between his thumbnails and the almost invisible speck of black metal, which had only just penetrated the skin, popped out.
“He – shot me!” Patrick got out again in a shocked voice.
“I told you. My Indian stuck a knife in me,” said Omri, not to be outdone. “I think we ought to put him back – your cowboy I mean, of course, not my Indian.”
“Put him back where?”
Omri explained how the cupboard could change him back to plastic again, but Patrick wasn’t having any of that.
“Oh no! I want him! He’s terrific. Look at him now—”
Patrick feasted his eyes admiringly on the little cowboy. Ignoring the ‘giants’, whom he clearly thought he must have imagined, he was doggedly dragging his horse across Omri’s quilt as if he were wading through the dunes of some infinite pale-blue desert.
Omri reached for him determinedly, but Patrick stepped into his path.
“Don’t you touch him! I bought him, I changed him – he’s mine!”
“You bought him for me!”
“You said you didn’t want him.”
“Well, but the cupboard’s mine, and I told you not to use it.”
“And so what if I did? Anyway, it’s done, he’s alive now and I’m keeping him. I’ll bash you right in if you try to take him. Wouldn’t you bash me if I took your Indian?”
Omri was silent. That reminded him! Where was Little Bull? He looked round. He soon spotted him at the other side of the room, busy with his paints. Some beautiful minute designs, showing turtles and herons and beavers, mainly in red and yellow, had appeared on the side of the tepee Omri had made. As Omri crouched beside him to admire them, Little Bull, without looking at him, said “You bring food? I very soon die if not eat.”
Omri looked around. What had he done with the spoonful of stew? But he soon saw that he’d put it down on the table without thinking. There it sat, tilting slightly and spilling a few drops of gravy, but still steaming. He hurried to get Little Bull’s – or rather the Action Man’s – mess-tin (the paper plate had got all soggy) and carefully filled it with the hot savoury stuff.
“Here you are.”
Little Bull stopped work, laid down his paintbrush, and sniffed eagerly.
“Ah! Good!” He sat down cross-legged among the paint lids to eat, dipping some of yesterday’s stale bread in as a spoon. “Your wife cook? Ah. No. Little Bull forgot. Omri not got wife.” He ate ravenously for a few moments and then said, “Not want?”
“I’m having mine downstairs in a minute,” Omri said.
“Mean, Omri not want wife,” said Little Bull, who was now in a much better mood.
“I’m not old enough.”
Little Bull looked at him for a moment. “No. I see. Boy.” He grinned. “Big boy, but boy.” He went on eating. “Little Bull want,” he said finally, not looking up.
“Another wife?”
“Chief needs wife. Beautiful. Good cook. Act as told.” He put his face into the mess-tin and licked it clean. Then he looked up.
“With Iroquois, mother find wife for son. But Little Bull’s mother not here. Omri be mother and find.”
Omri couldn’t quite see himself as Little Bull’s mother, but he said, “I might try. I think there were some Indian women in Yapp’s. But what if I get one and make her real and then you don’t fancy her?”
“Fancy?”
“Like her.”
“I like. Young. Beautiful. Act as told. I like. So you get.”
“Tomorrow.”
Little Bull grinned at him happily, his face smeared with gravy.
Patrick had come up behind him.
“Let’s put them together and see what they do!”
Omri jumped up quickly.
“No!”
“Why not?”
“You idiot, because yours has got a gun and mine’s got a bow and arrow and one of them’s sure to kill the other!”
Patrick considered this. “Well, we could take their weapons away from them. Come on, I’m going to!” And he reached towards the bed.
Just at that moment there was the sound of steps on the stairs. They froze. Then Omri swiftly moved the dressing-up crate enough to hide Little Bull, and Patrick sat down on the end of the bed, masking the poor cowboy who was still toiling along over the lumps in the quilt.
Just in time! Omri’s mother opened the door next second and said, “Patrick, that was your mum on the phone. She wants you to come home right away. And Omri – it’s supper.” And she went.
Omri opened his mouth to protest, but Patrick at once said, “Oh, okay.” With one quick movement he had scooped up cowboy and horse in his left hand and thrust them into his blazer pocket. Omri winced – he could easily imagine the horse’s legs being injured by such rough treatment, not to mention the matter of fright. But Patrick was already halfway out of the door.
Omri jumped up and grabbed his arm.
“Patrick!” he whispered. “You must be careful! Treat them carefully! They’re people – I mean they’re alive – what will you do with them? How will you hide them from your family?”
“I won’t, I’ll show them to my brother anyway, he’ll go out of his mind.”
Omri began to think he might go out of his. He shook Patrick’s arm. “Will you think? How are you going to explain? What will happen? If you say you got him from me I’ll do worse than bash you – you’ll ruin everything – they’ll take the cupboard away—”
That got through to Patrick at last. He put his hand slowly back into his pocket.
“Listen then. You can look after them. But remember – they’re mine. If you put them back in the cupboard, I’ll tell everyone. I’m warning you. I will. Bring them to school tomorrow.”
“To school!” cried Omri aghast. “I’m not bringing Little Bull to school!”
“You can do what you like about Little Bull, he’s yours. The cowboy’s mine, and I want him at school tomorrow, otherwise I’ll tell.”
Omri let go of his arm and for a moment they looked at each other as if they’d been strangers. But they weren’t strangers; they were friends. That counts for a lot in this life. Omri gave in.
“All right,”
