I hear ya Redbert, I always liked being the Indian when playing cowboys and Indians. Once, as a cub scout project, we made Indian gear. Leather fringed shirts, leggings, etc. I loved my outfit.
This was in Munich in the late ‘50s. Our cub scout master was an impressive speciman of a man, lean and mean, an army sergeant who was a mix of black and Native American. He looked ferocious in his get up, and knew cool Indian dances, woodlore and stuff.
We all wanted to be like him.
So, one day I am sitting in my treehouse, more of a tree platform I guess, in my yard, overlooking one of the streets, with my sister. We are both wearing our Indian gear get up. (How she horned in on this manly cub scout activity I have no idea. Maybe ‘cause mom was my den mother.) I am fully armed, with a coupla BB guns, assorted knives and a hatchet.
A car suddenly stops below us. A bunch of German adults starts looking at us, pointing, laughing and such. I give ‘em my best Indian stare of death.
They laugh and drive off.
They were lucky we didn’t have that cub scout master with us!