Laughing Boy did not like this Indian. “No; I’m going to throw you right away.”
“Ei-yei! Then bet the belt. See, mine is better than yours. It has turquoise in it.”
“All right.”
They piled up the stakes: three-fifty and a bow-guard against eleven-fifty, belt against belt. The belt was worth money, but it was ugly, Laughing Boy thought. He did not like this man. He knew how to dance improperly.
They stood face to face. They laid hands on each other. As he felt the man in his grasp, Laughing Boy saw all red. He and his enemy were alone in space with anger. He heaved with all his skill and strength, like one possessed. The other grunted and strained, then suddenly gave way—a fall.
Red Man arose puzzled and angry. He went at the next bout seriously. He would have liked to foul, but he was afraid of Hurries to War. Laughing Boy, staring over his opponent’s shoulder, saw Slim Girl’s face as she watched, half smiling. Again he ceased seeing, his jaws clamped fiercely together, he gripped close and lifted, then over—now! A fall, and a hard one.
Red Man was shaken, and came into the next bout without confidence. The fall he got was worse than the others.
“Take the goods,” Hill Singer told the winner.
“Put up your horse, and try again. You might get your belt back,” Laughing Boy mocked.
“We are going to play Tset Dilth on the fourth night, then bring your belts.” Red Man was feeling the back of his head.
“I shall be there.”
Laughing Boy gathered up his winnings. He looked around. Slim Girl had disappeared. He was hungry. He hunted up Jesting Squaw’s Son.
“It is noon. Let us go eat.”
II
Many visitors were at the hogans scattered about Tsé Lani. There was much food and much talk. Where they went, they reclined on sheepskins, while two small naked boys brought ears of corn as they were roasted, and calm women set broiled goats’ ribs and corn bread before them. They ate at leisure, having a pleasant feeling of being at a party, yet at ease, and enjoying their appetites. Gossip was exchanged; they discussed crops, sheep, rain, and horses.
“I hear you have a horse to race,” a man said to Laughing Boy.
“Yes, I have a good one.”
“A man brought a tall bay over from Tsézhin; it is very fast, they say.”
“We shall see. I shall bet on my horse.”
“Where did you get your bow-guard?”
“I made it.”
“I’ll give you six dollars for it.”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
The man changed the subject. “Did you hear about Red Goat? His wives put his saddle outside the door, they say.”
“What had he done?” somebody asked.
“He drank whiskey; he spent their money on it, so they say.”
“They were right, I think.”
“I have never tasted whiskey,” Laughing Boy said; “what is it like?”
“It tastes bad, but one feels good. Then later one has a headache.”
“It sounds like t’oghlepai.”
“It is stronger. I’ll give you eight dollars for that bow-guard.”
“I don’t want to sell it; it is lucky.”
“That turquoise is no good, and the work is not very good.”
Laughing Boy looked bored. “Give me a smoke, Grandfather.”
“The turquoise is too green. Eight dollars is a lot.”
“Eight dollars is nothing,” he answered loftily, with a pleasant remembrance of his winnings.
“Here, I have nine-fifty. That is all I have.” The man held out the money.
“No, I really do not want to sell. I would not sell it for a horse.”
“It is a fine bow-guard. If you make many things like that, you will get rich.”
Everything was well, Laughing Boy thought. He had money now, and a belt that was ugly, but could be sold to a trader for fifty dollars. People praised his work. That girl was only an incident; one should not let oneself be ruffled so easily.
It was good to lie in the sand talking a little, borrowing smokes now and then. Now that he had money, he would buy tobacco when he came to a trading post. Meantime he thought he would hunt up those two Americans to see if they would give him one of their big, white cigarettes. Perhaps they would buy his belt; they were travelling just for fun, people said; they must be rich. Perhaps, too, they would have sweet food, canned goods, and coffee with much sugar in it. He called his friend.
“Let us see if those Americans will buy my belt. Let us see what they will give us.”
“Good.”
They rode off sitting sideways on Jesting Squaw’s Son’s unsaddled horse, heels drumming softly on opposite sides, humming a song together.
III
The Americans, a rich Eastern tourist and his guide, were tired of feeding stray Indians, of whom there had been a plague all day. They set out to ignore these two who descended gravely upon them, but the double line of silver plaques about Laughing Boy’s waist caught the tourist’s eye.
“Ask him to let me see those belts,” he told the guide, and then, in babytalk American’s Navajo, “Your belt—two—good.”
Laughing Boy sat down beside him. “Nashto, shadani—give me a smoke, brother-in-law.”
It is rude to call a man brother-in-law, and like most Navajos, he enjoyed using the term, and teaching it, to innocent foreigners. Americans were good fun. This one gave him a black cigar, cutting the end for him and holding out a match. It nearly killed him at the first whiff, only medicine-hogan experience in swallowing smoke enabled him to keep a calm face.
“This is good!” He passed it over to his friend, who habitually inhaled deeply. “It is like the magic tobacco Natinesthani gave the magician. We have nothing like this. Try it, elder brother.”
He tried it, cautiously at first, the tiniest puff, then a good lung-full that clutched his agonized insides like talons. Desperately he fought back tears and a choking cough, while Laughing Boy struggled with almost equal difficulty to keep a straight face. By a heroic effort he let the smoke
