Her past was her past, he thought; he knew enough of her to know that it had been more than unhappy, and that she had put it resolutely behind her. There was much suffering, many bad things, of which she never spoke. Some day, perhaps, she could tell him. In any case, he believed what she did say, and even had the case been otherwise, that was all dead.
The next time they met, he contemplated the man, and guessed at the dimensions of his soul. Taking an opportunity when they both were taking horses to water, he rode up beside him, sitting sideways on his barebacked pony, one hand on the mane, one hand on the rump—a casual pose for a careless chat. Red Man greeted him non-committally.
“Grandfather, let us not run around things, let us not pretend,” he said. “You have not said anything, but you have said too much. Do not pretend not to know what I mean. If you like what you are doing so much that you are willing to fight about it, go on. If not, stop it. I say, not just do less of it, or do it differently, but stop it entirely. That is what I mean. I have spoken.”
Red Man studied him; he was plainly in deadly earnest. He might just as well have acted instead of spoken—those men from up there have not yet realized the power of police and law. Among Navajos, the reasonable and acceptable way to have done, had he acted, would have been from ambush. Red Man felt he had had a narrow escape. He emphatically did not like what he was doing that much. Time would inevitably bring sorrow to the fellow.
“I hear you, Grandfather.”
II
These occasional absences of from three days to over a week made complications in Slim Girl’s arrangements with her American. His trips in to town from his ranch were made on business that was, as often as not, conjured up to excuse himself to himself for seeing her. Each rendezvous would be arranged the time before, or by a note left in the little house, which she was supposed to visit at fixed intervals. Now it was occurring, as never before, that he would demand her presence on a certain date, only to be told it was impossible. Increasingly, as her love for her husband gained upon her, he suspected part of the truth, and tormented himself with jealousy. That husband, whom he had always regarded as rather mythical, seemed in the past few months to have become exacting. In moments of honesty towards himself, he writhed at the acid thought of being used by a squaw for the benefit of herself and some low, presumably drunken, Indian.
He rode into Los Palos through the bottomless mud and wet of a spring thaw, only to find a note on the table:
Dear George
My husband make me go too dance I will come day after tomorrow afternoon, pleas not mind.
The poor fool cursed, got drunk, and waited over.
That had been a very pleasant dance; they had ridden part of the way home with as likable a crowd as the one that rode from T’o Tlakai to the trading post. She still tasted the flavour of it as she changed into her Sears-Roebuck dress and set out for Los Palos. Laughing Boy had surprised on her face, once or twice, that look of triumphant hatred when she returned. He would have been astonished could he have seen her now.
She looked back on their house, on the corral and the still leafless young peach trees, visualizing the dance, her people, and him. Her face was tender, almost yearning. Then she turned away towards the town, and braced her shoulders. For a moment she smiled, a warpath smile, and she was hard. Her upper lip curled back, showing her small, even, white teeth. Then her expression was blank; that passive look upon her oval face that made one turn to it again and again, wondering what deep, strong thoughts were going on behind the lovely mask.
He was in the house before her. She braced herself again at the door, then blotted everything from her eyes, becoming a happy, pretty woman with nothing on her mind. He rose as she entered. He did not answer her smile or move to touch her; that meant there would be a scene. Oh, well!
“Look here, Lillian, this is getting too thick. Here I come in here just to see you—we made the date, didn’t we?—and you’ve gone prancing off to some dance. It won’t do. I don’t ask so much of you, but you’ve got to keep your dates, do you see? Don’t make me suspect you …”
She hated scenes, loud voices, turmoil, protestations. God damn this man. Juthla hago hode shonh. She sat still, looking at him with wide, hurt eyes and drooping mouth. By and by he ran down.
“You tink lak dat about me! You tink I forget everyting! What for you tink dose tings, hey? I’m sorry I go away. I do it because I got to, you see? My husban’, he tink someting bad, I tink. So he act mean, dat man. But you know.”
“The trouble is I don’t know. I wonder about you. I wonder if you try at all, or just do what’s handiest for you. I’ve got some consideration coming to me, you know.”
The man was truly jealous, he was miserable, she had him right in the palm of her hand. She didn’t have to say much, just let him do it. After he’d got rid of all this, the fact
