Laughing Boy

He was riding the hundred miles from T’o Tlakai to Tsé Lani to attend a dance, or rather, for the horse-racing that would come afterwards. The sun was hot and his belly was empty, but life moved in rhythm with his pony loping steadily as an engine down the miles. He was lax in the saddle, leaning back, arm swinging the rope’s end in time to the horse’s lope. His new red headband was a bright colour among the embers of the sun-struck desert, undulating like a moving graph of the pony’s lope, or the music of his song⁠—

“Nashdui bik’é dinni, eya-a, eyo-o⁠ ⁠… Wildcat’s feet hurt, eya-a, eyo-o⁠ ⁠…”

Rope’s end, shoulders, song, all moved together, and life flowed in one stream. He threw his head back to sing louder, and listened to the echo from the cliffs on his right. He was thinking about a bracelet he should make, with four smooth bars running together, and a turquoise in the middle⁠—if he could get the silver. He wished he could work while riding; everything was so perfect then, like the prayers, hozoji nashad, travelling in beauty. His hands, his feet, his head, his insides all were hozoji, all were very much alive. He whooped and struck up the Magpie Song till the empty desert resounded⁠—

“A-a-a-iné, a-a-a-iné, Ya-a-iné-ainé, ko-ya-ainé⁠ ⁠…”

He was lean, slender, tall, and handsome, Laughing Boy, with a new cheap headband and a borrowed silver belt to make ragged clothes look fine.

At noon, having no money, he begged coffee from a trader at Chinlee and went on, treasuring his hunger because of the feasting to come. Now he began to meet Navajos of all ages, riding to the dance.

Twelve girls in single file stole into the open space, moving quietly and aloof as though the uproar of singing were petrified into a protective wall before it reached them. Only the pulse of the drum showed in their steps. They prowled back and forth before the line of young men, considering them with predatory judgment.

Laughing Boy at the back of the crowd looked at them with mild interest; he liked to watch their suave movements and the rich display of blankets and jewelry. One caught his attention; he thought she had on more silver, coral, turquoise, and white shell than he had ever seen on any one person. He speculated on its value⁠—horses⁠—she must have a very rich mother, or uncles. She was too slender, seeming frail to dance in all that rich, heavy ornamentation. He wished she would move more into the firelight. She was well dressed to show off what she wore; silver and stones with soft highlights and deep shadows glowed against the night-blue velveteen of her blouse; oval plaques of silver were at her waist, and ceremonial jewels in the fringe of her sash. Her blue skirt swung with her short, calculated steps, ankle-length, above the dull red leggings and moccasins with silver buttons. The dark clothing, matching the night, was in contrast to the other dancers, even her blanket was mainly blue. He felt animosity towards her, dark and slight, like a wisp of grass⁠—only part of a woman. Her gaze, examining the singers, was too coolly appraising. Now she was looking at him. He threw his head back, losing himself in the singing.

“Ahalani!” The two-toned greeting came from a voice like water.

He returned to himself with a start. Slim Girl stood poised on the edge of the bowl, above his shoulder, water-basket in hand.

“Ahalani, shicho.” Dignified, casual.

“Move over, wrestler, I want to come down.”

He observed her small feet in their red, silver-buttoned buckskin, sure and light on the rocks as a goat’s. She seemed to be hours descending. She was businesslike about filling the basket, but she turned utilitarian motions into part of a dance. Now she knelt, not two feet from him, taking him in with the long, mischievous eyes that talked and laughed.

She is a butterfly, he thought, or a hummingbird. Why does she not go away? I will not go⁠—run away from her. He thought, as he tried to read her face, that her slimness was deceptive; strength came forth from her.

“Now, for ten cents, I go.”

He blinked. “I save that to get rid of you tonight, perhaps.”

“I do not dance tonight. There is trouble, a bad thing. I come from far away.”

He thought he had better not ask questions. “Tomorrow there will be horse-racing, a chicken-pull, perhaps.”

“And you have a fine horse to race, black, with a white star and a white sock.” He grunted astonishment. She smiled. “You are a good jeweler, they say. You made that bow-guard. You sold Red Man’s belt to the American, they say, for sixty-five dollars.”

“You are like an old wife, trying to find out about everything a man is doing.”

“No, I am not like an old wife.”

“Look at me.” She shook herself so that her jewelry clanked. He heard the sound, but his eyes were upon hers. The east was banded with orange, red, and purple. “Look at me.” Her eyes were long and narrow, and deep enough to absorb a man. “I am rich. I shall give you silver and turquoise to work, horses to breed, till you too are rich. Must I tell you twice?” Her eyes were more beautiful than springs among the rocks. “You have spoken to your uncle; you know what he said. Your mother will give you no sheep, no horses for me. If you want to come with me, come now. I cannot wait until first cold moon. You cannot cache me in a tree until you are ready for me. You have your manhood and your weapons; if you are not good enough with them, nothing can make you good enough. Come now.”

He was a long time answering, searching and searching her eyes. At last, “It is good. Get your horse.”

She thought she had stood for twenty years with a rifle pointed at her breast. Her face did not change; she walked away slowly. He saw that full day lay golden along the tops of the cliffs, and the sky was brilliant; from the camps he heard the noise of departure, bustle and low voices and laughter that to an American would have seemed furtive.

“I cannot make up songs as you do, but I made up a pretty good one. I sang all along the trail. I neared her hogan galloping and singing the Wildcat Song. She was coming out along the trail towards me. I galloped close to her and reined up short, in a handsome way. She came beside my horse and laid her hand on its neck.

“ ‘My friend,’ she said.

“I was so happy then that there is no name for it. There was no earth under me, I had no limits. Then she went on.

“ ‘You must go away, you must not see me again. I must not see you,’ she said.

“I asked, ‘Why?’

“She said, ‘What is your clan?’

“I told her, ‘I am an Eshlini.’

“She lowered her head, then she looked up again. Her face looked calm, but her eyes were wounded. ‘I, too, am an Eshlini,’ she said.

“We touched hands, and I rode away.”