“I do not know what you mean, but I know her, that girl. She is not bad. She is good. She is strong. She is for me.”
“You come from away up there; you do not know about these things. Nor do you know her. What is her clan?”
“I do not know.”
“Well? And what makes you think you can go out and pick a wife for yourself like this? The next thing I know, you will jump into the fire. I tell you, she is all bad; for two bits she will do the worst thing.”
Laughing Boy sat up suddenly. “You should not have said that, you should not have thought it. Now you have said too much. I hope that bad thing follows you around always. Now you have said too much. Ugh! This place is too small for me!”
He ran outside. He needed space. People were beginning to arrive; there was laughing and shouting around the trading post. He went off rapidly to get by himself, too proud to run before people. His mind was boiling; he wanted to hit something, he was all confused. This way he went on until at last he reached a small butte that offered protection. He tore around the corner.
Slim Girl was walking towards him, cool and collected. Her brows rose in surprise as she stopped. He came up to her uncertainly.
“Sit down; there is shade here.” They faced each other. “You have seen your uncle.”
His hand fell forward in the gesture of assent.
“And he spoke to you.”
“He said bad things. I am angry with him.”
“And towards me?”
“You came here on purpose to meet me.”
“Yes; I knew that when you had seen your uncle, you should see me soon.”
“What my uncle said will stay with him. He has made a bad thing, it will follow him. The track of an evil thought is crooked and has no end; I do not want it around me; I do not keep it going. I have only good thoughts about you.”
“Your mother will never send someone to ask for me. You must just come with me.”
“Wait; what is your clan?”
“I am a Bitahni; and you?”
“Tahtchini; so that is all right. But I have nothing to give your mother, only one horse.”
“I have no parents; they died when I was at school. I belong to myself. All this”—she raised the necklaces, turquoise, coral, white shell and silver, one by one, then let them fall back together—“is mine. All this”—she touched her rings, and shook her braceletted wrists—“and much more is mine. They left it for me. Now I do a little work for the missionary’s wife there at Chiziai; she pays me money, so I grow richer. I shall give you silver to make jewelry, and I shall weave, and you shall have fine horses. You can make money with them, and we shall be rich together.”
The long, talking eyes looked into his now, with nothing hidden. He felt her strength, this woman who could talk so straight, who made the direct road seem the only sensible one. It ceased to be strange that they sat and talked about love, while elopement became obvious and commonplace in a scheme of things the whole of which was suddenly miraculous.
After a while she said, “We shall go tonight, after the races.”
He reflected. “No, I came here to gamble. I told Red Man I would play against him. If I do not do it, he will say I am afraid.”
“He is crooked; he will take your money.”
“That makes no difference; I cannot back down now. If I let this go because I was afraid to lose, what would I be? If I refused because of you, what kind of a man should I be for you?”
He saw that he had spoken well.
“It will be time for the races soon; you must go. I go the other way round.”
He was in a new and more profound daze returning, but yards that had seemed miles were passed as inches. He floated over the ground, he was a walking song.
IV
I
The horse-races were to be held in the latter part of the afternoon; during the hottest time almost everybody took a siesta, while those who were entering horses tended to them. Jesting Squaw’s Son joined Laughing Boy in going over the black pony. They discussed the other entries, agreeing that competition would be severe. A man from Navajo Mountain, in old-fashioned fringed buckskin shirt and high leggings, had brought a dun mare, said to be swift as thought. Jesting Squaw’s Son had seen her; she moved beautifully, he said. From Tsézhin came the undefeated bay, and the local contender, a big iron-grey, had a good reputation. Its sire was an American stallion, it was long in the quarters, and relatively heavy-boned; Laughing Boy thought that in a short racecourse—the usual Navajo track is under a quarter of a mile—it could not do justice to itself.
Laughing Boy planned to bet a little on the saddle-changing race, and put the rest of his money on himself. His friend would bet here and there, though mostly on him.
“Are you going into the chicken-pull?” Jesting Squaw’s Son asked.
“Why not? That one race won’t tire my pet.”
“But the chicken-pull will come first, they say.”
“That’s bad. Why is that?”
“That man from Tsézhin, his horse got loose, they say. He is out tracking it. So your race will be held last, to let him be in it.”
“The devil! Then I can’t go in the chicken-pull. I won’t risk having something happen to spoil this one. And you?”
“I shall go in.”
All the time they talked so, Laughing Boy was thinking, how do I do this? I am talking about the same things,
