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, thinking about them. And I am the man who is going away with that girl tomorrow. I am going away with Slim Girl. I feel like shouting. I am not as all these people.

Jesting Squaw’s Son noticed something in his manner. “You seem very eager, my friend.”

“Why not? Is not all well? I trade everything I have, two ponies, a blanket, five dollars, for this one because I love a fine pony, because I think this one is better than all that. Then I come down here, and right away I make nearly ninety dollars, when I began with nothing. Now we have a race. Nothing is more beautiful than galloping as hard as you can. I do this thing, that I love, on this pony that I bought for pleasure, where many people”⁠—and one person, oh, beautiful!⁠—“may see and speak well of me. If I win, I double my money, for doing what I enjoy. If I lose, it is only what I never had until yesterday.”

And whatever happens, I have won more than all the money and hard goods in the world.

He meant what he said. Jesting Squaw’s Son nodded.

There was a shot. The pony jumped. Then two shots together, from somewhere over to the right. Hastily tethering the animal, they raced to their camp to get their bows. People were running all about; women gathering around the campfires, packing up bundles, men snatching their weapons and making towards the noise. Three more shots had been fired, about ten seconds apart. The men did not rush towards the firing as Americans would; they went rapidly, but keeping a sharp lookout, and ready to take cover. Someone shouted that a Hopi had killed a Navajo; someone else called that it was Americans. Now they heard a burst of quick shooting, both rifles and revolvers, at a greater distance. Topping a slight ridge, the two friends saw the Navajos just ahead, nearly a hundred already, in an irregular, slightly crescent-shaped line. They came up and pushed to the front. No one was talking.

About twenty paces in front, facing the crescent, stood Tall Old One, the district headman, and an American from the agency in army hat, riding-breeches, and leather leggings. The American had a rifle and a revolver. Behind these two, in open order, stood Man Hammer and Left Hand, policemen, and a Hopi and a Tewa policeman, all with rifles. The latter two wore parts of khaki uniforms. Over to one side a Navajo leant against a tree, looking sick. Blood ran down his sleeve and dripped from his fingers; at his feet lay a revolver. Farther back another policeman, Mud’s Son, stood guard over a handcuffed Navajo, and, partly hidden by a clump of bushes, somebody was stretched out on the ground.

The American official and the Hopi were acutely conscious of the fact that several hundred Navajos were thinking that these aliens had started something, and if only the native officials would step aside it might as well be finished now. They also knew that those same officials were aware of this feeling, and sympathized with it. There were a couple of dozen rifles and revolvers in the crowd, and at that range a bow is just as effective. The Indians were all looking at the wounded man; he made an ugly exhibit.

The Tewa policeman shifted from foot to foot and grinned. The situation might become serious, but he thought it would work out all right, and he devoutly hoped for an arrest involving a fistfight with a Navajo. Tewas punch; Navajos kick, scratch, and pull hair. For several centuries the Tewas’ official profession was fighting Navajos.

Nobody knew quite what had happened. A Navajo was arrested, and one was wounded. There was a dead man, but they couldn’t see of what tribe. The older men hoped there would be no trouble; nothing to bring soldiers into the reservation; the younger braves all wanted to start something. Men began to sidle off to the left and right, slowly carrying the horns of the crescent farther around the police. In time, they would have them surrounded.

Tall Old One called: “Wait! Make no mistake! Everything is well and you have no cause to be angry.”

They obeyed him, and the tension relaxed slightly.

A man said, “There come some more people.”

Another cried, “An American is hurt!”

People felt better immediately.

“Two Americans⁠—look!”

They began to talk excitedly, and some of them smiled. The government man let out a sigh and threw his gun across his left arm. Man Hammer said something cheerful to Left Hand.

The newcomers arrived from the direction of the burst of shots that had been fired last. Thin American, the trader from Tséchil, and an unknown Navajo supported between them a badly wounded man who swore slowly and steadily. Behind them a Tewa supported another American official, who limped.

They set the wounded men down by the handcuffed Navajo, the Tewa lined up beside his fellow tribesman, and Thin American came to talk with the official. After a minute of discussion, he interpreted to Tall Old One.

The headman stepped forward.

“Hear me, my friends. You know how bad it is to drink whiskey, how it makes you crazy. You know how Washindon has forbidden it. Now the American here, this man whom you have seen brought in, came here to sell it. That Navajo”⁠—he pointed to the handcuffed one⁠—“came with him. That was bad. So American Chief sent these Americans and policemen to stop it.”

As he talked, Thin American translated to the agency man.

“Already one man was drunk; that wounded one over there by the tree. See what it did for him. When we started to arrest them, he began to shoot. He killed that Hopi you see back there.”

So it was a Hopi killed. There were more smiles.

“Now he and this man, the one who helped to sell it, and that man must all go to jail. You know it is right. There is nothing to upset you; there is nothing to spoil your races. After all, there has been a Hopi killed, and two Americans wounded; now an American and two Navajos go to jail for a little while. That is not so bad.”

The trader suppressed a smile as he skipped translating this last remark, saying only, “He’s letting ’em think that Indian will only get a light sentence for shooting the policeman. Best leave it at that.”

Older men remarked, “That is right, that is well said. Let us have no trouble.” Some of the young men grumbled, but others asked them, “What would you do? You can’t fight Washindon. Do you want them to send soldiers in here again? Shall we go into exile again?” It was news, an incident, something to talk about. The crowd became just a lot of people, watching the first aid, and talkative.

“Have the Hopi and Tewas take off that dead man,” the trader advised; “they’ll never forgive you if you leave a corpse for them to take care of; spoil their party and make ’em leave. They’re plumb scared to death of a corpse. Look how those Navajo policemen are edging away from it.”

Horses were brought up, the wounded and prisoners mounted. The Pueblo policemen slung their comrade’s body across a saddle. The party rode off, leaving Tall Old One and the local police to return to their games.

The first Tewa remarked to the other, “No fight.”

“No. But it would have been more shooting, anyhow.”

“Some day, perhaps, we arrest an American, unwounded.”

“Some day, perhaps.”

They looked at their knuckles.

II

The two friends returned to the pony.

“What is this whiskey?” Jesting Squaw’s Son asked. “I am always hearing talk about it. They say it is so bad, yet they try so hard to get it.”

“I do not know. They all say it is very bad. It makes you crazy, they say. It must be like eating jimpson-weed I think.”

“It made that man crazy. He tried to fight alone.”

“M‑m. It made him brave, I think. But it stopped his sense. When a thing like that happens, a number of men coming against you, you run away first. Then you can get behind something and start shooting.”

“Anyhow, he killed a Hopi.”

“Ei-yei! He shot straight! But jail is very bad, they say.”

“Well, that’s just for a few months, and he will have that to think about. When he comes back, people will think well of him.”

The call sounded for the first race, which was the saddle-changing relay. They separated in the crowd, which split into two parties according to whom it backed. Laughing Boy put two dollars on a group of active young men with a short-coupled pony that looked as if it could turn smartly and not get flustered.

The ponies were saddled and mounted. The cinch-strap was carried through the ring of the girth, then up to the horn, where the rider held it fast with one hand, a finger of which also hooked in the reins. The other hand held a quirt ready to strike. The men were stripped to breechclout and moccasins, slender, golden-brown bodies, the bodies of perfect boys, under the dark colour a glow of red showing through.

Now! The ponies scampered, people shouted. The horsemen flashed to earth, bringing their saddles with them, the ponies were wheeled around. Bare arms and backs rippled as the new saddles were swung on, the cinch-strap caught through, held to the horn by the same hand on which the new rider swung as he leaped to the saddle, the horse already in motion under him.

A man’s foot slipped. Everyone laughed and cheered. It was a close race. Now the last men were mounting. The one on the team Laughing Boy was backing lost his grip on the strap, and the saddle turned under him. He wrenched it back, throwing his weight in the stirrups, then clinched his legs under the horse’s belly. But he had thrown his mount out of its stride, and he lost by a good length. They laughed more, and called jokes to him,

“Grease on your fingers, Grandfather! You should have held the strap in your teeth!”

Laughing Boy went to pay his bet. They were organizing the chicken-pull. The chicken was a salt-bag half full of dirt. A piece of blue cloth tied around its neck was the head; two bits of red at the bottom corners were the legs. Whoever threw the head over the line, a hundred yards away, won five dollars; each of the legs brought two.

Laughing Boy drifted around the edge of the crowd, gay and excited. Never had there been such a four days! He had an eye out for Slim Girl, and saw her at last, sitting slightly apart from a group of women. Their eyes met, then he moved away.

Red Man hailed him. “You are racing a horse, Grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you win. I shall take it all away from you tonight.”

“All right.”

He turned out of the crowd to avoid him; the man made him feel disagreeable. Towards him walked a pinto pony with too-long ears, carrying Half Man, his father’s brother. Laughing Boy watched him sorrowfully as he approached, considering the withered arm and leg, the wasted appearance of this man, and remembering Wolf Killer, the tall, cheerful brave he had known as a boy, before the Ute arrow grazed the right side of his head and, by some strange Ute magic, shrivelled the left side of his body.

“Ahalani, nephew. Are you here alone?”

“Yes. It is good to see you.”

“Are all well?”

“All are well, but there has been very little rain this spring.”

“Too bad. The chicken-pull is starting. Aren’t you in it?”

“I have only one horse; that I am riding in the last race.”

“You should be in it. I should have been in it at your age. This horse is all right; take it.”

He dismounted clumsily, taking a walking-stick from behind the saddle. Laughing Boy felt his eyes sting.

“Ukehé, Thank you.”

Navajos almost never say thank you, save in return for very great favours; ordinary gifts and kindnesses are offered and accepted in silence. They regard our custom as obsequious. The word was startled out of Laughing Boy by the occasion. Half Man understood, and avoided his nephew’s gaze as he limped away, the fingers of his useless arm hooked into the front of his silver belt.

The chicken was buried in loose earth, so that just enough of the neck of the sack stuck up to let one get a good grip. A referee stood near, armed with a long horsehair quirt; as each horseman rode past, he swung full force across the animal’s rump, thus ensuring an honest gallop. Laughing Boy cantered up in his turn, tried to hold his pony in, felt it leap to the smack of the whip, and reached too late for the prize. He watched the next few tries, rode back, argued with Slender Hair about his place, and went at it again. He was leaning well down from the saddle before the quirt fell, he could have touched the ground with his fingers. Smack! and the pony jumped slightly sideways. The chicken was out of reach. He swung back to his seat and rested. Horse after horse came by, well in hand, then leaped to the stroke of the whip, or shied away from it. The horsemen swooped, swinging incredibly low, reaching amazingly far out, in a haze of dust.

Ya-hai! E-ya-hai! Ei-yei! Straight Fingers had it. Straight Fingers galloped for the line. All the young men rose in their saddles, their elbows were spread forward, their knees clutched, their quirts fell on willing ponies. Those who had been waiting just for this headed him off, the others caught up with him. It became a big, spinning wheel of mounted braves, horses’ tossing heads, and dust. Laughing Boy saw Straight Fingers just ahead of him, clinging to the chicken’s head, while someone else held both its legs. He took a lick at the next horse in front of him, saw it carom, and reached for the prize, yelling. Somebody cracked him over the head with the butt of a quirt; somebody else tried to pull him off. He defended himself, wrestling with the man who had grabbed him, while the two ponies plunged, then both let go as the mob swirled away from them.

Straight Fingers broke away, and threw the head over the line. Somebody else threw over both legs. Laughing Boy and the stranger, a young fellow with a mustache, laughed at each other.

“This has been a lovely day!” said the young man.

“Yes, a perfect day!”

“Aren’t you the man from T’o Tlakai who has a horse to race? Is that the horse?”

“I’m the man. This is not the horse.”

And I am the man whom that girl loves, I am the man who is going away with the magic girl.

III

The man from Tsézhin had found his horse; now the last race was called. Laughing Boy placed everything except his bow-guard in bets. If he won, he would have nearly two hundred dollars. Now he stripped off his clothes to his breechclout, settled his headband, and adjusted the light hackamore around his horse’s nose.

They gathered at the starting place, good horses and eager, with shiny coats, erect ears, and quick, small hooves. Hurries to War, the starting judge, cautioned them. Laughing Boy saw Slim Girl, halfway down the track, watching him.

Here I am doing just this, and these others do not know who I am. They do not know they are racing against the man who goes with her tomorrow. Oh, I must win, I want to win, I must win!

He made a very brief prayer, and patted his pony’s neck. “Little sister, we must win. Do not fail me.”

They mounted. He felt the warm, silky hide between his knees, pushed her up to the reins and felt the play of muscles. Counting for the start; he leant forward, held his breath, raised his quirt. Go!

Arrows from the bow⁠—no other simile. At the tearing gallop, flat-stretched, backs are level, the animals race in a straight line; all life is motion; there is no body, only an ecstasy; one current between man and horse, and still embodied, a whip hand to pour in leather and a mouth to shout. Speed, speed, but the near goal is miles away, and other speed spirits on either side will not fall back.

E-é-é-é-é! His left hand, held forward, would push the horse through slack reins, his heels under her belly would lift her clear of the ground. E-é-é-é-é!

A quiet, elderly Indian let his hand fall. The ponies cantered, trotted, were turned and walked back to the finish.

“The black mare was first.”

He rode off to his camp, to dress. We won. I am rich. Was there ever such a day? And tomorrow I go with that girl. Oh, beautiful! I wish it were tomorrow now. About a hundred and eighty dollars. My pet, my little black pet, well done. I wish it were tomorrow.