The trader suppressed a smile as he skipped translating this last remark, saying only, “He’s letting ’em think that Indian will only get a light sentence for shooting the policeman. Best leave it at that.”
Older men remarked, “That is right, that is well said. Let us have no trouble.” Some of the young men grumbled, but others asked them, “What would you do? You can’t fight Washindon. Do you want them to send soldiers in here again? Shall we go into exile again?” It was news, an incident, something to talk about. The crowd became just a lot of people, watching the first aid, and talkative.
“Have the Hopi and Tewas take off that dead man,” the trader advised; “they’ll never forgive you if you leave a corpse for them to take care of; spoil their party and make ’em leave. They’re plumb scared to death of a corpse. Look how those Navajo policemen are edging away from it.”
Horses were brought up, the wounded and prisoners mounted. The Pueblo policemen slung their comrade’s body across a saddle. The party rode off, leaving Tall Old One and the local police to return to their games.
The first Tewa remarked to the other, “No fight.”
“No. But it would have been more shooting, anyhow.”
“Some day, perhaps, we arrest an American, unwounded.”
“Some day, perhaps.”
They looked at their knuckles.
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
