“And we shall see that our children never go to school.” She echoed that, and she longed for them—his children. But the thought gave her pause. Now that she was thinking as true as she knew how, for her salvation, she wondered if she still could have a child. She was young, but she had been through a lot. After that one terrible time, instructed by the prostitutes of Oñate, she had never put herself in danger of it—or had she? She cast back carefully in her mind; she was not sure. It was possible that she could, possible that she could not. The thing stared her in the face like a risen corpse.
Then what could she do? Have him take another wife, who would bear them to him. Then in the end he would love that other. He would not, of himself, ever want her to go away, but that other would scheme against her, the mother of his children. What would there be in the world for her, a barren Indian, having lost Laughing Boy? An unlocked door in a street by the railroad track, or death. Only death.
There must be children. After all, she was only frightening herself with a chance. When she was quite well, and rested, in their new home, she would put it to the test, and it would come out all right. So she was grave and very tender.
II
When her arm was almost well, Laughing Boy brought three of his best horses to the corral. They prepared to move in beautiful, clear, cold, sunny weather following a first light snow, the slight thawing of which assured them of water. Their goods made little bulk—well over a thousand dollars in silver, turquoise, and coral, several hundred dollars in coin, his jeweller’s kit, her spindle, batten, cards, and fork, half a dozen choice blankets, some pots and pans and provisions. They carried a good deal on their saddles, and packed the rest, Navajo-fashion, which is to say badly, on the spare pony. They set out with fine blankets over their shoulders, their mounts prancing in the cold, their saddles and bridles heavy with silver and brass, leading the packhorse by a multicoloured horsehair rope, a splendid couple.
After a period of worrying, she had reacted, partly by deliberately living each day for itself only, partly by a natural and reasonable swing to optimism. So they were both gay as they rode, and chattered together of the future. Oljeto had been agreed upon for their new home. It was a good winter camp, he said, and he thought that at Segi Hatsosi or Adudjejiai, little over a day’s ride distant, he could find an unclaimed fertile strip for summer. There is good water there, even in dry summers.
“You have seen the stone granaries we build,” he said. “The rock around that part breaks easily into squares, there is lots of good adobe. I can build you a house as good as the one we just left. We shall make a tunnel like that for the smoke from the fire, and we shall have one of those wooden doors that swing. There will be no house like it around there, except the trader’s at T’o Dnesji.”
She smiled. “And a window?”
“Yes, but we cannot have that clear stone in it. We shall put a membrane across it, that will let in light, I think, but you cannot see through it.”
“That will be good enough.”
They came into the mouth of Chizbitsé Canyon. Here and there were fragments of petrified trees, all colours, some dull, some reflecting like marble, the many shades made brilliant by the thin blanket of snow around them, and the clear sunlight.
“Ei-yei! It is a place of jewels!”
They slowed from a jog-trot to a walk, looking about them at the reproductions of trunks, rings, branches, exact even to the way the snow lay upon them, beautiful in colour, and somehow frightfully dead.
“There is a piece I could use.” Laughing Boy dismounted and picked it up, marbled in ruddy blue and yellow. “I can cut it up and polish it, and use it in rings and bow-guards.”
“Yes, it will be a new thing, if it is not too hard to work.”
They searched for a few minutes for more good fragments, then he mounted, shouted the packhorse back onto the trail, and they rode on.
III
Red Man, on his way to trade at Jadito, rode past the mouth of Chizbitsé. He had not breakfasted, but the clear weather, the liveliness of his new horse, kept him cheerful. He looked up the canyon, saw them, and thought,
“Those two!”
He crossed the canyon-mouth and stopped where a rock hid all but his head and shoulders. He was swept by an emotion of many factors which time and much mulling over had compounded into one.
I helped that woman, I took care of her. I ran her errands, I made life possible for her. I loved her, in a way. I knew she was bad with Americans, but she would never do it with me. I deserved it from her. She made a fool of me instead. Why not me, too? Always putting me off and getting around me. And then that fool came out of nowhere and she gave him everything. Him! And he threatened me. He told me what to do.
All this through many months had become a single feeling. They were riding slowly, leaning towards each other, talking. Faintly, he heard her laugh. There was a pack-animal in front of them—they were going on a visit somewhere, very rich, with a packhorse.
He thought, There goes the man who may send an arrow into me some day.
It made the small of his back squirm.
He took up his rifle, aimed high for distance, and fired. The gun had not been cleaned for several weeks, his hands were cold, and the pony moved. He fired three times, then ducked low behind the
