Return of the Indian

Return of the Indian
Lynne Reid Banks

Omri has never forgotten Little Bull though, and finally yields to the temptation to see his tiny blood brother again.But when the cupboard door opens, Little Bull is slumped, unconscious, over his horse, two bullet wounds in his back. As Omri tries to help him, he faces the terrifying responsibility of power, the power of life and death…

RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Lynne Reid Banks

ILLUSTRATED BY PIERS SANFORD

To all those who wrote to me, giving me ideas!

And to Omri, my darling son.

Contents

Cover (#uaa412a9e-0f3e-5baa-9909-193bd0d9a69d)

Title Page (#u37ae1bdf-fba3-55e9-bb72-68ac64a08ae0)

Dedication (#u6cc4afbc-a654-5e92-a2eb-cb83fc0589a5)

1 A Defeat (#u9b79ceb4-7037-5562-8a8d-8b4dd118429d)

2 A Victory (#u6d65d5d6-406f-54f0-bba8-c5b7cf976d71)

3 The Way it Began (#u647ebe4f-3ad0-5903-8677-a9edc1fd10a5)

4 The Sweet Taste of Triumph (#u72262be0-a0e7-5b03-8e3b-7de1b704f313)

5 From Dangerous Times (#u81b6e98d-e387-5507-afc4-5c731bbec83b)

6 Going for Help (#u9120d5c4-145c-5df2-8524-5d7fe01f7519)

7 Matron (#litres_trial_promo)

8 The Operation (#litres_trial_promo)

9 A Good Luck Piece (#litres_trial_promo)

10 Boone’s Brainwave (#litres_trial_promo)

11 Target Omri! (#litres_trial_promo)

12 The Troops (#litres_trial_promo)

13 A Death and a Healing (#litres_trial_promo)

14 Red Men, Red Coats (#litres_trial_promo)

15 Corporal Fickits (#litres_trial_promo)

16 If’n Ya Wanna Go Back… (#litres_trial_promo)

17 As Far as You Can Go (#litres_trial_promo)

18 Algonquin (#litres_trial_promo)

19 The Terror of the Battle (#litres_trial_promo)

20 Invasion (#litres_trial_promo)

21 Rout of the Skinheads (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue by the Fire (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

1 A Defeat (#ulink_e6d6df97-5ed1-5fa0-8bb9-518733a0cc4d)

Omri emerged from the station into Hove Road.

Someone with a sense of humour and a black spray-can had recently added an ‘l’ to the word ‘Hove’ on the street sign on the corner, making it ‘Hovel Road’. Omri thought grimly that this was much more appropriate than ‘Hove’ which sounded pleasantly like somewhere by the sea. Omri would have liked to live by the sea, or indeed almost anywhere in the world rather than Hovel Road. He had done his best to understand why his parents had decided to move here from the other house in the other, much nicer, district. True, the new house was larger, and so was the garden. But the area was a slum.

Omri’s father objected strongly to Omri calling it a slum. But then he had a car. He didn’t have to walk half a mile along Hovel Road to the station every day, as Omri did to get to school, and again – as now – to get home in the gloomy afternoon. It was October, and the clocks had gone back. That meant that when he came out of the station it was practically dark.

Omri was only one of many children walking, playing or hanging around in Hovel Road at this hour, but he was the only one who wore school uniform. Of course he took his blazer and tie off in the train and stuffed them into his schoolbag, but that still left his white shirt, black trousers and grey pullover. However he mussed them up, he still stood out among the others he had to pass through.

These others all went to a local school where uniform was not required. Under other circumstances, Omri would have begged his parents to let him change schools. At least, then, he wouldn’t have been an obvious outsider. Or maybe he would. He couldn’t imagine going to school with these kids. After a term and a half of running the gauntlet of their mindless antagonism every working day, he regarded them as little better than a pack of wolves.

That group waiting for him on the corner by the amusement arcade… He knew them by now, and they knew him. They waited for him, if they had nothing better to do. His passing seemed to be one of the highlights of their day. Their faces positively lit up as they saw him approach. It took all his courage to keep walking towards them.

At moments like this, he would remember Little Bull. Little Bull had been only a fraction of Omri’s size, and yet he had stood up to him. If he had felt scared, as Omri did now, he never showed it. Omri was not that much smaller than these boys. There were just so many of them, and only one of him. But imagine if they’d been giants, as he was to Little Bull! They were nothing but kids like himself, although several years older. Except that they weren’t like him. They’re rats, he thought, to rouse himself for battle. Pigs. Toads. Mad dogs. It would be shameful to let them see he was afraid of them. He gripped his schoolbag tightly by both handles and walked on.

If only he had had Boone’s revolver, or Little Bull’s knife, or his bow and arrows, or his axe. If only he could fight like a cowboy or an Indian brave! How he would show that crew then!

The boy he had to pass first was a skinhead, like several of the others. The cropped head made him look somehow animal-like. He had a flat, whitish face and about five gold rings in one ear. Omri should perhaps have detoured a bit to be out of range, but he would not swerve from his path. The skinhead’s boot shot out, but Omri was expecting that and skipped over it. Then a concerted movement by the others jerked Omri into evasive action. Speed was his only hope. He broke into a run, hampered by his heavy bag.

Several hands reached out to grab him as he passed. One caught and held fast. He swung the bag and it hit home. The boy released his hold, doubled over and said, “Uuoogh!” It reminded Omri of the time Little Bull had fought Boone, the cowboy, and got kicked in the stomach. He’d made the same noise.

Someone else clutched Omri’s flying shirt-tail and he jerked away hard and heard it rip. He swung round with his bag again, missed, and found himself turning in a circle after the bag. There was the sound of jeering laughter. He felt hot rage flood under his skin. He was roused now; he wanted to stop, to fight, but he saw their sneering, idiot faces. That was all they were waiting for. They would beat him up. They’d done it once before and he had stumbled home with a bloody nose and a shoulder bruised from the pavement, and one shoe missing. His schoolbag, too. He’d had to go back (Adiel, his eldest brother, had gone with him), and found all his books scattered, and the bag torn and half-full of filthy rubbish.

An experience like that taught you something. He fled, hating himself, but hating his enemies more. They didn’t pursue him. That would have been too much trouble. But their shouts and jeers followed him all the way to his gate.

As he turned into it, he slowed down. He was on safe ground here. It was a different world. The property had a high hedge which shut it off from the street. The house was a nice house. Omri didn’t deny that. He could see in to the warm, well-lit living room with its familiar furniture and lamps and ornaments and pictures.