The Injun

	The Indian brave lay amongst the spiny branches of the thornbush. He could 
feel the sun beating down on his skin as the thorns threatened to break through 
his flesh, but he remained motionless. His attention was focused on the house 
about 25 metres away, and on the chickens that scratched in the dirt around the 
sides. He hadn't eaten since he had found a prairiedog, dead by the side of a 
road, and that had been five days previously. Driving into the centre of his 
chest was the amulet that his Great Grandfather had given him, before dying of 
cirrhosis of the liver in a Mexican canteena. He had told him that it was the 
last treasure of the Great Lake tribe, and that it magically protected its 
wearer from death. The Indian was on the verge of throwing it away.
	"Billy," The young boy whispered cautiously to his companion, "Billy, 
there's a injun hidden in that bush over there."
	"I reckon he's after our chickens here Bob. Should we go and get your Pa?" 
The second boy looked at the adults who were clustered around an new Model A 
Ford that was parked further down the track.
	"Naw, I reckon we could get him ourselves."
	"What? He's a full grown man. Well an Injun anyways. I heard they grab 
young kids and take em away."
	"We don't tackle him, you idiot, we use the bally-stay."
	"Kaw Bob, you sure have the best ideas, let's go get it now."
	"Not too fast, we don't want to spook him."
	They casually sauntered into the furthest shed and looked at their 
masterpiece. Copied from an illustration in a history book, it was a ballistae, 
a roman siege weapon. It was exactly as the history book had shown, except that 
the twisted tendons had been replaced with cords of rubber gathered from the 
tyres of a truck that had shredded its wheels out on the highway. The twisted 
rubber drove two wooden arms that were joined by cord in a similar way to a 
crossbow. Down the centre of the device was a barrel, down which was propelled a 
railway spike. Previous tests had shown that a halfpound spike would be shot out 
of sight into the desert. 
	Abubble with excitement now, the boys hurried to load the weapon. Using a 
simple spanish windlass they wound the cord back to its full position, and tied 
it in place with a loop of light rope. Then they carefully pushed the railroad 
spike down the barrel. Finally they lifted the weapon and carried it over to the 
window. The Indian was still there, he would remain still until all the adults 
had gone before making his move. The boys aimed the ballistae at the bush, and 
Bob pulled a knife.
	"Ready Billy?" He asked, his knife on the loop of rope that held the 
projectile in readiness. 
	"Now, now!" Urged Billy.
	With four slices the rope was through and the ballistae leapt back as the 
spike was hurtled into the chalk cupboard. The spike burst through the back of 
the cupboard, tumbling end over end now, and crashed through the wooden railings 
of the banister before coming to rest partway through a stair. The classroom was 
silent, as Billy and Bob looked around at the circle of shocked faces. The 
ballistae was on Bob's desk, but even if he could hide it in time there was no 
getting out of this one. The teacher held up his hand, it was dripping blood 
from a splinter embedded in his thumb. It was a similar colour to his eyes.

	18 miles away, outside Bob's house, the indian felt a thorn enter his 
elbow. What was the use of this stupid amulet, for all the protection it gave 
him? He was going to have to get the chicken all by himself, without any magical 
help.
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