want Gus to die.

I think I want to lose this fight.

We didn’t really surprise the Indians with our attack. We didn’t even try to sneak up on them. We wanted them to know we were coming. And so, yes, they knew we were coming, and they’re ready.

But only twenty-five Indian warriors ride out to meet us. Most of them are boys. And only a few of them have rifles.

The rest have bows and arrows. And, sure, they’re accurate. I see one soldier get hit in the chest with an arrow and another get hit in the stomach.

But we have repeating rifles.

It’s one hundred repeating rifles versus seven rifles and eighteen bows.

We only lose a few men as we roar toward the Indian warriors. They are screaming and crying. They must prevent us from reaching their camp. If we reach it, we will kill old people, women, and children. We will destroy families. But the warriors can’t stop us. They are riding to their deaths. And they are singing their death songs.

Most of them fall before we’re even close to them. One hundred rifles equals one hundred bullets every three seconds. In the twenty-one seconds it takes us to close the distance, we shoot seven hundred bullets.

Only a few of the warriors survive that crash of bullets.

And then we swarm into them. Ninety-five surviving white soldiers attack eleven Indian warriors. We barely pause as we kill all of them, with bullet and fist and saber and boot.

I don’t kill anybody. But I ride with killers, so that makes me a killer.

We ride into camp. There’s only twenty or thirty tents arranged in loose circles. I don’t know what tribe. Gus doesn’t care. He almost makes me not care.

We are attacked as we ride through the camp. A few of the women have bows and arrows, too. And a few old men.

And one tiny Indian boy. He can’t be more than five years old. He holds a bow. He is Bow Boy. Is he strong enough to even use his weapon? Can he pull back the string and let loose an arrow?

No, he can’t.

He bloodies his fingers on the taut string. And he cries out in pain. But he keeps trying to shoot us. And he bloodies his hand again and again.

I see a soldier slam his horse into an old woman. She falls. The soldier spins his horse around and tramples her. He spins again and rides over her one more time.

A soldier dismounts and chases down a woman and her little daughter. He shoots the woman in the back. She falls. The daughter drops to her knees beside her mother. Daughter wails. The soldier shoots at the daughter. But his gun jams. He pulls the trigger again. Nothing. So he grabs the barrel of his rifle, still so hot that it burns his hands. But he doesn’t feel the pain, not yet, as he smashes the gun down on the girl’s skull. He hits her again and again. Keeps hitting her until his rifle breaks in half.

A group of soldiers, seven or eight of them, drag two screaming and kicking women into a tent.

A soldier jumps up and down on the belly and chest of an old man.

And everywhere, everywhere, other soldiers are shooting Indians.

Bullet after bullet after bullet after bullet.

I see General Mustache down on one knee, taking careful aim at the women and children and old people who flee from us. They run toward the faraway hills. To the thick woods on the faraway hills. Two or three miles away.

The general pulls the trigger. Again and again. And a person falls each time he shoots.

It’s madness.

I wish I had kept my rifle so I could shoot myself. I don’t want to see anymore. I want to be blind. I want to leave this place. I don’t care where I go. I don’t care about which body or time period is waiting for me. I will gladly float in the nowhere. I will gladly be a ghost, if I can be a ghost who can’t see or hear.

And then a stray bullet strikes my horse. Blows my horse’s head into pieces. Covers me with blood and launches me toward the sky.

I think the quickest prayer of my life as I fly: Lord, please break my neck.

And then I crash into the ground and roll through a campfire and land on a pile of dead bodies.

I scream.

I look up to see Bow Boy running. Oh, my God. He’s only five years old. His hands are bloody. His father must have died with the other warriors. And his mother, oh, where is his mother?

And now I see a soldier running after Bow Boy. The soldier carries a saber — a sword — the simplest killing machine. This white soldier, a boy himself, maybe sixteen years old, chases Bow Boy.

Oh, Jesus, stop this. Oh, God, reach down and crush all of us like insects.

But when have Jesus and God ever stopped a man from taking revenge?

Bow Boy runs fast. The white soldier cannot catch him. Bow Boy spins in circles, dodges, ducks, and spins back toward me.

I stagger to my feet. I will protect him. I will save him.

I run toward Bow Boy, but I am old and hurt. My knees give out, and I stagger and fall again. I bloody my face in the dirt.

I look up to see Bow Boy fall, too. With saber raised high, the white soldier races toward Bow Boy. I am going to watch this murder.

This is my punishment. Yes, this is God’s final punishment for me. I will watch this boy die.

But, no.

Wait.

Without stopping, that white soldier reaches down and picks up Bow Boy. Cradles the child in one arm. And the white soldier keeps running. He’s running toward the faraway hills. Toward those faraway trees. Toward cover. Toward safety. Carrying an Indian child, a white soldier is running with Indians.

I can’t believe it. It can’t be true. But it is true.

That white soldier, a small saint, is trying to save Bow Boy.

I wonder if the other escaping Indians see this. I wonder if it gives them hope. I wonder if this act of love makes it easier for them to face death.

In the midst of all this madness and murder, one soldier has refused to participate. He has chosen the opposite of revenge. Somehow that one white boy, that small saint, has held on to a good and kind heart. A courageous and beautiful heart.

I have to help him.

The other soldiers haven’t noticed Small Saint’s escape. They are too busy with blood.

But they will see him soon enough. And they will kill him, too.

I stand and run-limp, looking for a rifle and a horse. My tools. I need my tools. The tools of war. The tools of revenge. The tools of offense and defense. Of attack and protection. Of good and evil.

I find a rifle, stringed with beads and buckskin, lying on the ground. One of the fallen warriors’ guns, an ancient single-shot rifle. I don’t even know if it works. But I pick it up and run after a painted pony that spins in circles. The pony doesn’t know where to go.

I reach him, crawl painfully onto his back, and race after Small Saint and Bow Boy.

As I ride, I see that General Mustache has finally noticed them, too.

“It’s a deserter!” Mustache yells. “He’s gone Indian!”

What does that mean, gone Indian? I don’t know. Mustache aims at Small Saint’s back. Aiming for the center of mass. A kill shot. He will not miss.

I ride hard toward Mustache. He doesn’t know I am coming. I don’t know if I will reach him before he fires.

Small Saint runs with Bow Boy. Confused, terrified, Bow Boy struggles to get free. But Small Saint will not let go. He runs and runs and runs.

General Mustache takes careful aim. He wants to kill this traitorous soldier. He hates soldiers who refuse to kill. And he hates the ones who have killed but refuse to kill again. The ones who drop their weapons and run. The ones who drop their weapons and stand still. The ones who shoot themselves in the foot, heart, and head.

Traitors, all traitors.

I scream as I reach General Mustache. He turns, and fires his weapon at me. But he misses wide as I swing my rifle and smash him in the face. He falls.

And I ride after Small Saint and Bow Boy.

Other soldiers pursue me. I can hear the curses and hoofbeats behind me. I can hear and feel their gunfire. All around me, running Indians, the old people, women, and children, so many of them fall to gunfire.

How many rifles are behind me? How many soldiers? I don’t know.

Some part of me, the part that is Gus, wants me to stop, to turn around and re-swear my allegiance to the other soldiers. But I can defeat Gus now. I am doing the right thing. I am trying to save the soldier who is trying to save Bow Boy.

My painted pony is fast, faster than the other horses. He runs for his life, too. I wonder if the soldiers’ horses are cursing this Indian pony. I wonder if horses judge each other based on their human riders.

I catch up to Small Saint and Bow Boy. For a second, Small Saint thinks he’s been caught, that I am there to kill them.

But I reach out a hand, Small Saint grabs it, and I haul him and the boy on the horse, all of this at full gallop.

With his ancient broken body, Gus could never have done that. I own this body now.

And how can this small pony carry three people and not collapse or slow down?

Because of fear. Because of grace. Because we want to live.

Terrified, overloaded, on our powerful pony we outrace the soldiers and their horses.

We all race for the faraway hills. The faraway trees. Getting closer now, so close.

Faster, faster now, faster than I thought possible. I wonder if the pony will catch fire. If the pony has caught fire. If the pony is leaving behind hoofprints that spark and smolder.

We are two hundred yards from the trees, one hundred yards, fifty yards.

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.