II
The two friends returned to the pony.
“What is this whiskey?” Jesting Squaw’s Son asked. “I am always hearing talk about it. They say it is so bad, yet they try so hard to get it.”
“I do not know. They all say it is very bad. It makes you crazy, they say. It must be like eating jimpson-weed I think.”
“It made that man crazy. He tried to fight alone.”
“M‑m. It made him brave, I think. But it stopped his sense. When a thing like that happens, a number of men coming against you, you run away first. Then you can get behind something and start shooting.”
“Anyhow, he killed a Hopi.”
“Ei-yei! He shot straight! But jail is very bad, they say.”
“Well, that’s just for a few months, and he will have that to think about. When he comes back, people will think well of him.”
The call sounded for the first race, which was the saddle-changing relay. They separated in the crowd, which split into two parties according to whom it backed. Laughing Boy put two dollars on a group of active young men with a short-coupled pony that looked as if it could turn smartly and not get flustered.
The ponies were saddled and mounted. The cinch-strap was carried through the ring of the girth, then up to the horn, where the rider held it fast with one hand, a finger of which also hooked in the reins. The other hand held a quirt ready to strike. The men were stripped to breechclout and moccasins, slender, golden-brown bodies, the bodies of perfect boys, under the dark colour a glow of red showing through.
Now! The ponies scampered, people shouted. The horsemen flashed to earth, bringing their saddles with them, the ponies were wheeled around. Bare arms and backs rippled as the new saddles were swung on, the cinch-strap caught through, held to the horn by the same hand on which the new rider swung as he leaped to the saddle, the horse already in motion under him.
A man’s foot slipped. Everyone laughed and cheered. It was a close race. Now the last men were mounting. The one on the team Laughing Boy was backing lost his grip on the strap, and the saddle turned under him. He wrenched it back, throwing his weight in the stirrups, then clinched his legs under the horse’s belly. But he had thrown his mount out of its stride, and he lost by a good length. They laughed more, and called jokes to him,
“Grease on your fingers, Grandfather! You should have held the strap in your teeth!”
Laughing Boy went to pay his bet. They were organizing the chicken-pull. The chicken was a salt-bag half full of dirt. A piece of blue cloth tied around its neck was the head; two bits of red at the bottom corners were the legs. Whoever threw the head over the line, a hundred yards away, won five dollars; each of the legs brought two.
Laughing Boy drifted around the edge of the crowd, gay and excited. Never had there been such a four days! He had an eye out for Slim Girl, and saw her at last, sitting slightly apart from a group of women. Their eyes met, then he moved away.
Red Man hailed him. “You are racing a horse, Grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you win. I shall take it all away from you tonight.”
“All right.”
He turned out of the crowd to avoid him; the man made him feel disagreeable. Towards him walked a pinto pony with too-long ears, carrying Half Man, his father’s brother. Laughing Boy watched him sorrowfully as he approached, considering the withered arm and leg, the wasted appearance of this man, and remembering Wolf Killer, the tall, cheerful brave he had known as a boy, before the Ute arrow grazed the right side of his head and, by some strange Ute magic, shrivelled the left side of his body.
“Ahalani, nephew. Are you here alone?”
“Yes. It is good to see you.”
“Are all well?”
“All are well, but there has been very little rain this spring.”
“Too bad. The chicken-pull is starting. Aren’t you in it?”
“I have only one horse; that I am riding in the last race.”
“You should be in it. I should have been in it at your age. This horse is all right; take it.”
He dismounted clumsily, taking a walking-stick from behind the saddle. Laughing Boy felt his eyes sting.
“Ukehé, Thank you.”
Navajos almost never say thank you, save in return for very great favours; ordinary gifts and kindnesses are offered and accepted in silence. They regard our custom as obsequious. The word was startled out of Laughing Boy by the occasion. Half Man understood, and avoided his nephew’s gaze as he limped away, the fingers of his useless arm hooked into the front of his silver belt.
The chicken was buried in loose earth, so that just enough of the neck of the sack stuck up to let one get a good grip. A referee stood near, armed with a long horsehair quirt; as each horseman rode past, he swung full force across the animal’s rump, thus ensuring an honest gallop. Laughing Boy cantered up in his turn, tried to hold his pony in, felt it leap to the smack of the whip, and reached too late for the prize. He watched the next few tries, rode back, argued with Slender Hair about his place, and went at it again. He was leaning well down from the saddle before the quirt fell, he could have touched the ground with his fingers. Smack! and the pony jumped slightly sideways. The chicken was out of reach. He swung back to his seat and rested. Horse after horse came by, well in hand, then leaped to the stroke of the whip, or shied away from it. The horsemen swooped, swinging incredibly low, reaching amazingly far out, in a haze of dust.
Ya-hai! E-ya-hai! Ei-yei! Straight Fingers had it. Straight Fingers galloped for the line. All the young men rose in their saddles, their elbows were spread forward, their knees clutched, their quirts fell on willing ponies. Those who had been waiting just for this headed him off, the others caught up with him. It became a big, spinning wheel of mounted braves, horses’ tossing heads, and dust. Laughing Boy saw Straight Fingers just ahead of him, clinging to the chicken’s head, while someone else held both its legs. He took a lick at the next horse in front of him, saw it carom, and reached for the prize, yelling. Somebody cracked him over the head with the butt of a quirt; somebody else tried to pull him off. He defended himself, wrestling with the man who had grabbed him, while the two ponies plunged, then both let go as the mob swirled away from them.
Straight Fingers broke away, and threw the head over the line. Somebody else threw over both legs. Laughing Boy and the stranger, a young fellow with a mustache, laughed at each other.
“This has been a lovely day!” said the young man.
“Yes, a perfect day!”
“Aren’t you the man from T’o Tlakai who has a horse to race? Is that the horse?”
“I’m the man. This is not the horse.”
And I am the man whom that girl loves, I am the man who is going away with the magic girl.