Laughing Boy (2 page)

Her mincing steps took her out of sight. Jesting Squaw's Son's arm was over his shoulder, and on the other side another Indian, unknown, but young. Their life flowed together with all those others, complete to themselves, merged in one body of song, with the drumbeats for a heart,

 

'Yo-o galeana, yo-o galeana...'

 

Song followed song with a rush; when one ended, the next took up, as though the whole night would never suffice to pour out all that was in them.

Some one plucked at his blanket; then with another, stronger pull it was snatched from his shoulders. He whirled about. The men near him snickered. The frail girl held his blanket up toward him, mockingly.

'Ahalani!'
she greeted him.

He stood for a moment in feigned stupidity. He did not want to dance. The devil! Then with a sudden lunge he snatched the blanket. It was no use. She hung on with unexpected strength, digging her heels into the sand, laughing. The men on either side were watching over their shoulders with open joy.

'What's the matter? I think your feet hurt, perhaps. I think you are bandy-legged, perhaps.'

Girls didn't usually say these things. He was shocked. Her clear, low voice turned the insults into music, bringing out to the full the rise and fall of a Navajo woman's intonation. All the time they tugged against each other, her long eyes were talking. He had seen girls' eyes talk before as they pulled at the blanket, but these were clear as words. He wanted desperately to be back among the men. He nearly pulled her over, but she hung on, and her eyes seemed to be making a fool of him.

Suddenly he gave up. She led him around behind the men, not speaking to him, uninterested. He pulled his end of the blanket over his shoulders, assuming the conventional pose of resistance, setting each foot before the other reluctantly, in response to her dragging. He watched her closely, but her grip did not slacken. Out in the clear space she transferred her hands to his belt. He pulled his blanket to his chin, masking enjoyment in a pose of contemptuous tolerance, like the other men dancing there.

The solemn turning of the couples contrasted with the free re-lease of the singers: this was a religious ceremony and a rustic, simple pleasure, the happiness of a natural people to whom but few things happen. They were traditional and grave in their revelry.

According to the etiquette, whenever there is a rest, the man asks what forfeit he must pay; by the length of time taken by the girl to get down to a reasonable figure, he gages her liking for his company. The music paused an instant for singers to catch their breath. He made a feeble attempt to get away, then asked,

'How much?'

'Ten cents.'

The prompt answer astonished him. He paid the forfeit, still staring at her, chagrined, and furious at the blank, correct impassiveness of her face, at the same time noting delicately chiselled features, set of firm lips, long eyes that in their lack of expression were making fun of him. Ten cents! Already! With a splendid gesture he swept his blanket round him, stalking back to the singers.

He was set to lose himself in the songs, but he watched the girl drag out a man nearly as tall as himself. Instead of dancing in the
usual way, they held each other face to face and close to, each with one hand on the other's shoulder. It was shocking; and why had she not done it with him? But she had let him go the first time he had asked. She had insulted him, she was too thin, and probably ill-behaved.

 

III

 

Jesting Squaw's Son's arm was over his shoulder, his ears were full of the beat and uproar of music. He was a man among men, swinging with them, marking the rhythm, releasing his joy of living in ordered song.

 

'Nashdui bik'é dinni, eya-a, eyo-o...'

 

A late moon rose, cool and remote, dissociated. They brought another tree up to the bonfire, standing it on end a moment so that the hot light played on its dead branches; then they let it topple over and fall, sending up in its place a tree of moving sparks into the blackness.

Night passed its middle and stood towards day. The girls moved off together in single file, blankets drawn over heads, worn out by the night of unremitting dancing. The older people fell rapidly away. Inert forms like mummies stretched out in their blankets by the embers of the feast fires. Most of the young men gave in, leaving about a hundred knotted in a mass, still hard at it. They surrounded the drummer, an older man, intently serious over drawing forth from a bit of hide stretched across the mouth of a jar rapidly succeeding beats that entered the veins and moved in the blood. He played with rhythm as some men play with design; now a quick succession of what seemed meaningless strokes hurried forward, now the beat stumbled, paused, caught up again and whirled away. Devotedly intent over his work, his long experience, his strength and skill expended themselves in quick, wise movements of the wrist, calling forth a summation of life from a piece
of goatskin and a handful of baked clay, while younger men about him swayed and rocked in recurrent crescendos.

Night stood towards morning, now night grew old. Now the first white line was traced across the east far away, outlining distant cliffs. Now it was first light, and Dawn Boy was upon them. The drumming stopped; suddenly the desert was empty and vast. Young men, whose bodies felt like empty shells and whose heads still buzzed with songs, moved down to drink at the pool.

 

'Hayotlcatl Ashki, Natahni...'

 

Laughing Boy breathed his prayer to himself, feeling a moment of loneliness,

 

'Dawn Boy, Chief...'

 

He rolled up in his blanket. When he rode his horse in the races, people would see; he would ride past the people, back to T'o Tlakai, with all his winnings. That girl was strong for one who looked so slight. He would make a bracelet about her, thin silver, with stars surrounded by stone-knife-edge. His horse came to stand by him. He roused himself to look at it, struggled awake, and dragged out the corn from under his saddle.

He pulled his blanket over his head. All different things melted together into one conception of a night not like any other.

I

 

Some one 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 hogahn near the pool, where the woman of the house mocked him for sleeping late.

The people were gathered in a little box cañon, 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 hogahns 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 baby-talk American's Navajo, 'Your belt—two—good.'

Laughing Boy sat down beside him. '
Nashto, shadani
—give me a smoke, brother-in-law.'