“Yes, little brother, that is very good tobacco.”
The tourist was fingering Laughing Boy’s belts, pulling them around. The Indian thought of pulling in turn at his necktie, but decided it would be poor business.
“Ask him how much he wants for the one with the turquoise in it.”
“How much do you want for the one with the blues, Grandfather?” the guide asked.
“A horse, perhaps.” He puffed gingerly at the cigar which Jesting Squaw’s Son passed back to him.
“I’ll offer you a nickel, perhaps.”
Both laughed.
“You say, how much.”
The formal gambits were over. The guide cocked his head, pursed his lips, and looked critical and rather disgusted. “I’ll give you twenty-five dollars.”
“No, no.”
“How much, then?”
He took it off. “This is a good belt. These stones are good. The silver is heavy; Mexican silver. That is good work. Seventy-five dollars.”
The guide grunted, and threw a pinch of sand on it in token of its worthlessness.
“What does he say he wants?”
“He says seventy-five.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Up to about sixty, I guess. Them’s good stones.”
“Get it for less if you can.”
Laughing Boy passed the cigar back. His friend, who knew a little English, whispered, “He says sixty, I think, that he will pay.” He blew out on the cigar to use up as much as was possible.
Laughing Boy asked the guide, “Where do you come from?”
“From Besh Senil. We are going to the Moqui.”
“Ei-yei! That’s far! Why do you want to see the Moqui?”
“We want to see them dance with snakes.”
“They are crazy to do that. Our dances are better.”
“Perhaps. Well, this man says your belt is pretty good, and he will give you forty for it. No more.”
“No, seventy, no less.” He buckled it on again.
“Perhaps we can give you forty-five, but that is all.”
Laughing Boy took the cigar again. It was a long time burning down. He wondered if he would die and be brought to life again, like the magician who smoked with Natinesthani.
“What does the Indian want?” the tourist asked.
“He still says seventy; it’s too much.”
“Get it if you can.”
Laughing Boy whispered, “What are they saying, Grandfather?”
“I’m not sure. That one who speaks Navajo says ‘too much,’ I think. The pink one says ‘get it.’ ”
The guide spoke to them. “This man says he will give you fifty because he likes your belt. He cannot give any more.”
“No, I do not want to sell. He does not want to pay what it is worth, he is just talking about wanting it.” The cigar was done at last. He rose.
“Oh, give him what he wants!”
“How much, Grandfather? You say.”
“Sixty-five, perhaps.”
“He says sixty-five. Looks like he won’t come down no lower.”
“I’ll take it.”
“He says he’ll take it.”
Laughing Boy handed over the belt. “Grandfather, do you know this paper money?”
Jesting Squaw’s Son considered the bills. “Yes, these with tracks here in the corners are fives. These with little sticks and the man with long hair and the ugly mouth on them are ones. This with the yellow back, I do not know it. I think it is no good.” He had been stung once on cigar coupons.
At last the sum was made up, with ones, fives, and the silver dollars which they preferred.
“Ask that man,” Laughing Boy told the guide, “to give us another of those big, black cigarettes. They are good.”
The guide translated.
“My God! I thought it would make them sick. Here’s one for each of them.”
“Good. Now, Grandfather, give me some cigarette papers.”
The guide forked up. As they shook hands all around, elaborately, Navajo fashion, the Americans’ faces and voices seemed to grow very distant and uncertain. Riding away, Laughing Boy sighed deeply.
“Let us go to a quiet place. I want to be sick.”
“I too.”
Later, at sunset, they went to wash at the pool, dipping up liquid silver and lilac in their hands. They lay back against the rock watching the sun go down, the shadows and lights on the water, the distant fires and people moving. They had slept, they felt very empty, clean, and peaceful.
“Shall we try making a cigarette with that tobacco?”
“Not yet, I think. Go tend your horse. It is time to eat again.”
“I go. I hope there will be much gambling after this.”
III
I
The dance of the second night was much like that of the first, although perhaps a little less exuberant. He entered once more into the river of song, and was happy, yelling his head off, save that he kept on being conscious of that girl. While she was dancing, he would forget about her, but when he saw her looking for another partner, he would be uneasy until she had made her choice. He noticed that she did not dance with Red Man. Halfway between midnight and dawn, the women having departed, he fell out, to sleep by a fire.
They rode down to Ane’é Tseyi that day, where the dance of the final night would be held. He rode behind Jesting Squaw’s Son’s saddle, leading the mare. He hoped they would find a place with some grass for the animal, and reflected that in any case, now, he could afford to buy corn. The long, hot ride, hot sun, hot wind, unrelieved, weighed on them somewhat, combining with lack of sleep to make limbs sluggish and eyes heavy. It was a relief to ride into the narrow canyon of their destination, to rest in a strip of afternoon shade. Laughing Boy took the horses down to the windmill for water, and staked them out in a corner where uncropped spears of grass stood singly, each inches from the next, in brown sand. A beaten track toward an oak tree and a break in the rock caught his eye. A spring, perhaps.
He followed it. Behind the oak, currant bushes grew in a niche of red rock like the fold of a giant curtain. At the back was a full-grown, lofty fir. A spring, surely. Behind the
