“There’s plenty of water,” Raymond said, “if you know where to look.”
“That’s what I understand.”
“Some of the older men at San Carlos, they’d take us boys and make us go up in the mountains and stay there two, three days without food or water.”
“You did that?”
“Plenty of times.”
“You’d find water?”
“Sure, and something to eat. Not much, but enough to hold us.”
“Say, I just read in the paper,” Mr. Manly said. “You know who died the other day? Geronimo.”
“Is that right?”
“Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Died of pneumonia.”
“That’s too bad,” Raymond said. “I mean I think he would rather have got killed fighting.”
“You ever seen him? No, you would have been too young.”
“Sure, I seen him. Listen, I’ll tell you something I never told anybody. My father was in his band. Geronimo’s.”
“Is that a fact?”
“He was killed in Mexico when the soldiers went down there.”
“My goodness,” Mr. Manly said, “we’re talking about warriors, you’re the son of an Apache warrior.”
“I never told anybody that.”
“Why not? I’d think you’d be proud to tell it.”
“It doesn’t do me any good.”
“But if it’s true—”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I mean since it’s a fact, why not tell it?”
“It don’t make any difference to me. I could be Apache, I could be Mexican, I’m in Yuma the rest of my life.”
“But you’re living that life,” Mr. Manly said. “If a person’s an Indian then he should look at himself as an Indian. Like I told Harold, God made him a nigger for a reason. All right, God made you an Indian. There’s nothing wrong with being an Indian. Why, do you know that about half our states have Indian names? Mississippi. The state I come from, Tennessee. Arizona. The Colorado River out yonder. Yuma.”
“I don’t know,” Harold said, “that spear looks like it could break easy.”
Mr. Manly looked over at him and at the book. “They know how to make ’em.”
“They fight other people?”
“Sure they did. Beat ’em, too. What I understand, your Zulus owned most of the southern part of Africa, took it from other tribes and ruled over them.”
“Never got beat, uh?”
“Not that I ever heard of. No, sir, they’re the greatest warriors in Africa.”
“Nobody ever beat the Apache,” Raymond said, “till the U. S. Army come with all their goddamn guns.”
“Raymond, don’t ever take the Lord’s name in vain like that.”
“Apaches beat the Pimas, the Papagos, Maricopas—took anything we wanted from them.”
“Well, I don’t hold with raiding and killing,” Mr. Manly said, “but I’ll tell you there is something noble about your uneducated savage that you don’t see in a lot of white men. I mean just the way your warrior stands, up straight with his shoulders back and never says too much, doesn’t talk just to hear himself, like a lot of white people I know. I’ll tell you something else, boys. Savage warriors have never been known to lie or go back on their word, and that’s a fact. Man up at the reservation told me that Indians don’t even have a word in their language for lie. Same thing with your Zulus. I reckon if a boy can run all day long and kill lions with a spear, he don’t ever have to lie.”
“I never heard of Apaches with spears,” Raymond said.
“Oh, yes, they had them. And bows and arrows.”
Harold was waiting. “I expect the Zulus got guns now, don’t they?”
“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Manly answered. “Maybe they don’t need guns. Figure spears are good enough.” A smile touched his mouth as he looked across the desk at Raymond and Harold. “The thing that tickles me,” he said, “I’m liable to have a couple of real honest-to-goodness Apache and Zulu warriors sitting right here in my office and I didn’t even know it.”
That evening, when Bob Fisher got back after supper, the guard at the sally port told him Mr. Manly wanted to see him right away. Fisher asked him what for, and the guard said how was he supposed to know. Fisher told the man to watch his mouth, and headed across the compound to see what the little squirt wanted.
Fisher paused by the stairs and looked over toward the cook shack. The women would be starting their bath about now.
Mr. Manly was writing something, but put it aside as Fisher came in. He said, “Pull up a chair,” and seemed anxious to talk.
“There’s a couple of things I got to do yet tonight.”
“I wanted to talk to you about our Apache and our Zulu.”
“How’s that?”
“Raymond and Harold. I’ve been thinking about Frank Shelby’s idea—he seems like a pretty sensible young man, doesn’t he?”
Jesus Christ, Bob Fisher thought. He said, “I guess he’s smart enough.”
Mr. Manly smiled. “Though not smart enough to stay out of jail. Well, I’ve been thinking about this boxing-match idea. I want you to know I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
Fisher waited.
“I want Frank Shelby to understand it too—you might mention it to him if you see him before I do.”
“I’ll tell him,” Fisher said. He started to go.
“Hey, I haven’t told you what I decided.”
Fisher turned to the desk again.
“I’ve been thinking—a boxing match wouldn’t be too good. We want them to stop fighting and we tell them to go ahead and fight. That doesn’t sound right, does it?”
“I’ll tell him that.”
“You’re sure in a hurry this evening, Bob.”
“It’s time I made the rounds is all.”
“Well, I could walk around with you if you want and we could talk.”
“That’s all right,” Fisher said, “go ahead.”
“Well, as I said, we won’t have the boxing match. You know what we’re going to have instead?”
“What?”
“We’re going to have a race. I mean Harold and Raymond are going to have a race.”
“A race,” Fisher said.
“A foot race. The faster man wins and gets some kind of a prize, but I haven’t figured that part of it out yet.”
“They’re going to run a race,” Fisher said.
“Out in the exercise yard. Down to the far end and back, maybe a couple of times.”
“When do you want this race held?”
“Tomorrow I guess, during free time.”
“You figure it’ll stop them fighting, uh?”
“We don’t have anything to lose,” Mr. Manly said. “A good race might just do the trick.”
Get out of here, Bob Fisher thought. He said, “Well, I’ll tell them.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“I’ll tell Frank Shelby then.” Fisher edged toward the door and got his hand on the knob.
“You know what it is?” Mr. Manly was leaning back in his chair with a peaceful, thoughtful expression. “It’s sort of a race of races,” he said. “You know what I mean? The Negro against the Indian, black man against red man. I don’t mean to prove that one’s better than the other. I mean as a way to stir up their pride and get them interested in doing something with theirselves. You know what I mean?”
Bob Fisher stared at him.
“See, the way I figure them—” Mr. Manly motioned to the chair again. “Sit down, Bob, I’ll tell you how I see these two boys, and why I believe we can help them.”