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The wooden fort was ablaze with flames.
The blue uniforms lay inert, while the half-naked men danced victoriously, bows and arrows held high.
That Christmas Day, my brother and I grew tired of repeating the same battles with that gift.
The whites always won. We decided to change things.
During the hot siesta, we set fire to the fort.
The Indians celebrated their triumph with thunderous shouts.
We joined in the celebration, ecstatic.
From then on, we fought for those who lost.
Years later, my brother paid a heavy price for our revolt.
I write this story from exile, haunted by a mystery:
Was it child's play... or did we light the fuse of something else?
