Laughing Boy

by Oliver La Farge

  V

  They talked as they ate, lounging, while night filled the valley.

  'Do you speak American then?' Laughing Boy asked. 'Is it hard to learn?'

  'It is not hard; we had to learn it. They put me in a room with a Ute girl and a Moqui and a Comanche; all we could do was learn English. Sometimes some Navajo girls sneaked out and talked together, but not often. They did not want us to be Indians.' She rested on her elbow, staring into the fire. 'They wanted us to be ashamed of being Indians. They wanted us to forget our mothers and fathers.'

  'That is a bad thing. Why did they do that?'

  'Do not talk about it. I do not want to think about those things.'

  When she had put away the dishes, as they lit their cigarettes she said, 'If ever they come to take a child of ours to school, kill her.'

  'Is it like that?'

  'Yes.'

  'I hear you.'

  They lay side by side against the wall of the house, watching the fire. Her shoulder moved closer to him. He said,

  'Tell me your true name.'

  'My name is Came With War. What is yours?'

  'My parents named me Sings Before Spears. It is a good name. Yours is good.'

  'Why do they always give women names about war?'

  'They have always done it. It brings good fortune to the whole People, I think.'

  She moved so that she touched him. Sings Before Spears!

  He asked her, 'Have you any relatives here? Some one must get a singer to make the prayers over us. There are the four days after that to wait; that is a long time. Let us have them end soon.'

  She caught her breath and looked at him despairingly. He felt a wind blow between them while he met her eyes, a hollowness behind his heart. He clenched his left hand against his side, repeating slowly,

  'Four days is a long time to wait,' and then, almost inaudibly, 'Oh, beautiful!'

  She looked away, wanting to laugh, to cry, to swear, and to kick him. He could not know; how could he know? She examined the line of his chin, the set of his lips, so very Indian in their fine chiselling and faint outthrust. Devices ran through her mind. This was a Navajo. This was something her missionaries and teachers never dreamed of. This was part of what she loved. She set her nails into the palms of her hands. Patience.

  'I have a friend near here who will speak to a Singer to-morrow. He will be here to-morrow night.'

  They smoked again. At last he said, 'I do not think I shall sleep in your house now. I think it will be well to sleep up there.'

  'Yes; that will be better.'

  He got his blanket. 'I shall forget the trail.'

  He loomed above her, in the play of darkness and firelight. She saw all the strength of the Navajo people embodied, against the sky, and she felt ashamed before it.

  'Four days is not long, Laughing Boy.'

  7

  I

  Early in the morning she got Laughing Boy off with the horses to find pasture. When he was well away, she put on American clothes; high-laced shoes, an outmoded, ill-fitting dress, high to the neck, long-sleeved, dowdy, the inevitable uniform of the school-trained Indian. It was a poor exchange for barbaric velveteen and calico, gay blanket and heavy silver. She had deleted from the formula a number of layers of underclothing; the slack, thin stuff indicated her breasts with curves and shadow; a breath of wind or a quick turn outlined firm stomach, round thigh, and supple movement, very little, but enough.

  It began to be hot when she reached the wretched 'dobes and stick hovels on the outskirts of Los Palos, among the tin cans and the blowing dust. She stopped by a dome of sticks, old boxes, and bits of canvas.

  'Hé, shichai!'

  Yellow Singer crawled out into the sun, blinking red eyes.

  'Hunh! What is it?'

  His dirty turban had slipped over one ear, his hair was half undone. He sat looking at her uncertainly, his open mouth showing the remnants of yellow teeth. She noticed his toes coming out from the ends of cast-off army boots.

  'Wake up. Were you drunk last night?'

  He grinned. 'Very drunk. You lend me a dollar, perhaps?'

  'You keep sober this morning, perhaps I give you a bottle.'

  'Hunh?' He focussed his attention.

  'I am going to be married this afternoon. I want you to come and sing over us.'

  'Coyote!' He swore, and then in English, 'God damn! What do you want to get married for? What kind of a man have you caught?'

  'You talk too much, I think; it may be bad for you some day. You come this afternoon and sing over us; I shall give you a bottle. Then you keep your mouth closed.'

  He read her face, remembering that her grandmother had been an Apache who, in her time, had sat contemplating the antics of men tied on ant-heaps. And he knew this woman pretty well.

  'Good, Grandmother,' he said respectfully, 'we shall come.'

  She left without more words. In the town she had shopping to do—food, a jeweller's simple tools from a trader, a can of Velvet tobacco and big, brown Rumanian cigarette papers. Then she rifted idly to the post-office, sauntering past it in an abstracted manner, not seeing the men who lounged there. One of them immediately walked off in the other direction. She continued down the street, till it became merely a strip more worn than the land on either side of it at the edge of the town, where she entered a small, neat 'dobe house. In a few minutes he followed, closing the door behind him.

  He wore a clean, checked woollen shirt, the usual big hat, and very worn, well-cut whipcord riding-breeches. He was of good height, light-haired but tanned, with rather sad eyes and a sensitive mouth. Even now, when he was plainly happy, one could see a certain unhappiness about him. He threw his hat on the table, put his hands on his hips, and drew a breath as he looked down on her, smiling.

  'Well, you're back on time.'

  'Yes, why not? Didn't I tell you?' She held out her hand to him. Speaking English, she retained the Navajo intonation.

  He sat down on the arm of her chair, and ran the tip of his index finger along the curve of her throat. 'That's a terrible dress, about the worst you've got. I'd like you to get some good clothes.'

  'How will I do dat? Do you tink I can walk into dat store, dat one down dere, and dey sell me a dress? Will one of dose women, dey make dresses, work for me? You talk silly, you say dat. Maybe I give you my measure, maybe you write to dat place in Chicago, hey?'

  'Sears Roebuck, my God! Well, it's not such a bad idea. All right, bring me your measurements.' He leant over to kiss her.

  'Don't start dat now. I got to go back soon now.'

  'What the hell?'

  'My husban', he makes trouble, dat one. I can' stay away right now. Soon maybe.'

  He heaved a sigh of exasperation. 'Listen! you've kept me waiting a week while you went off on that trip. Now you put me off again. You're always putting me off. I don't think you've got a husband.'

  'Yes, I have, an' he's a long-hair. You know dat. Don't I point him out to you one time, dat one? You want him to kill me, hey?'

  'Well, all right. To-morrow, then.'

  'I can' do it. It ain't I don' want to, George. I can', dat's all.' She passed her hand along his cheek, slowly. 'You know dat.'

  He kissed her finger-tips. 'Day after, then, Tuesday. That's flat, and no two ways about it. I have to go back to the ranch Wednesday; ought to be going back now. You can manage; I think you can manage anything you want. Understand? Tuesday.'

  She studied him. He was difficult, this man. Now you had him, now you didn't. There were different kinds of Americans; this one came from the East; he was easy, and he was hard. Well, she could manage almost anything.

  'All right, dat will be nice, I tink. I'll be glad to come den. So you go get me two bottle of wiskey now, to take home, den I fix it. Tuesday.'

  'That old souse! I wish he'd fall over a cliff and break his damned neck.'

  She smiled at him. 'I wish dat too, sometimes. But he ain't a bad man, dat one. He has been good for me.'
<
br />   'I suppose so.'

  'Now get de wiskey.'

  'Kiss me first.'

  II

  She thought hard on the way home. The difficulties are beginning already. My path is beset with ambushes. And this is hard. Four days—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, too late. Oh, no, Laughing Boy, I must bend you. I cannot be robbed of this, I have a right to it. Now I've got to manage, I, Came With War. I have earned this, I think. I am afraid of you, Sings Before Spears; I do not like to be afraid. I shall conquer you, or else I'll herd sheep. I cannot be conquered. God give me help—hmph, that God! Well, I know how. I make my own trail of beauty. I know what to do. I am strong, Laughing Boy, Laughing Boy.

  She was dressed as a Navajo again when he returned from Natahnetinn. He inspected the jeweller's tools which she spread out for him, praising them, while she set to preparing food.

  'They were talking about you in the town to-day,' she told him.

  'How was that? I do not understand.'

  'That Pah-Ute, the arrow went in farther than you thought. He went to Nahki Zhil trading post; there he bled to death. He told them about you. Now American Chief has made an order to put you in jail.'

  'Perhaps we had better go away from here, then.'

  'No, they will not do anything; it was only a Pah-Ute, they say. Only if you come into town and they see you, some policeman will take you then.'

  'I am sorry. I should have liked to see that place. However, some day they may forget.'

  'People have long memories for some things.'

  Yellow Singer and his wife came just at the end of the afternoon. He watched them walking, with their long shadows rippling over the unevenness of the ground and the occasional bushes.

  'What are those coming? They look like Pah-Utes, perhaps. They look like Hunger People! What rags!'

  'They are Navajos; that is Yellow Singer. They look like that because they are poor, that's all. He has come to sing over us.'

  There was something about those two faces that made Laughing Boy uncomfortable, as though a black veil had been pulled in front of them. They were people who would have unpleasant laughter. Both of them looked at him with open curiosity and an expression of understanding that bothered him. As they exchanged formal greetings, these two seemed to be extending to him a sympathy which he did not want. Then Slim Girl came out of the house dressed in her richest costume, and they were expressionless. Then, too, Laughing Boy was not concerned any more.

  Yellow Singer's wife handed a medicine basket to Slim Girl, which she filled with the corn mush she had prepared. The singer placed it in the correct place on the floor of the house. Laughing Boy entered carefully. He was thinking hard about what he was doing; he was putting forth every effort to make it good and beautiful. He thought about the gods, about Slim Girl, about the future. It was all confused, because he was excited. He wished House God would come to stand over them; he thought Hunting Goddess would be a good one for her, or Young Goddess, or White Shell Woman. Now Yellow Singer's wife was leading her in. Under his breath, 'Oh, beautiful!'

  She was thinking of many things at once; her excitement was deep down like a desert river under the sands. Now I really have a husband in my house. When this is over, it will be a test between us. I ought to feel all sorts of things, marrying like this now. You are handsome, Sings Before Spears. You do not know how much you are mine.

  She sat down on the rug beside him. Yellow Singer divided the mush in four directions. Now he was praying for them. Laughing Boy concentrated his thought. Unreasonably, the girl was terrified lest something might happen. She was madly impatient. Now they partook of the yellow corn, ceremonially, and now it was Laughing Boy's turn to make a prayer. He sang the prayer to House God with solemn emphasis:

  'House made of dawn light,

  House made of evening light,

  House made of dark cloud,

  House made of he-rain,

  House made of dark mist,

  House made of pollen...'

  Yellow Singer's wife, fat and sleepy, sat in the corner. She was vaguely sorry for that young man. She rolled a cigarette, wishing he had not chosen so long a prayer.

  'In beauty it is finished,

  In beauty it is finished.'

  The confident, solemn voice ceased. He looked at Slim Girl. Now they were married 'in a beautiful way.' It might seem a little furtive, that ceremony without relatives, almost without guests, but now the gods had married them. Slim Girl was staring back at him with wide eyes.

  Yellow Singer's wife stretched bulkily. 'Now let us feast.'

  The old singer grinned. Slim Girl regarded them dreamily until her husband spoke to her,

  'The guests must feast.'

  She brought forth a banquet—canned tomatoes, pears, plums, beans, candies, pop, white bread. She heated the coffee, and set it out with plenty of sugar, and cups for all. On one side she put down a bottle of what looked like water.

  'It is a feast,' said Yellow Singer.

  They all started eating. The old man took some of the clear liquid, and passed it to his wife, who drank and offered it to Laughing Boy.

  'What is it?'

  'Whiskey,' Slim Girl spoke quickly; 'he does not know how to drink it.'

  'I should like to try it.'

  'It is good; you should take it, Grandfather. We all like it.' Yellow Singer chuckled.

  'I do not think he can stand it,' Slim Girl said thoughtfully.

  'Let me try it. It is right that I should find out about these things. Give me the bottle.'

  He saw that her eyes, watching him, were speculative, with something hidden in back of them. He thought she was measuring him.

  'Give it to me.'

  'Wait. You are not used to it; let me fix it for you. I can make it taste good.'

  She took out an orange and a lemon, that she had had hidden behind the water jar.

  'What are those?'

  'That is called "lanch." This yellow one is "lemon"; there is no word for it in Navajo. They are American fruits; they grow on trees, like peaches.'

  She made a stiffish drink in a tin cup, sweetened with a great deal of sugar.

  'You never did that for me,' Yellow Singer muttered to his wife.

  'I shall do it for you, that thing—when you are as young and handsome as he is.'

  They watched him with grinning interest while he tried the drink. Slim Girl was inattentive.

  'But this is good! This is better than that red boiling water, I think.' He nodded towards his bottle of pop. It began to glow in his stomach. 'What is it doing to me?'

  'It is beginning to do its good, little brother.' The medicine man pulled at the bottle in sympathy. 'By and by you will love it, that feeling.' His wife reached for her share.

  Slim Girl stood up. 'The sun is setting. If you take much more of that now, you will not find your way home. Here is a bottle for you to take with you.'

  Inside the house it was half dark, and the doorway framed the clay bluffs opposite, painted with sunset. She rearranged the blankets and sheepskins for reclining against the wall, and there relaxed, smoking a cigarette. He finished his drink, liking the flavoured sugar in the bottom of it.

  'Sit over here, and let us talk a little now.'

  He placed himself half-sitting, half-lying beside her.

  'That is queer, that drink. I feel queer here,' touching the hinge of his jaw, 'as if something were squeezing my teeth. But it is good; make me some more of it.'

  'Not right away.'

  'It would be good to sing, I think. Let us sing some very beautiful prayers together. Everything is good now.'

  'Let us just think for a little bit, now we are married.'

  'Now we are married. Why are you looking at me like that? I do not understand you all the time, what your face means.'

  'I like to look at you, Sings Before Spears.' Her hand fell into his, he felt her beside him. Something told him that that was only half an answer. He touched her face with his finger-tips
. She was studying him intently.

  Then she kissed him. He did not understand it; her face suddenly near his, against his, distorted so close to his eyes, her eyes run together. He was held tightly, and something wet, at once hot and cool was against his mouth, with a tiny, fierce imprint of teeth. Vaguely he remembered hearing that Americans did this. He did not understand it; he had a feeling of messiness and disgust. He tried to move away, but she held him; he was pressed against the wall and the sheepskins. She was fastened onto him; he could feel all her body, it was entering into him. There was something uncontrolled, indecent about this. Everything became confused. A little flame ran along his veins. The world melted away from under him, his body became water floating in air, all his life was in his lips, mouth to mouth and breath against his face. He shut his eyes. His arms were around her. Now, almost unwittingly, he began to return her kisses.

  III

  Slim Girl was asleep. Laughing Boy was very tired, but there was no rest for him. It was black inside the house; here no night wind blew through the leaves of the hogahn wall, no stars looked down through a smoke-hole. He found his tobacco and stole outside.

  The cold night wind blew against his skin. His eyes rested among the shadowy forms of the buttes; he looked up at the thick-gathered, cool stars. It was like laying a cold knife-blade against a burnt finger. It was right that they gave women names about war; he understood that now.

  His feet took him up onto the high place above the spring, where he had slept before. There he made himself comfortable with his back against a piñón trunk, smoking. Everything was whirling within him: it was necessary to put his thoughts in order. He had never imagined it was anything like this. He had lived the intimate life of the hogahn, he knew the camp-fire jokes; but there was never a hint of this kind of thing. It might be just American tricks, but he thought not. No, it was she, her power. She was stronger than iron or fire. That drink was medicine, but she was not medicine; it was just she herself. That blade of grass of a girl, that little Slim Girl, she could make his belly turn over inside of him, she could make his interior dissolve. He sat wondering at her and at himself. So very uncontrolled, at moments he felt ashamed, but mostly it was wonder. That girl was like one of the Divine People. One should not forget one's self, but this was a beautiful thing.