I

They rode away from T’o Tlakai in gay company⁠—Bay Horse and Bow’s Son, Tall Brave from T’ies Napornss and his wife, and half a dozen others, men and women, returning towards T’o Tlikahn, Tsébitai, and Seinsaidesah. It had turned sharply cold, the ponies went well; they played and raced, showing off their jewelry and best clothes and horsemanship⁠—all young people. Bay Horse smoked on a dead twig, blowing out clouds of breath.

“See my new magic! I take this twig, and it is a lighted cigarette.”

“Ei-yei, Grandfather; see if you can swallow all your smoke.”

They came to the foot of the slope leading to Gomulli T’o trading post.

A man said, “Let us go buy some crackers and canned fruit.”

“It’s too cold. Some coffee would be good, I think.”

“Maybe Yellow Mustache will give us some,” Laughing Boy said. “Why did he not come to the dance?”

“Yellow Mustache is not there any longer; he has gone to Chiezb’utso. The man there now is called Narrow Nose.”

“What is he like?”

“He is no good. When we put things in pawn, he sells them before we can buy them back. He is small; inside himself he is small.”

“He tries to be smart with us, but he is not good at it. His word is not good.”

“He thinks we are fools. He ought to look at himself.”

Laughing Boy broke into the chorus of information⁠—“Wait a moment!”

He rode over to Jesting Squaw’s Son and whispered in his ear. His friend smiled.

“I am thinking about coffee. I can make him give us all coffee free, I think. Who will bet?”

“I know you,” said Bay Horse, “I won’t.”

Bow’s Son whispered to Slim Girl, “He is like this. They are like this, those two, when they are together. They are not for nothing, their names.”

“I will bet two bits, just to make a bet,” Tall Brave said.

A stranger offered fifty cents. Laughing Boy gave each of them his stake.

“Now, you all go up to the post. Go in. Do not buy, not anything. None of you know me; if anyone else is there tell him not to know me; but you all know my grandfather here. You, little sister,” he looked at his wife, “stay here.”

They rode away while he advised with his friend. Then he explained to Slim Girl, and took her silver bridle. After a slow cigarette he said,

“When that shadow reaches that stick will be time, I think. I go.”

Gomulli T’o trading post stood on a flat, bare shoulder of sand and rock, a level space of half a dozen acres, rising to the west, falling to the east. There was a corral with sides six feet high, and the L-shaped one-story house of stone and adobe with a corrugated iron roof. Around it was nothing green, nothing varied, just sand and rocks, some tin cans, part of a rotted blue shirt. There was no relief. In summer the drenching sun searched out its barren walls; in winter the wind was bleak around it. It was just something dumped there, a thing made by man, contributing nothing, in the midst of majestic desolation. Beyond its level were red-brown cliffs, dull orange bald-rock, yellow sand, leading away to blend into a kind of purplish brown with blue clouds of mountains for background. This did not belong; it was crushed and empty.

Besides the ones belonging to his own party, Laughing Boy noted two other ponies hitched by the corral. He made his fast with a bowknot, the animal being rather unenterprising and not having learned how to untie them. He looped the reins over the saddle-horn and sauntered to the door of the store, trailing the bridle carelessly, and adjusting his recently acquired hat. It was a stiff-brimmed felt, with the crown undented and the string tied under the chin, Indian fashion, becoming him well. He gave it a wicked slant.

The store was a square room with a counter around three sides; in the fourth the door and a small window. Another door in the back led to the rest of the house. Now the room was rank with tobacco smoke and the heat of an iron stove. The Indians lounged along the counter, leaning on it with their elbows, talking or staring at the goods on the shelves. He recognized the owners of the two ponies⁠—Stinks Like a Mexican, an old rogue with his hair cut short to the level of his ears, who had worked for the railroad, and Long Tooth, the policeman from T’ies Napornss.

He stood in the door.

Bow’s Son regarded him blankly.

“Where to, tell?”

“To T’o Tlakai, for the dance.”

“The dance is over; we come from it.”

“Chiendi!”

“Where from, tell?” Tall Brave asked.

“Chiziai.”

“That’s far!”

“Yes. You tell, where do you live?”

“T’ies Napornss.”

He drifted to the far end, where the trader sat, feet on the counter, chewing listlessly. The man was partly bald, with drooping, pepper-and-salt mustaches and a stupid, narrow face. He looked stingy and ignorant, not bad.

An unsuccessful dry farmer, he had bought a poor post, sight unseen, and come out to make quick money from the ignorant Indians. Somehow it didn’t work. They fooled him and exasperated him until he strove frantically to outcheat them, and that didn’t work either. He had no idea of how to attract their trade, nor of how to circumvent their sharpness. It was always like this. Two men had been there since he opened the store in the morning, making one nickel purchase, and now none of these others wanted to buy. They just wanted to talk. They thought he was running a goddamned club.

Laughing Boy sprawled against the counter, clicking a quarter against his teeth. His face was vacuous while he studied the ranks of tin cans. This part came natural to him. He thought idly that it was six months since he had been in a store. It was too bad Yellow Mustache was gone. Yellow Mustache would have welcomed him, and probably given him some candy.

“What kind of candy have you?” He spoke in the babytalk Navajo that they use with Americans.

“Round-soft-ones, hard-clear-ones, and brown sweets.”

The man was not really at home even in the trade language. He was a little hard of hearing; it hampered him in learning.

“How much are the round-soft-ones?”

“Two for a yellow.”

Laughing Boy examined his change carefully, and put a dime on the counter. “Give me a blue’s worth.”

The trader let four gum drops roll toward the customer. “Give it to me.” He reached for the dime.

Laughing Boy held onto it. “Haven’t you any twisted-sticks?”

“No.”

“I don’t want those.” He put his money back in his pocket. “Give me a smoke.”

Narrow Nose eyed him for a moment, as though he would like to see him shrivel. Policy was policy. He slid a half-empty sack of Stud and some papers along the counter.

“Match, brother-in-law.”

“You have some.” He pointed to the Indian’s shirt pocket.

“I need those.”

“Well, you go to hell!” Narrow Nose swore in English with that fatuous confidence of not being understood.

“Juthla hago ni,” Laughing Boy paraphrased softly, half as though interpreting to himself, half as though throwing it back. The insult, in Navajo, is serious. There was a laugh.

He lolled against the counter, lit his cigarette, and puffed at it critically.

“I think I buy that saddle. Let me see it.”

“I’ll take it down if you really want it.”

It hung from a rafter, among other saddles, quirts, bridles, pots, Pendleton blankets, ropes, silk handkerchiefs, and axes.

“Let me see it. My saddle is worn out. I need a new one. I want that blanket there, I think, and four red cans of tobacco, the kind with the preacher in the long black coat on it.”

“Can you pay for all that?”

“I give this in pawn.”

He clanked the bridle onto the counter. Stinks Like a Mexican drew nearer.

“I want that handkerchief there, I think.” He nodded toward a silk one. “And a knife that shuts.”

The trader got up, feigning reluctance. The way the man had made up his mind to buy was typical. He hefted the bridle⁠—ninety to a hundred dollars. Things were looking up. If he got his hooks in this, in return for thirty dollars’ worth of goods⁠—

“Where do you live?”

“Chiziai.”

“Where’s that?”

“Down there.”

Indians edged up to handle the silver. Narrow Nose turned to the policeman, who spoke a little English.

“Where’s Chiziai?”

“Lo Palo. Mebbe-so lailload dack side him sit down. Him come flom dere now, me sabbey.” He didn’t quite know what was up, but he wasn’t going to spoil it.

“Los Palos, hunh? I know.”

“I came up for the dance, now I go back. In Eagles’ Young Moon I shall come back and take out my bridle.”

That sounded good. Five⁠—six months, likely he’d forget it. Likely it wouldn’t be here.

“Is he speaking true?” The trader asked the store in general.

Bow’s Son held up the bridle. “This is the kind of work they do down there. It is not like the work up here, not like my father’s jewelry,” he lied. Bay Horse and Tall Brave agreed. Narrow Nose knew them and Two Bows well. He believed them.

“Good, I take your bridle.” He reached for it, wanting to feel its possession.

“Wait a moment; put down the goods.”

He assembled them laboriously. “Forty-one dollars and one blue.”

“How?”

“Saddle, twenty-seven; blanket, ten⁠—thirty-seven; tobacco, six blues; handkerchief, two dollars; knife, twelve bits; forty-one dollars and one blue. I make it forty-one dollars.”

Laughing Boy strung out the bargaining stubbornly, until he heard singing outside. The trader had stuck at thirty-five dollars.

“Good, I take them.”

He started to push over the bridle; Narrow Nose had his fingers on the heavy silver. Jesting Squaw’s Son and Slim Girl entered together.

“Ahalani!”

“Ahalani, shichai!”

The two men strode up to each other, Laughing Boy still clutching the harness. The trader’s hands felt empty. They hugged each other, wrestled, went through a huge pantomime of friendship.

“It is good to see you, my friend!”

“Very much it is good to see you!”

“Hozhoni!”

“Aigisi hozhoni!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came up for the dance, but I am too late, they say. What are your news?”

“I have just got married. This is my wife, she comes from Maito.”

“Good!”

Narrow Nose thought he must be progressing in the language, he could understand most of what they said. Usually when they talked among themselves, he could not follow, they seemed to mess it around so. He had no idea that they were using babytalk for his special benefit, any more than it occurred to him as unusual that a man should be bringing a bride to live in his settlement, instead of going to hers.

Jesting Squaw’s Son shook hands with his other friends there, as though he had just come back from a trip.

“I have just finished building our hogan, over towards T’ies Napornss. We are going to make the House Prayer in a little while. I want you all to come now, we shall make a feast afterwards. You, my friend, you must come. Come now.”

He nodded at Tall Brave, who started to the door with a couple of the others.

“But I am making a trade here. I must finish it.”

“You can make a better trade with the trader at T’ies Napornss. He is a good man.”

Narrow Nose swore to himself. He wanted that bridle, and he wanted that new couple’s custom. Jesting Squaw was well-to-do; she would give her son plenty of sheep.

“I give you a good trade. Stay here and finish it.”

“I go with my friend to feast, I think. All these people are going.”

“Yes,” Tall Brave struck in from the doorway, “it is time to eat.”

“Why don’t you buy food and feast here?”

“I have food there, coffee and meat and bread. Why should they buy food here?” Jesting Squaw’s Son told him.

The trader made a quick calculation, involving about a dollar and a quarter.

“I will give you coffee and crackers and some canned plums. How is that?”

“Ei-yei! Then we shall stay.”

“He must be a good man to deal with,” Laughing Boy said solemnly.

Narrow Nose called through the back door,

“Make about three quarts of coffee, quick, and put jest a little sweetnin’ in it. Bring out ten cups.” He set out two boxes of saltines and four cans of plums. “Now, give me the bridle.”

“I think I get something more, a rope, perhaps. You are a good man to buy from.” He laid the bridle on the counter, but hung onto the reins.

Narrow Nose climbed onto the counter and pulled down a length of rope. “This is good.”

“No, I want horsehair.” With his mouth full.

“No horsehair.”

“Rawhide, then.”

He had to search under the counter for hide ropes that Indians had made. Laughing Boy went over them minutely. The coffee came. The Indians wolfed down the food and drink, and tipped up the cans to drain the fruit juice.

Laughing Boy said, before he had swallowed his last mouthful,

“I do not think I want those things.”

“Hunh?”

Drawing at the reins, he made the bridle seem to walk off the counter.

“Hey, stop!”

He turned at the door. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Hey, by Gawd!”

All the Indians streamed out, with the trader after them. Laughing Boy was off at a gallop, his wife and Jesting Squaw’s Son close behind. The rest followed, whooping and swinging their ropes and whips. Narrow Nose stood in the sand.

“Hey!”

Inside the store, Stinks Like a Mexican collected some tobacco and a handkerchief. He slid through the door, and vanished around the corner of the house.

“God damn a red devil!”

The Indians went fast; already their singing was distant. It was cold. He stuck his hands into his pockets and stared after them.

“God damn a red son of a bitch!”