III
He woke to a feeling of expectation, and made his Dawn Prayer with all the gladness that his religion prescribed. He could not wait to see his uncle and have the matter settled before they went to the trading post for the races. At the same time, his own certainty told him that his eldest uncle, his mother, and all her kin were only wanted to ratify a decision already made. What was, was; he would announce what he wanted to do, not ask for permission.
Now he stood on the rim above the canyon, bathed in sunlight, while below him in thick, visible shadow unimportant people moved, horses stamped, smoke rose from tiny fires.
His uncle was staying down by the trading post with Killed a Navajo. He started off without breakfast, leading the pony, and sorely tempted to mount and gallop those few miles, but the thought of the race and the pleasure of winning restrained him. I’ll win for Slim Girl, he thought with a smile, and burst into song, lustily pouring forth keen delight from tough lungs over the empty flat. The dusty walk and hot sun, the heat that lay over the baked adobe and dull sagebrush, troubled him not at all. The bleak, grey parts of the desert have a quintessential quality of privacy, and yet one has space there to air one’s mood. So Laughing Boy sang loudly, his horse nosed his back, a distant turtledove mocked him, and a high-sailing, pendent buzzard gave him up as far too much alive.
Killed a Navajo’s hogan was well built, of thick-laid evergreens over stout piñón poles. Looking in through the wide door one was conscious of cool darkness flecked with tiny spots of light, a central brilliance under the smoke-hole, vague outlines of reclining figures, their feet, stretched towards the centre, grotesquely clear. He stood in the doorway. Someone spoke to him, “Come in.” He shook hands all round. They offered him a little coffee, left over from breakfast, and tobacco. He made himself comfortable on the sheepskins beside his uncle in the place of honour.
One by one the family went about their work; the children to tend the sheep, Killed a Navajo down to the store where he did odd jobs, and was needed today for distributing free food, his younger wife to preparing a meal for the many guests expected that day, his first wife to weaving, outside. Laughing Boy’s cigarette smoke went up in shadow, was caught in a pencil of sunlight, disappeared, and gleamed once again before it seeped through the roof. A suggestion of a breeze rustled the green walls. He studied his uncle’s face—big and massive, with heavy, high-bridged nose and deep furrows enclosing the wide, sure mouth. Under the blue turban wisps of hair showed a little grey. Across his cheekbone ran the old scar from which he took his name, Wounded Face. It was an old eagle’s head. Laughing Boy was a little afraid of it.
“My uncle.”
“Yes, my child.” The old-fashioned, round silver earrings shimmered faintly.
“I have been thinking about something.”
They smoked on. A black-and-white kid slipped in the door, leaped up and poised itself on the cantle of a saddle. Outside was the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a weaver pounding down the threads in her loom. A distant child laughed, someone was chopping wood—sounds of domesticity.
“I have been thinking about a wife.”
“You are old enough. It is a good thing.”
He finished his cigarette.
“You know that Slim Girl? The one who wears so much hard goods? She danced the first two nights.”
“She is a schoolgirl.” The tone was final. “She was taken away to that place, for six years.”
“That is all right. I like her.”
“That is not all right. I do not know how she came to be allowed to dance. They made her stop. Water Singer let her dance, but we stopped him. She is bad. She lives down by the railroad. She is not of the People any more, she is American. She does bad things for the Americans.”
“I do not know what you mean, but I know her, that girl. She is not bad. She is good. She is strong. She is for me.”
“You come from away up there; you do not know about these things. Nor do you know her. What is her clan?”
“I do not know.”
“Well? And what makes you think you can go out and pick a wife for yourself like this? The next thing I know, you will jump into the fire. I tell you, she is all bad; for two bits she will do the worst thing.”
Laughing Boy sat up suddenly. “You should not have said that, you should not have thought it. Now you have said too much. I hope that bad thing follows you around always. Now you have said too much. Ugh! This place is too small for me!”
He ran outside. He needed space. People were beginning to arrive; there was laughing and shouting around the trading post. He went off rapidly to get by himself, too proud to run before people. His mind was boiling; he wanted to hit something, he was all confused. This way he went on until at last he reached a small butte that offered protection. He tore around the corner.
Slim Girl was walking towards him, cool and collected. Her brows rose in surprise as she stopped. He came up to her uncertainly.
“Sit down; there is shade here.” They faced each other. “You have seen your uncle.”
His hand fell forward in the gesture of assent.
“And he spoke to you.”
“He said bad things. I am angry with him.”
“And towards me?”
“You came here on purpose to meet me.”
“Yes; I knew that when you had seen your uncle, you should see me soon.”
“What my uncle said will stay with him. He has made a bad thing, it will follow him. The track of an evil thought is crooked and has no end; I do not want it around me; I do not keep it going. I have only good thoughts about you.”
“Your mother will never send someone to ask for me. You must just come with me.”
“Wait; what is your clan?”
“I am a Bitahni; and you?”
“Tahtchini; so that is all right. But I have nothing to give your mother, only one horse.”
“I have no parents; they died when I was at school. I belong to myself. All this”—she raised the necklaces, turquoise, coral, white shell and silver, one by one, then let them fall back together—“is mine. All this”—she touched her rings, and shook her braceletted wrists—“and much more is mine. They left it for me. Now I do a little work for the missionary’s wife there at Chiziai; she pays me money, so I grow richer. I shall give you silver to make jewelry, and I shall weave, and you shall have fine horses. You can make money with them, and we shall be rich together.”
The long, talking eyes looked into his now, with nothing hidden. He felt her strength, this woman who could talk so straight, who made the direct road seem the only sensible one. It ceased to be strange that they sat and talked about love, while elopement became obvious and commonplace in a scheme of things the whole of which was suddenly miraculous.
After a while she said, “We shall go tonight, after the races.”
He reflected. “No, I came here to gamble. I told Red Man I would play against him. If I do not do it, he will say I am afraid.”
“He is crooked; he will take your money.”
“That makes no difference; I cannot back down now. If I let this go because I was afraid to lose, what would I be? If I refused because of you, what kind of a man should I be for you?”
He saw that he had spoken well.
“It will be time for the races soon; you must go. I go the other way round.”
He was in a new and more profound daze returning, but yards that had seemed miles were passed as inches. He floated over the ground, he was a walking song.