I

Someone was calling him,

“Ei shichai, ei-yei!”

He opened his eyes, staring upward at the face of Jesting Squaw’s Son that laughed at him as he sat high above him in the saddle. The face was in shadow under the circle of his stiff-brimmed hat, cut out against the gleaming, hard sky. The sun was halfway up.

“Wake up, Grandfather! Big Tall Man is going to play tree-pushing against everybody.”

“Hakone!” He was up at the word. “Give me a smoke, Grandfather.” He climbed up behind his friend’s saddle. “Come on.”

They stopped for coffee at a hogan near the pool, where the woman of the house mocked him for sleeping late.

The people were gathered in a little box canyon, where fire had destroyed a number of scrub oaks and piñons under one wall near a seep of water. There they were dividing into two groups, according to whether they backed Big Tall Man or Man Hammer, the policeman from over by T’o Nanasdési. Hill Singer rode back and forth between, collecting and announcing the bets. Most of the money was on Big Tall Man, and there were few takers. Laughing Boy could not place any. He saw that girl sitting among the neutral spectators.

“Who is that girl,” he asked Slender Hair⁠—“the one who had so much hard goods on last night?”

“She is called Slim Girl, I think. She comes from down by the railroad track, from near Chiziai, I think.”

Big Tall Man and Man Hammer moved up to two dead trees of roughly the same size. Hill Singer and Hurries to War were judging. Now they pushed and strained at the trees, digging their feet in the sand, heaving shoulders. Big Tall Man’s tree began to crack; then suddenly it went over. People exclaimed and laughed. After that nobody more wanted to play against him.

Then they had wrestling for the young men. Laughing Boy bet a little and lost a couple of dollars. There was a tall man wearing an American shirt and trousers and a hat, who made a great deal of noise about himself. He beat one challenger easily. Laughing Boy recognized the man who danced so outrageously last night.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That is Red Man. He comes from down by the railroad.”

“He is too skinny. I am going to beat him.”

He challenged Red Man.

“How much will you bet on yourself?”

“I have three-fifty and this bow-guard.”

“That makes eight-fifty.”

“The bow-guard is worth more; it is worth ten dollars.”

The man looked at it judgingly. “Well, it is worth eight. That makes eleven-fifty. Why don’t you bet your belt?”

“It is not mine.”

“So you are sure you are going to lose, I think?”

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 out slowly. Then, with a sigh that disguised relief as critical enjoyment,

“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.”