The Indian in the Cupboard Trilogy. Lynne Banks Reid
began to smoke. Omri broke an egg into it, or tried to, but the shell, instead of coming cleanly apart, crumpled up somehow in his hand and landed in the hot fat mixed up with the egg.
Hm. Not as easy as he’d thought. Leaving the mess to cook, shell and all, he got a tin of beans out of the cupboard and opened it without trouble. Then he got a saucepan and began pouring the beans in. Some of them got into the egg-pan somehow and seemed to explode. The egg was beginning to curl and the pan was still smoking. Alarmed, he turned off the gas. The centre of the egg still wasn’t cooked and the beans in the pan were stone cold but the smell in the kitchen was beginning to worry him – he didn’t want his mother coming down. He tipped the whole lot into a bowl, hacked a lopsided slice off the loaf, and tiptoed up the stairs again.
Little Bull was standing outside his longhouse with hands on hips, waiting for him.
“You bring food?” he asked in his usual bossy way.
“Yes.”
“First, Little Bull want ride.”
“First, you must eat while it’s hot, I’ve been to a lot of trouble to cook it for you,” Omri said, sounding like his mother.
Little Bull didn’t know how to take this, so he burst into a rather forced laugh and pointed at him scornfully. “Omri cook – Omri woman!” he teased. But Omri wasn’t bothered.
“All the best cooks are men,” he retorted. “Come on, you’re going to eat with Boone.”
Little Bull’s laughter died instantly.
“Who Boone?”
“You know who he is. The cowboy.”
The Indian’s hands came off his hips and one of them went for his knife.
“Oh, knock it off, Little Bull! Have a truce for breakfast, otherwise you won’t get any.”
Leaving him with that thought to chew over, Omri crossed to the crate, in which Boone was grooming his white horse with a wisp of cloth he’d found clinging to a splinter. He’d taken off the little saddle, but the bridle was still on.
“Boone! I’ve brought something to eat,” said Omri.
“Yup. Ah thought Ah smelt some’n good,” said Boone. “Let’s git to it.”
Omri put his hand down. “Climb on.”
“Ah, shucks – where’m Ah goin’? Why cain’t Ah eat in mah box, where it’s safe?” whined Boone. But he clambered up into Omri’s palm and sat grumpily with his back against his middle finger.
“You’re going to eat with the Indian,” said Omri.
Boone leapt up so suddenly he nearly fell off, and had to grab hold of a thumb to steady himself.
“Hell, no, Ah ain’t!” he yelled. “You just put me down, son, ya hear? I ain’t sharin’ m’vittles with no lousy scalp-snafflin’ Injun and that’s m’last word!” It was, as it happened, his last word before being set down within a few centimetres of his enemy on the seed-tray.
They both bent their legs into crouches, as if uncertain whether to leap at each other’s throats or turn and flee. Omri hurriedly spooned up some egg and beans and held it between them.
“Smell that!” he ordered them. “Now you eat together or you don’t get any at all, so make up your minds to it. You can start fighting again afterwards if you must.”
He took a bit of clean paper and laid it, like a table cloth, under the spoon. Then he broke off some crumbs of bread crust and pushed a little into each of their hands. Still with their eyes fixed on each other’s faces, Indian and cowboy sidled towards the big, steaming ‘bowl’ of food from opposite sides. Little Bull, after hesitating, was first to shoot his arm out and dip the bread into the egg. The sudden movement startled Boone so much he let out a yell and tried to run, but Omri’s hand was blocking the way.
“Don’t be silly, Boone,” he said firmly.
“Ah ain’t bein’ silly! Them Injuns ain’t jest ornery and savage. Them’s dirty. And Ah ain’t eatin’ from the same bowl as no—”
“Boone,” said Omri quietly. “Little Bull is no dirtier than you. You should see your own face.”
“Is that mah fault? What kinda hallucy-nation are ya, anyways, tellin’ me Ah’m dirty when ya didn’t bring me no washin’ water?”
This was a fair complaint, but Omri wasn’t about to lose the argument on a side issue.
“You can have some after breakfast. But if you don’t agree to eat with my Indian, I’m going to tell him your nickname.”
The cowboy’s face fell. “Now that ain’t fair. That plumb ain’t no ways fair,” he muttered. But hunger was getting the better of him anyway, so, grumbling and swearing under his breath, he turned back and marched to his side of the spoon. By this time Little Bull was seated cross-legged on the piece of paper, a hunk of bean in one hand and a mess of egg in the other, eating heartily. Seeing this, Boone lost no time in tucking in, eyeing the Indian, who ignored him.
“Whur’s muh cawfee?” he complained after he’d eaten a few bites. “Ah cain’t start the day till Ah’ve had muh jug o’ cawfee!”
Omri had completely forgotten about coffee, but he was beginning to be pretty well fed up with being bossed around by ungrateful little men, so he settled down to eat the remains of the food and simply said, “Well, you’ll have to start this one without any.”
Little Bull finished his breakfast and stood up.
“Now we fight,” he announced, and reached for his knife.
Omri expected Boone to leap up and run, but he didn’t. He just sat there munching bread and beans.
“Ah ain’t finished yit,” he said. “Ain’t gonna fight till Ah’m plumb full o’vittles. So you kin jest sit down and wait, Redskin.”
Omri laughed. “Good for you, Boone! Take it easy, Little Bull. Don’t forget your promise.”
Little Bull scowled. But he sat down again.
Boone ate and ate. It was hard not to suspect, after a while, that he was eating as much and as slowly as possible, to put off the moment when he would have to fight.
At last, very reluctantly, he scraped the last bit of egg from the spoon, wiped his hands on the side of his trousers, and stood up. Little Bull was on his feet instantly. Omri stood ready to part them.
“Looka here, Injun,” said Boone. “If we’re gonna fight, we’re gonna fight fair. Probably ain’t even a word for ‘fair’ in your language, but Ah’m here to tell ya, with me it’s fight fair or don’t fight a-tall.”
“Little Bull fight fair, kill fair, scalp fair.”
“You ain’t gonna scalp nobody. Less’n ya take it off with yer teeth.”
For answer, Little Bull raised his knife, which flashed in the morning light. Omri, his hands on his knees, waited.
“Yeah, Ah see it. But you ain’t gonna have it much longer. And why aincha? Because Ah ain’t got one. Ah only got m’gun, and m’gun’s run plumb outa bullets. What Ah got, and all Ah got, is m’fists. Oh – and one other thing. Ah got mah hallucy-nation here.” He waved a hand at Omri without taking his eyes off Little Bull for a second. “And Ah know he don’t want to see this here purty red scalp o’mine hangin’ from no stinkin’ redskin’s belt. So if Ah fight, it’s gonna be fist to fist, face to face – man to man, Injun! D’ja hear me? No weapons! Jest us two, and let’s see if a white man cain’t lick a red man in a fair fight. Less’n mebbe – jest mebbe – you ain’t red a-tall, but yeller?” And Boone stepped round the bowl of the spoon, threw his empty gun on the ground,