be new to Davy.
"I never heard of Big Toe Indians," he countered. "Where are they from?" "All over," she answered.
"Are you sure?- "They're People with so little Indian blood that the only thing Indian about them is their big toe."
"You're teasing me," he said, pouting.
She nodded. "That's one of the reasons l'itoi chose us for his People.
We tease and laugh and make jokes. So does he."
"But I still want to be an Indian," Davy insisted.
At the bottom of the mountain, the road straightened abruptly, dropping through the foothills on a stretch of reservation-owned open range.
Rita had driven on open range all her life, and she wasn't driving fast.
They were nearing the junction with Highway 86 when a started cow came crashing up onto the roadway out of a dry wash. With no warning, there was barely enough time to react. Rita jammed on the brakes.
The pickup swerved to one side, avoiding the animal by inches, but the right rear tire caught in the soft sand of the shoulder.
The GMC rolled over onto its side and then rolled again, end over end, coming to rest lying on its roof in the other lane, its hood facing in the wrong direction.
Without knowing precisely what had happened or how he got there, Davy found himself standing upright in the middle of the road.
He couldn't see anything. There was a terrible shrieking noise ringing in his ears, and another noise as well-a car's horn, honking one long, terrible wail.
Davy gasped for breath and realized that the first sound came from him-his own voice screaming. He put his hands to his face and brought them away bloody, but he could see again, could see the dust still flying, the tires still spinning uselessly in the air. The engine was still running, and the horn wouldn't quit. The blaring noise seemed to be all around him, coming up out of the desert floor, raining down on him from the very sky itself.
"Nana Dahd," he shouted. "Where are you? Are you all right?" There was no answer, only the horn-the terrible horn.
He scrambled over to the pickup and peered inside. Nana Dahd lay with her body crushed against the steering wheel, which jutted far into the cab. Blood gushed from a gaping wound on her left hand.
"Nana Dahd!" Davy shouted again, but she didn't hear him, didn't stir.
Just then a pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders and dragged him away from the truck. Davy looked up to see that an Anglo man, a stranger, was holding him. He fought the hands with all his might, kicking and screaming, "Let me go! Let me go!" But the man held him fast.
A second man was there now, crawling on his hands and knees, peering into the truck. He reached inside across Nana Dahd's still body and switched off the engine, then he tugged at some wires under the dash.
The waiting horn was instantly stilled, and the sudden silence was deafening.
"Can we get her out, Joe?"
The man by the truck shook his head. "I don't think SO.
She's pinned. We've got to get a tourniquet on this hand, then find some help. How far back to that little trading post?"
"Three Points? A long way. What about the other direction, toward Sells?"
"Up there!" Davy told them, pointing back up the mountain, but the men didn't hear him. After all, he was only a little kid. What did he know?
"You stay with her," one man was saying to the other, letting Davy go and heading back toward his car, a shiny red Grand Prix. The two men had been traveling past the turnoff on the highway just in time to see the GMC perform its spectacular series of acrobatics.
One of the two men started toward the car, but Davy ran after him, attaching himself to the man's knee like a stubborn cocklebur. The force of his tackle almost brought both of them down.
"Up there!" Davy insisted desperately. "We've got to, go up there!"
"Let go, kid. Don't waste time."
"But there's an ambulance up there. I know. I saw it!"
Finally, the boy's words penetrated. "An ambulance?
On the mountain?"
"Yes. Please."
"No shit! I'm going, but you
"I never heard of Big Toe Indians," he countered. "Where are they from?" "All over," she answered.
"Are you sure?- "They're People with so little Indian blood that the only thing Indian about them is their big toe."
"You're teasing me," he said, pouting.
She nodded. "That's one of the reasons l'itoi chose us for his People.
We tease and laugh and make jokes. So does he."
"But I still want to be an Indian," Davy insisted.
At the bottom of the mountain, the road straightened abruptly, dropping through the foothills on a stretch of reservation-owned open range.
Rita had driven on open range all her life, and she wasn't driving fast.
They were nearing the junction with Highway 86 when a started cow came crashing up onto the roadway out of a dry wash. With no warning, there was barely enough time to react. Rita jammed on the brakes.
The pickup swerved to one side, avoiding the animal by inches, but the right rear tire caught in the soft sand of the shoulder.
The GMC rolled over onto its side and then rolled again, end over end, coming to rest lying on its roof in the other lane, its hood facing in the wrong direction.
Without knowing precisely what had happened or how he got there, Davy found himself standing upright in the middle of the road.
He couldn't see anything. There was a terrible shrieking noise ringing in his ears, and another noise as well-a car's horn, honking one long, terrible wail.
Davy gasped for breath and realized that the first sound came from him-his own voice screaming. He put his hands to his face and brought them away bloody, but he could see again, could see the dust still flying, the tires still spinning uselessly in the air. The engine was still running, and the horn wouldn't quit. The blaring noise seemed to be all around him, coming up out of the desert floor, raining down on him from the very sky itself.
"Nana Dahd," he shouted. "Where are you? Are you all right?" There was no answer, only the horn-the terrible horn.
He scrambled over to the pickup and peered inside. Nana Dahd lay with her body crushed against the steering wheel, which jutted far into the cab. Blood gushed from a gaping wound on her left hand.
"Nana Dahd!" Davy shouted again, but she didn't hear him, didn't stir.
Just then a pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders and dragged him away from the truck. Davy looked up to see that an Anglo man, a stranger, was holding him. He fought the hands with all his might, kicking and screaming, "Let me go! Let me go!" But the man held him fast.
A second man was there now, crawling on his hands and knees, peering into the truck. He reached inside across Nana Dahd's still body and switched off the engine, then he tugged at some wires under the dash.
The waiting horn was instantly stilled, and the sudden silence was deafening.
"Can we get her out, Joe?"
The man by the truck shook his head. "I don't think SO.
She's pinned. We've got to get a tourniquet on this hand, then find some help. How far back to that little trading post?"
"Three Points? A long way. What about the other direction, toward Sells?"
"Up there!" Davy told them, pointing back up the mountain, but the men didn't hear him. After all, he was only a little kid. What did he know?
"You stay with her," one man was saying to the other, letting Davy go and heading back toward his car, a shiny red Grand Prix. The two men had been traveling past the turnoff on the highway just in time to see the GMC perform its spectacular series of acrobatics.
One of the two men started toward the car, but Davy ran after him, attaching himself to the man's knee like a stubborn cocklebur. The force of his tackle almost brought both of them down.
"Up there!" Davy insisted desperately. "We've got to, go up there!"
"Let go, kid. Don't waste time."
"But there's an ambulance up there. I know. I saw it!"
Finally, the boy's words penetrated. "An ambulance?
On the mountain?"
"Yes. Please."
"No shit! I'm going, but you
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