Flight by Sherman Alexie Page A

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