The Secret of the Indian (The Indian in the Cupboard) Page 7

  She reached out suddenly and picked up her small glass, which she emptied down her throat in one gulp. Then she plonked it back on the bar and said, “Well, li’l fella, you sure would make a good temperance preacher! I ain’t never seen a saloon empty so fast! Thanks for lettin’ ’em buy me a drink first. I needed it!”

  She laughed a little crazily and drank someone else’s drink that had been abandoned. Then she beckoned to him.

  “Come here, li’l Jack the Giant Killer, come to Ruby Lou! C’mon, I won’t hurt ya, I just wanna make sure you ain’t somethin’ I dreamt.”

  Patrick walked back along the vast shiny expanse of the bar toward her. His legs were shaking, and his feet squelched in his whisky-sodden sneakers. He had no idea whether he would be safe with her or not, but he couldn’t manage alone, and who else was there? Anyway, she liked Boone, so she couldn’t be all bad.

  Ruby Lou’s face, brightly painted, came down until it was level with his. He could smell her perfume. Well, it was better than the whisky, anyhow.

  “Okay, kid, let’s have it. What gives? I ain’t drunk, and I ain’t that crazy, and you look to me like the smallest human critter that ever was in the length and breadth o’ Texas!”

  “Actually I’m English,” said Patrick, feeling silly but not knowing what else to say.

  “English! Is that s’posed to be a introduction, or a explanation? I heard it was kind of a small island, but I never knew the men from there was only three inches tall!”

  Patrick blushed. “I’m not exactly a typical English person,” he said. “You see—”

  “Speak up, kid, that’s a teeny tiny voice box you got there, and I’ll admit it to ya, I’m a mite deef from all the shoutin’ an’ shootin’ that goes on around here!”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Sorry!” he bellowed. Then he shouted, “Listen, I need help.”

  “You coulda fooled me, buster!”

  “Not just for myself. For Boone.”

  “Say!” Her face lit up. “You a friend o’ Billy Boone’s?”

  “Yes. We’re old friends. And he’s in trouble.”

  “Yeah? Tell me somethin’ new. When ain’t he!”

  “He’s lying out in the desert unconscious. I think someone should go out there and get him.”

  “Can you show me where he is?”

  “No. But maybe his horse can—it’s outside, or it was.”

  Ruby Lou straightened up and looked around. The saloon was still empty, but peeping over the top of the swinging doors was a pair of eyes under a well-pulled-down hat.

  “Hey, Reverend! Come in here, it’s okay!”

  The doors slowly parted, and the little piano player who had been trampled on sidled hesitantly in.

  “I want ya to meet m’ new sidekick—er—”

  “Pat,” said Patrick, thinking that “Patrick” sounded a bit of a feeble name for the Wild West.

  “Pat—this is Tickle. His real name’s the Reverend Godfrey Tickson, and he has a past you wouldn’t believe to look at him now, but we call him Tickle ’cause he tickles the ivories. Plays the piano, get it? Plays real good, too, especially hymns! Only not now, eh, Tick? I got somethin’ important fer ya to do. Is your buggy handy?”

  “Yeah, Ruby,” said the Reverend Tickle in a squeaky voice. “It’s right outside.”

  “Me ’n’ Pat, here, is goin’ fer a little ride on Boone’s hoss, and you’re gonna drive right along behind us. What say?” She patted his chubby cheek.

  “Sure, Ruby,” squeaked Tickle, nearly nodding his hat off. “If you say so!”

  Ruby Lou’s white hand with its glittering rings swept Patrick up. Gasping, he felt for the first time how the “little people” had felt when he and Omri had handled them. He hoped he’d always picked up Boone as gently as Ruby Lou did him, but he doubted it, remembering some times when he’d stuffed him in his jeans pocket and not been at all bothered if the cowboy was frightened or uncomfortable.

  “Where’d ya favor ridin’, pal? Not on my shoe again, huh? My shoulder? Naw, bit slippery…. Hey, I know a nice safe place!”

  And before Patrick knew what was happening, she had thrust him into the front of her dress. Which, once he got over his slight embarrassment, was just like being in the front row of the dress circle in a theater. Or maybe in the bow of a very large ship.

  Ruby Lou slapped Tickle’s hand away when he reached for one of the abandoned drinks, and swept out of the saloon with Patrick just ahead of her like a miniature figurehead on an old-fashioned galleon. She got him to point out Boone’s horse, and before you could say “Howdy” she had stuck her high-heeled boot in the heavy stirrup and in a flurry of petticoats and red satin had swung herself into the saddle.

  Patrick found himself at skyscraper height, with a fantastic view of a street that was somehow familiar. Then he remembered. Of course! It was the street Boone had drawn for them that time in the art lesson at school! There was the jail, and across the way the livery stables, the dirt road with the horses and wagons, and the doctor’s sign, and the general store. The only thing there wasn’t was people, though he thought he saw a few curtains twitch in some windows, and the door of the sheriff’s office hastily closing.

  Tickle meanwhile had hurried to where his horse and buggy were parked and climbed onto the driver’s seat, picking up the reins and giving them a shake.

  “Praise the Lord, I’m ready t’ go, Ruby!” he called in his squeaky voice.

  “Okay, fellas!” She kicked the horse, who reared a little, giving Patrick a fright, but Ruby sat her mount as steady as a rock.

  “Git on there, hoss! Find Boone!” cried the intrepid Ruby Lou. And the next moment they were galloping down the empty street, leaving Tickle to follow in a cloud of dust.

  12

  Caught Red-Handed

  BOONE CAME TO that afternoon.

  Matron had been exceedingly busy since the surgical team came. She hustled and bustled them across to the seed tray, chatting to them all the time in an isn’t-this-interesting-and-also-perfectly-normal sort of voice, and before they knew it they were doing their stuff in a makeshift operating theater with the aid of a powerful torch and relays of tiny containers.

  It was Emma’s job to keep these coming, though she gave them to Bright Stars to carry in to the team. One lot contained boiling water with a few drops of disinfectant in it. The other lot contained boiling water with tea, sugar, and milk in it. (On one occasion Matron apparently mistook the one for the other, and a great deal of coughing and spluttering ensued.)

  As Boone didn’t need an operation, he had been established in a bed, which Emma, under Omri’s guidance, made of a large Swan vestas matchbox filled with neatly folded Kleenex and a small pincushion pillow, set up in a far corner of the seed tray out of sight of the longhouse and its occupants. He was watched over by Bright Stars, and occasionally visited by Little Bear, who would stray near the bed as if by accident and peer at Boone’s face scowlingly before stamping off again with a grunt of disfavor.

  But at last Bright Stars called to Omri and Emma, who were just returning from the garden after conducting a brief burial service over the paper packet of plastic figures. (Omri’s family were not churchgoers, but Emma managed a prayer of sorts and even thought of putting some tiny flowers on the grave.)

  “Boone wake!” Bright Stars said, shifting her baby’s slight weight from one arm to the other. Her face was wreathed in smiles. She was very fond of Boone, since he had stood by to help her during the birth of her baby.

  Omri and Emma leaned close to the matchbox bed and saw that, sure enough, Boone had opened his eyes and was trying to sit up. When he saw Omri looming over him, his ginger-bristly face broke into a soppy grin.

  “Hi there, pardner,” he said rather croakily. “Whut happened t’ me this time? Did that there sneaky redskin varmint shoot another arrow into me, or whut?”

  “I’m afraid it was Patrick,” confessed Omri. “He didn’t mean it—he just squeezed you too tig
ht.”

  “Yeah? That’d explain why m’ ribs feels like they’re broke.”

  “Well, they’re not, just bruised, but you nearly suffocated.”

  Boone paled.

  “Suffocated! Ya mean, like when they string you up? Geez, that’s allus bin m’ worst nightmare, kickin’ the bucket that-a-way! Never woulda thought of ol’ Pat bein’ so dawgoned careless! Whur is the kid, anyhow? An’ who’s this?” he added, suddenly noticing Emma.

  “This is Emma, Boone. She’s a friend of ours. Emma, this is Boone. He’s a cowboy from Texas.”

  Emma stretched out her hand, and Boone solemnly took hold of the nail of one finger and shook it.

  “A real privilege, ma’am,” he said courteously. He stared at her for a moment. “Y’ know, with that fair hair o’ yorn, and them eyes blue as the midday sky, ya sure remind me of a lady o’ mah acquaintance…. A’ course, you’re a mite younger ’n she is….” He stared awhile longer, and then shook himself and said brightly, “Hey, Ah’m feelin’ better every minute. Y’ know, thur ain’t nothing like bein’ close to a beautiful female fer bringing a red-blooded dyin’ man back t’ th’ land o’ the livin’! Unless it’s …” And he gave a meaningful swallow.

  Omri sighed and glanced at Emma.

  “You want a drink,” he said resignedly.

  “Jest a li’l shot,” Boone wheedled, indicating the minutest possible portion between finger and thumb. “Best cure there is fer suffocation.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Omri, laughing. “I’ll fetch you some. Emma, you chat with him, tell him where Patrick is—that ought to keep his mind off his thirst.”

  Omri went downstairs to the living room where the drinks cupboard was. His father was no drinker, but he always kept a bottle of scotch and some wine and beer handy, together with glasses of the appropriate sizes and shapes. Omri chose a tiny liqueur glass and was just pouring a small portion of scotch into it when his father walked into the room and caught him red-handed.

  “Omri? What on earth are you up to?”

  The question was not angry, merely incredulous. Omri stood there with the whisky bottle in one hand and the tiny glass in the other, the very picture of guilt.

  “I—I—I—I’m pouring a drink.”

  “That’s the wrong glass for scotch,” said his father, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked across, took the bottle out of Omri’s hand, and replaced the top. There was a silence, and then he said, “Well, you’ve poured it, you might as well drink it.”

  Omri stared at the brown liquid in the glass. He wanted to say, “It’s not for me,” or, “I don’t want it,” but he knew that if he did, more questions, unanswerable questions, would be sure to follow. So he took a deep breath, and, with a feeling like despair, he swallowed it in one gulp.

  The stuff was horrible. It seemed to stick in his throat, making him choke. His eyes sprouted tears. When it finally went down, it burned all the way and hit his unsuspecting stomach like a small depth charge.

  He was aware that his father was watching him curiously.

  “You’re evidently not really into hard liquor,” he remarked, looking at Omri’s scarlet face and teary eyes.

  Omri said nothing.

  “Just an experiment, was it?” his father persisted in a man-to-man tone.

  “Sort of,” croaked Omri.

  “Well, try anything once, that’s my motto too. Just once, in this case, okay?” And he put the bottle away firmly.

  Omri moved toward the door, trying to get rid of the filthy taste in his mouth. Just as he got there, his father said, “I think it’s time I drove them back.”

  “Who? Oh! Emma, you mean.”

  “And Patrick.”

  “Patrick?” repeated Omri, startled.

  “He is up in your room, isn’t he?”

  The whiskey was spinning Omri’s brain like a top and he said the only thing he could think of. “No,” he said. “Er—no. He took off. A while ago. He’s gone home.”

  “He must have sneaked out—I didn’t hear the front door.”

  Omri mumbled something and then said, “I’ll tell Emma to come down.”

  * * *

  Later Emma made a secret phone call to Omri from her home, to say that she’d told Patrick’s mother that Patrick had returned safely to Omri’s after his “bicycle ride,” so tired he’d fallen asleep right away. And that, though annoyed, Patrick’s mother had resigned herself to staying in town for another night.

  “I’ll just give him tonight,” said Omri. “What he said about staying a week is ridiculous. I’ll bring him back in the morning.”

  Emma said nothing for a moment, and then said, “I hated having to leave. I don’t want to miss anything. Will you please give my love to Boone and Bright Stars and Little Bear. And the baby. And Matron.”

  “Matron wouldn’t appreciate it,” said Omri. “She’s above all that.” But something in the intensity of feeling in Emma’s voice pleased him. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he went on. “And don’t forget. Not a word to anyone. No exceptions. Promise.”

  And Emma replied, “I already did promise,” but just the same, Omri hardly slept all night.

  13

  Mr. Johnson Smells a Rat

  NEXT DAY WAS Monday. School.

  Omri got up very early after a restless night. Little Bear didn’t have to wake him, for once.

  The first thing he did was open the chest. Patrick was exactly as before—chill-fleshed, but breathing shallowly. Omri crouched on his heels, staring in at him. He knew what he should do. What he must do, really. Anyway he was dying to hear what had been happening in Texas—if indeed that was where Patrick had wound up. It was just that Omri didn’t want to interrupt a great adventure, if there was one going on.

  Nevertheless, he closed the lid and put his hand on the key with its red satin ribbon.

  “Young man! I need some assistance.”

  It was Matron in her most commanding mood.

  “Could it wait, Matron?”

  “No. Some of these men are so much better they can go back where they belong. They’re just taking up beds, not to mention my time. Come along, I’ve marshaled them outside that cupboard of yours—now get them on their way.”

  Omri stood up. The Indians, about nine of them, many with bandaged limbs or heads, one on crutches made of matchsticks, stood near the door of the cupboard. Little Bear and Bright Stars were with them.

  “Is it okay if they go back, Little Bear?”

  “Good go back. In village much need do. Each brave have work, enough for many.”

  “Do you want to go with them?” asked Omri with a heavy heart.

  Little Bear looked up at him.

  “I think much of go back or stay. I wish this and this. So I choose. You send Little Bear back now. Then when sun go, you bring here again. I see village. Then come back see hurt braves.”

  “Great idea, you can almost be in two places at once! Will you take Bright Stars with you?”

  “Yes take wife. Take son. Omri bring Little Bear back when sun go.”

  Omri felt a bit confused about the logistics of all this, but he nodded, and he and Little Bear touched hands.

  He opened the cupboard. With some help from Matron and each other, the Indians scrambled over the bottom rim. Little Bear helped Bright Stars in. She cast a tender look back at Omri and waved to him.

  Omri then “borrowed” the key from the chest and dispatched them. Why did he feel sad about this parting that was to be only for one day? He took the plastic figures from the cupboard and put them safely in his pocket.

  Matron gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  “We’re not going to lose any more now,” she said. “The others are all on the mend.”

  “What did the team think of it all?”

  Matron permitted herself a smirk.

  “Well, as the Bard says, ‘Conscience does make cowards of us all’! I think each of them thought he’d probably had too muc
h to drink, and none of them liked to admit it to the others, so they just got on with the job as per my orders. I mean suggestions.”

  “I suppose you were up all night, after we sent them back?”

  “Let’s say I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Never mind. All in a night’s work.”

  “You’re wonderful,” said Omri sincerely.

  “Pish, tush, and likewise pooh,” said Matron, dismissing the compliment, but he had seen a blush of pleasure spread over those craggy features. “What about a cuppa? Can’t start the day without my tea.”

  “An’ Ah cain’t start mine without mah cawfee!” chimed in Boone’s voice. Omri had fixed him up with a little “house” made of Lego and put it out of sight behind the cupboard, so Boone could get a good night’s sleep, away from the seed tray with all the hospital-like hustle and bustle.

  Now Omri lifted the roof off. Boone was sitting bolt upright in bed, looking ready for anything. “Ah’m more ’n a mite hungry, too, so as Ah been de-prived of m’ likker, don’t you go forgettin’ some powerful vittles!” Omri had had trouble with him the night before when he’d returned without any whisky.

  He hurried down to the kitchen and fetched as many “powerful vittles” as he could readily lay hands on, while boiling the kettle for tea and coffee. He wished Emma were here. He felt beleaguered, having to do everything himself. He wasn’t sure he’d got his priorities right, seeing that everyone was fed before he did anything about Patrick. As he tiptoed back upstairs, he thought he’d see to that as soon as he was dressed.

  But hardly was he back in his room than he was alarmed to hear footsteps rattling up the attic stairs.

  “Hey, Omri! Wake up, you’re on the news!”

  It was Gillon, banging on his door. Omri hastily heaped some junk onto the top of the chest and opened the bedroom door a crack.

  “What are you going on about?”

  “It was on my clock radio. Radio London. They just announced the winners of the story competition!”