Besides the ones belonging to his own party, Laughing Boy noted two other ponies hitched by the corral. He made his fast with a bowknot, the animal being rather unenterprising and not having learned how to untie them. He looped the reins over the saddle-horn and sauntered to the door of the store, trailing the bridle carelessly, and adjusting his recently acquired hat. It was a stiff-brimmed felt, with the crown undented and the string tied under the chin, Indian fashion, becoming him well. He gave it a wicked slant.
The store was a square room with a counter around three sides; in the fourth the door and a small window. Another door in the back led to the rest of the house. Now the room was rank with tobacco smoke and the heat of an iron stove. The Indians lounged along the counter, leaning on it with their elbows, talking or staring at the goods on the shelves. He recognized the owners of the two ponies—Stinks Like a Mexican, an old rogue with his hair cut short to the level of his ears, who had worked for the railroad, and Long Tooth, the policeman from T’ies Napornss.
He stood in the door.
Bow’s Son regarded him blankly.
“Where to, tell?”
“To T’o Tlakai, for the dance.”
“The dance is over; we come from it.”
“Chiendi!”
“Where from, tell?” Tall Brave asked.
“Chiziai.”
“That’s far!”
“Yes. You tell, where do you live?”
“T’ies Napornss.”
He drifted to the far end, where the trader sat, feet on the counter, chewing listlessly. The man was partly bald, with drooping, pepper-and-salt mustaches and a stupid, narrow face. He looked stingy and ignorant, not bad.
An unsuccessful dry farmer, he had bought a poor post, sight unseen, and come out to make quick money from the ignorant Indians. Somehow it didn’t work. They fooled him and exasperated him until he strove frantically to outcheat them, and that didn’t work either. He had no idea of how to attract their trade, nor of how to circumvent their sharpness. It was always like this. Two men had been there since he opened the store in the morning, making one nickel purchase, and now none of these others wanted to buy. They just wanted to talk. They thought he was running a goddamned club.
Laughing Boy sprawled against the counter, clicking a quarter against his teeth. His face was vacuous while he studied the ranks of tin cans. This part came natural to him. He thought idly that it was six months since he had been in a store. It was too bad Yellow Mustache was gone. Yellow Mustache would have welcomed him, and probably given him some candy.
“What kind of candy have you?” He spoke in the babytalk Navajo that they use with Americans.
“Round-soft-ones, hard-clear-ones, and brown sweets.”
The man was not really at home even in the trade language. He was a little hard of hearing; it hampered him in learning.
“How much are the round-soft-ones?”
“Two for a yellow.”
Laughing Boy examined his change carefully, and put a dime on the counter. “Give me a blue’s worth.”
The trader let four gum drops roll toward the customer. “Give it to me.” He reached for the dime.
Laughing Boy held onto it. “Haven’t you any twisted-sticks?”
“No.”
“I don’t want those.” He put his money back in his pocket. “Give me a smoke.”
Narrow Nose eyed him for a moment, as though he would like to see him shrivel. Policy was policy. He slid a half-empty sack of Stud and some papers along the counter.
“Match, brother-in-law.”
“You have some.” He pointed to the Indian’s shirt pocket.
“I need those.”
“Well, you go to hell!” Narrow Nose swore in English with that fatuous confidence of not being understood.
“Juthla hago ni,” Laughing Boy paraphrased softly, half as though interpreting to himself, half as though throwing it back. The insult, in Navajo, is serious. There was a laugh.
He lolled against the counter, lit his cigarette, and puffed at it critically.
“I think I buy that saddle. Let me see it.”
“I’ll take it down if you really want it.”
It hung from a rafter, among other saddles, quirts, bridles, pots, Pendleton blankets, ropes, silk handkerchiefs, and axes.
“Let me see it. My saddle is worn out. I need a new one. I want that blanket there, I think, and four red cans of tobacco, the kind with the preacher in the long black coat on it.”
“Can you pay for all that?”
“I give this in pawn.”
He clanked the bridle onto the counter. Stinks Like a Mexican drew nearer.
“I want that handkerchief there, I think.” He nodded toward a silk one. “And a knife that shuts.”
The trader got up, feigning reluctance. The way the man had made up his mind to buy was typical. He hefted the bridle—ninety to a hundred dollars. Things were looking up. If he got his hooks in this, in return for thirty dollars’ worth of goods—
“Where do you live?”
“Chiziai.”
“Where’s that?”
“Down there.”
Indians edged up to handle the silver. Narrow Nose turned to the policeman, who spoke a little English.
“Where’s Chiziai?”
“Lo Palo. Mebbe-so lailload dack side him sit down. Him come flom dere now, me sabbey.” He didn’t quite know what was up, but he wasn’t going to spoil it.
“Los Palos, hunh? I know.”
“I came up for the dance, now I go back. In Eagles’ Young Moon I shall come back and take out my bridle.”
That sounded good. Five—six months, likely he’d forget it. Likely it wouldn’t be here.
“Is he speaking true?” The trader asked the store in general.
Bow’s Son held up the bridle. “This is the kind of work they do down there. It
