“Grandfather!”
“Yes?”
“Are you not the uncle of that man who won the horse-race, the one from T’o Tlakai?”
“I am. What is it?”
Red Man had meant to go slow, but his words were jumping out on him. “Did he speak to you? Has he told you what he planned to do?”
Wounded Face and his friend suddenly lost all expression; they became wooden.
“I do not know what you mean. We talked together yesterday. What is in your mind?”
“He has gone to Chiziai. He has gone—he has gone—he has not gone alone.”
“He went with the woman who was stopped from dancing?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Do you not know about her?”
“I have heard a little talk; I do not know anything. She is rich; perhaps it is a good marriage, I think.”
Red Man saw that Wounded Face very much wanted firsthand information. “I live not far from Chiziai. I know, not just talk. She lives alone, she does no work, she is rich. The Americans make her rich, for badness. She is two faces and two tongues. You see her clothes and her skin, and hear her voice, but all the rest inside is American badness. I know. Hear me, I know.”
He had managed to be gay all night; he had been the cheerfullest of all the gamblers, the readiest singer, the pleasantest loser. Now suddenly it all went back on him. He moved his lips, and found he did not dare speak. He raised his hand to his mouth with two fingers outstretched, and thrust it forward—two-tongued. He struck his heart, then raised his fist before his face and brought it down rapidly—heart that kills with a knife. He struck his heart again, then brought his right fist down on his left hand—like a stone—making the gesture with all his force. He repeated how she made her living; in sign talk it was frightfully graphic and coarse.
“That is enough, Grandfather,” Wounded Face said. “You did well to tell me.”
Red Man departed.
“Shall we ride after him?” Killed a Navajo asked.
“No. That is what that young man wants us to do, I think. You saw him, how moved he was. We have heard something of what he says, but still, he had reason to lie. Besides, it would be no use. He is like me, he is like his mother, and his father. You know them. When it is something serious he makes up his mind; you cannot move him unless you can convince him. I have six nephews, he is the best of them.” Wounded Face stood with his hand on his saddle, staring at the stirrup. “Well, we can only wait. Do not speak of it, my friend.”
“I hear you.”
He mounted swiftly, and rode off at a trot.
III
It grew hot when the sun was halfway up. Laughing Boy’s last sleep seemed years ago. From time to time he looked at her as one might drink at a spring, and her occasional speech was like rain falling. She rode in triumph.
Abruptly he stopped, gazing first at the trail, then over to the right, while with a hand on the bridle he stopped her horse. He said in a sure voice, “Get off your horse.”
She did not quite know why she obeyed so immediately. He took off saddle and bridle, tied a thong about the animal’s lower jaw, then stood for an instant, one hand on the withers, head raised high. She saw his lips moving, and was afraid of his intent face and a hard, excited look about his mouth. With a quick gesture he strung his bow, and before she could speak to him, mounted and was off, galloping. There was nothing for it but to wonder and wait.
She knew by the sun that he had not been gone over half an hour, but it seemed more than she could stand to wait longer. Her feelings alarmed her; was she falling in love? She saw him rounding a butte, trotting, driving two more ponies ahead of him. This, she thought, was madness. Truly, she must take him in hand. She rose as he drew near.
“What have you done? American Chief will put you in jail.”
“No; it is all right. That man”—he gestured toward the butte—“I did not hurt him much; besides, he is a Pah-Ute. He took this horse from my brother last year. He is bad, that one. He lives up beyond Oljeto. I saw him at the dance. Now I have something, to come with you. He was a bad shot, look.”
He showed her proudly a long, shallow scratch on his forearm.
“And the belt?” She pointed to the silver at his waist.
“I do not know from whom he stole that. It is a pretty good belt.”
They laughed together.
Immensely alone in that white stretch of adobe desert, they rode side by side, like two men, like friends. It seemed to Laughing Boy that she promised freedom and astonishing companionship; her small mannerisms, her casual remarks, were unconventional without consciousness; it was good. The ponies stepped out well despite the heat, the bridle jingled, the spare horse, with high head, pranced alongside, obedient to the rope. He sat slackly in the saddle, leaning back, flicking his pony’s quarters in rhythm to his song.
They stopped seldom, ate little, and rode fast. It was hard on her; she was not accustomed to missing meals and sleeping where night happened to catch her, but she knew better than to complain. His easy toughness, his enjoyment of momentary comfort, were a compensation for her, and at night, camped beside a tiny waterhole, she listened to his singing.
She was tired and stiff. Already she had been alarmed, worried, tired, and hungry for this man. With a sudden fear, as she looked at him across the fire, she realized that she loved him. She had started something she could not stop, then. Well, it was all right, it was
