Cowboys and Indians
By Clara “Clem” CaufieldNative Sun News Today Columnist
nativesunnews.today By the time I was nine, my next brother, Tom was seven and thus ready to start riding too. The problem was we only had one horse, Bimbo, a Shetland pony who had by then got stout enough to pack the two of us. Tom was sprier than me and given a hand, could spring up behind. He often wanted to “steer”, but as I informed him, Bimbo was “my” horse, so little brother had to be content with the backseat. At the time, I did not realize I was very near-sighted, what the doctors call myopic. Later, but not then, I was not yet been diagnosed, barely seeing anything more that fifty feet in the front, just thinking the world was all a little naturally fuzzy. Later, I had to wear thick glasses and it wasn’t until college that I found out about contact lenses, still relying upon those today. Maybe at some point I will get the courage to try laser surgery, not yet wanting docs to slice my eyeballs, too scary. Tom, however, had perfect keen eyesight, which allowed him, at a young age to always spot the pesky “Indians” lurking on a far-ridge. “There they are again!” he would excitedly announce when we were on a riding adventure. “I’ll scare them off”. With that, he would draw his pistol, a right index finger and fire it, with a click of his tongue and a “Boom-boom” yell. We liked to play “cowboys and Indians”, but because we had watched so many black and white grainy, John Wayne movies, we already knew that it was best to be the cowboys, who always won. Then, I was still the “big” boss of the kid outfit, in charge of determining who got to be a cowboy and who had to be an Indian, ironic, because we was half and half, cowboy and Indian. I ever decided to be a cowboy. Tom also wanted to be one too, but little luck for him. But, being a “cowboy” never totally worked, those pesky redskins often coming on the run, intent on catching us. While Tom enjoyed a crewcut, I had long black braids, which he said were of great interest to those worrisome warriors. “They will rip those right off your head, with a big rusty knife, and hang them on their belt,” he explained. That was a scary idea. After spotting the “redskins”, he would yell, “We gotta get home!" Then I would clinch Bimbo’s mane in my two little hands and grip my legs tight around his torso. Tom would clutch my little belly and kick furiously to encourage Bimbo to a greater speed. We would shake up the dust, gliding quickly across the prairie trying to outrun those dangerous Indians, arrows zippin and zoomin all around us. So, Tom said. I was too busy guiding Bimbo and too near-sighted to notice.
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