Flight by Sherman Alexie Page B

me.
    But Bow Boy and Small Saint need me.
    I need me.
    So I roll over onto my stomach, onto my hands and knees, and push myself up. I’m on my feet. My back trembles. I can feel the little pain that wants to be bigger pain.
    Come on, Gus! Toughen up!
    I take a little step. I’m walking! I take a big step! I look around for my adoring audience. I feel like I need applause. I’m up and ready to go. I’m up and ready to run from the killers.
    “All right, kid,” I say to Small Saint. “Let’s go.”
    “You want to ride with us?” he asks.
    “No, I think it’s better for my back if I walk.”
    So Small Saint and Bow Boy ride the pony and I walk. And we begin our slow-motion escape.
    With my old ears, I can hear the soldiers catching up to us.
    “How far back you think they are?” I ask Small Saint.
    “Maybe three miles, sir. Probably closer to two.”
    “Can we outrun them?” I ask.
    I know that Gus is supposed to be the experienced scout, but I’m not going to make guesses. This kid knows more than I do.
    He’s thinking hard.
    “Can we outrun them?” I ask again.
    “Probably not, sir,” he says. “But we have to try.”
    “How long before they catch us?”
    “At this rate, ten-fifteen minutes, maybe.”
    “All right, then,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. And then I think to ask something else. “Hey, kid,” I say. “Why’d you do it?”
    “Do what, sir?” Small Saint asks.
    “Why’d you save the Indian boy?”
    Small Saint thinks for a moment. “I joined the military to defend people,” he said. “And that’s what I’m doing right now.”
    I will never be as good or as brave as this kid.
    I try to walk faster, and then I jog a bit. My knees and back are hurting. But I pick up the pace. I’m trying to replace Gus’s old body with my young spirit.
    I’m trying to replace Gus’s knees with my knees.
    And so Small Saint pushes the pony to a slow trot. And I’m pushing Gus to a slow trot. And we go.
    I know I won’t be able to keep up this pace. I know this chase is unfair. But we have to run. We have to keep running.
    And so we run.
    Behind us, the curses and hoofbeats of the cavalry. Ahead of us, who knows?
    Behind us, death.
    And so we run.
    And then I trip over a fallen branch and fall beside it. My back seizes up again. I curl. And I scream.
    “Sir!” Small Saint shouts. “Sir! Are you okay?”
    All I can do is scream. The pain is so huge, like a thousand little men are digging a train tunnel through my back.
    Please, please, make the pain stop.
    “Sir!” Small Saint shouts. “Sir! What should I do?”
    The soldiers are so close now, I imagine I can smell them. I smell gunpowder and sweat and blood and hate.
    “Go!” I yell. “Run!”
    “But what about you, sir!” Small Saint shouts. “I wont leave a man behind, sir!”
    “You have to! Go! Go!”
    “No, sir! No, sir!”
    I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s ready to make his stand here. That he will fight a million soldiers to save the Indian boy.
    But this is not supposed to be his end.
    There are two children riding that pony. They’re supposed to be children and stay children for as long as possible.
    “You have to save him!” I shout. “Save the kid!”
    And now Small Saint understands. He knows he might escape if he leaves me behind. He knows he has a better chance. It’s a horrible choice to make, but he must make it.
    “I’ll hold them off,” I say. “I’ll buy you more time.”
    How crazy. I can’t even uncurl my back and I’m going to fight charging cavalry soldiers?
    “Go,” I say. “Please.”
    It’s the please that does it. Funny how a little politeness can change people’s minds.
    Small Saint salutes me and then he’s off, galloping at full tilt, to disappear into the dark trees.
    I’m lying alone.
    The soldiers ride closer and closer.
    In great pain, I roll over on my stomach, and then crawl to a log. My cover. I brace my rifle on the log. I don’t even know