Geronimo!

Geronimo!

         A cool night wind rushed through tufts of deer-grass and around the sparse aspen trees. It raced in through the open window that I lay down beside, as I pulled a silk lined sleeping bag up to my chin. My grandfather and I were walking around Carlsbad, New Mexico just hours earlier, under the scorching sun. It is hard to imagine the heat that had enveloped my body and dried my mouth relentlessly during the day.

         I closed my eyes and let myself relax, as a fragile smile formed on my small face. I didn't miss having playmates my own age, even though I was the only 10 year old this far from my home in New York. I settled into my bed, and let the wind drift in to cool my sunburned nose.

         A low thud echoed in the distance, then another. It wasn't the wind. The once calming breeze began to zip and whistle. The thud turned into beating, and grew to a steady pace. It grew louder. A hollow voice came from the distance, almost wolf-like. No, it was unmistakably a man.

         The cactus flowers filled the air with their pungent aroma, sending a chill down my spine. I hadn't seen a cactus anywhere near the park we were staying at. I lay still, listening. More howling men, this time closer. The beating became faster and more urgent. I heard a horse galloping, and my mind raced . I could see him, screaming like a banshee. His dark Apache face painted with a single white stripe across his nose, his black eyes burrowed deep into my soul. He was armed for war, getting closer. The beating was a drum that sped, until it was in rhythm with the very heart in my chest. I did not move, bracing myself for his attack.

         It came, the arrows whooshing past. I forced myself to keep still, keeping my eyes closed. Another arrow- whoosh. Just as I couldn't squeeze my eyes shut any longer, it grew quiet. A soft whistle cut the silence like a knife. It was a final arrow shot from a distance dropping steadily. The Apaches cries broke out once again, strong and wild with blood lust. A sharp jab pierced into my side.

         I opened my eyes, holding my ribs and sat up. My grandfather, a boisterous Irishman with a red face, was standing by my bed. I knew he was there without having opened my eyes at all. He would always tell me stories, and I looked forward to them every night. His booming chuckle, smiling face, and his curled moustache leaned over me. "Alright. Go to bed you little punk, or Geronimo really will come and get you!"