Desert Hearts by Marjorie Farrell

Today, he was watching how these people rode, and looking closely at their faces.
    Although they were coming in slowly, every now and then a young man would ride ahead and then, pulling his horse in a tight circle, would gallop back to the main band. These riders looked like part of their horses, and their mounts responded as though they were indeed one creature. And as the people got closer, Michael began to notice distinctive decorations: silver disks flashing from breeches and belts, and the distinctive blanket patterns on both men and women.
    One horse and rider caught his eye. The horse was a blood bay and smaller than Frost or Trooper. His coat burned in the sun and he seemed to carry the sun’s energy inside him as his rider held him down to a fast walk. The rider himself looked to be only a few years older than himself, thought Michael. His face was still except when he turned to say something to the woman at his side, obviously his wife. Then it came alive.
    “Tell me, do ye know who that man is, Elwell,” Michael asked.
    “That’s Antonio, Manuelito’s nephew.”
    “Manuelito?”
    “One of the headmen who’s been trying to keep his people to the treaties he signs. He and his nephew are muy rico —they own many sheep and horses.”
    “Good horses, by the look of that bay.”
    Elwell grinned. “Do I hear a little competitive interest, Sergeant?”
    “I’m still planning to watch for a while, Private. But I must admit I’m feeling a wee bit restless, watching that bay prance by.”
    The racing took place in the valley north of the fort, where distances of half, three-quarters, and a mile and a quarter had been measured off. While the riders rode out to the starting points for the first races, the Navajo women spread their blankets in front of them, hoping to trade for bilagaana trinkets like mirrors, brushes, buttons, needles and thread, and foodstuffs like coffee and “sweet salt,” as they called sugar.
    Elizabeth loved it when the women came in. They sat with great dignity, surrounded by striped weavings of red and black and white and yellow. The geometric designs drew her eye, and she had a few months ago traded for a small blanket which she had hung on their wall. Today she walked slowly, her eyes down on what was spread before her, until she reached one of the women near the end. Here was a weaving different from all the others. Not radically so, but original enough to speak the word “fellow artist” to Elizabeth’s soul. She knelt down and examined the zigzags and diamonds, running her hand lightly over the wool. She had a pocketful of silver buttons with her and two books of needles, but it seemed insulting to offer those in return for the beautiful piece in front of her.
    She looked up into the face of the weaver, her eyes beaming her appreciation.
    “You like it?” said the Navajo woman.
    “You speak English!” said Elizabeth, without thinking to keep the surprise out of her voice.
    “You speak Diné?” the woman asked with dry humor.
    “Why, no,” Elizabeth replied with a blush.
    Serena was ashamed of her impoliteness: “My husband’s uncle has had dealings with the bilagaana for years. He speaks both Spanish and English and taught his nephew and his nephew taught me.”
    “I don’t think I have seen you here before.”
    There was an awkward silence and Elizabeth fingered the buttons in her pocket. “All of the blankets I’ve seen today are well made and beautiful,” she said hesitantly, “but this one is special.”
    Serena’s face softened with the pleasure of having her work recognized.
    “I have the usual things to trade with,” Elizabeth continued, “but somehow they don’t seem enough.”
    Serena just sat there in silence.
    Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You have painted a design with wool. I am also a painter. Will you keep the blanket for me? I have something back at my quarters….”
    Serena nodded. She wondered what the bilagaana woman was going to offer