VIII
I
She was still asleep inside the house. He stood looking down upon her in the half-light. She seemed frail, childish, and sweet, with the shadow under the eyelids, her mouth faintly drooping, her figure reduced to almost nothing beneath the blanket. He thought of that drama of strength and weakness, of conquering and being conquered, fitting it to this small person, soft in sleep. Now that he was looking at her, he had no reservations; it only seemed a miracle that she should be his. He wondered at the mere chance it was; Slender Hair speaking to him of the dance and the racing, coming to Tsé Lani, this little incident and that, until out of nowhere that which might never have been entered and became the core of his life.
The sun would be up soon. He went to meet it.
“Dawn Boy, little chief,
May all be beautiful before me as I wander …”
She woke happy, watching him under lazy eyelids as he stood outside the door, naked save for his breechclout, with the level sunlight touching the edges of his flanks and ribs, making a golden reflection where his upraised arms bunched the muscles at his shoulders. She thanked God and the gods indiscriminately. Whatever happened now, this could not be taken away. She shifted the blanket, closed her eyes, and assumed sleep.
He sat down beside her, a little nervous about her awakening. Her eyelids quivered, she yawned deliciously, she stretched her arms like a kitten playing. She sat up and smiled at him, seeing his face brighten as he responded.
“Have I slept so late? I shall get your breakfast as soon as I have fixed your hair. You should see it.”
He felt of its disarray, with the queue hanging lopsided, then he grinned at her. “Your own is just as bad; go look at yourself in the spring.”
She reached over to a shelf and took down a small mirror, which she handed to him. He looked at himself in it; this was fascinating but a little disappointing. Finally she took it from him.
“Come, now, dress, and do up my hair.”
He had often exchanged that service with his brothers and sisters; it was a pleasant and friendly act. He had watched his mother and father together at it, one leaning against the other’s knees, laughing when the brush pulled too hard, and he had seen that they extracted some pleasure from it which he did not know. Now he understood that, and the sheer domesticity of it delighted him. He felt really married, settled, a man who would soon have children, and speak as one of established position, no more a boy.
Breakfast was welcome when it came.
“Today you must get me the wood for a loom,” she told him. “It is a long time since I have woven, but I have beautiful blankets in my mind. I shall weave and you shall make jewelry.”
“No, today, before we do anything, we must make a sweat-bath. This is all different, here. We are starting off new. We must make ourselves clean, we must make a fresh start. And, besides, how can you weave? You have no sheep.”
“I shall buy wool in the store in town. They sell good wool there; the people round here bring it in.”
“Why do we not raise sheep? I have some in my mother’s flock I could get.”
“Who will keep them? You will have your horses and your jewelry; that will be plenty. I must always be going in to work for that missionary woman.”
“I do not like your working in there.”
“Why, have you some bad thought?”
“No, I have no bad thought. But a house is empty when the woman is away.”
“I used to work for her every day; now I only work sometimes. She gives me good money. It is because of her that you will have silver to work with. Tomorrow, when I go in, I shall bring you Mexican silver. And those days you can go tend to the horses. By and by, when we have made much money with your jewelry and horses and my weaving and work, we shall go back to your country. We shall go back rich. Is it not a good plan?”
“You have spoken well. Here, I do not know about these things, but you know, and your words are good. It is enough for me that I have you. It is not just that we are married, but we are married all through; there is not any part of us left out.”
“No; there is not any part of us left out. And you do not want a second wife, Laughing Boy?”
“No—no!” The extra-emphatic, three syllable negative, “É-do-ta!” long-drawn-out, with the decisive sign of the right hand sweeping away. “Have you a sister you want me to take? If you want help here, in the hogan, I will get one, but she will not be for me. She will be in the way. You are enough for me; perhaps you are too much for me, I think.”
Quickly she kissed him. He felt embarrassed, and loved it.
He had to teach her the ritual and song of purification, but, with faint childhood memories to aid her, she was quick to learn. Her close attention pleased him, and it was a pleasure to hear her sing. He was only sorry for her, that she had for so long been denied these things, and angry and puzzled at the schools and the American life that had forbidden them. In the end, he taught her songs that she had no business knowing, quite aware of what he did, as a kind of unavowed tribute and token of the special quality he felt in her.
II
After the steam bath and the water and the foaming yucca-suds, it was good to lie with hair
