railroad's profitable beneficence. From a rise where the trail crossed the railroad track, a little way to the west, it all compounded into a picture; the dejected town with its dominant
hotel-station, the green strip behind it, yellow-grey sand, and farther, dancing buttes in the mirage.
Laughing Boy's attention was divided. 'Do these iron paths run all the way to Washindon? That is a beautiful place; there must be much water there. I have never seen so many houses; how many are there? Five hundred? I should like to go there. Are there many trading posts, or just one? Those are rich fields. Can one come here and see the iron-fire-drives?' He silenced himself, ashamed at having shown himself so carried away.
'Let us not go there now,' she told him quickly; 'it is better that we go first to my hogahn. The horses are tired.'
'You are right. Are there more than five hundred houses?'
'Yes, a few more. The iron-fire-drives goes by many times a day; it goes that way to Washindon and that way to Wide Water. Any one may see it. Come now.'
They gave the town a wide berth, trotting east past the end of the irrigated land along a trail between two buttes. About three miles farther on, where the clay walls widened again to face the southern desert, an adobe shack stood in the shadow of one wall. Behind it a tiny spring leaked out. Here they dismounted.
'But this is not a hogahn, it is a house. Did an American make it?'
'No, a Mexican built it. He went away to herd sheep, and I took it.'
He stepped inside. 'It does not smell like Mexicans.'
'I have been here a long time. Yellow Singer made the House Song for me. Is it not good? The door is to the east, like a hogahn.'
'Yes, it is good. It is better than a hogahn, I think; it is bigger and the rain will not come through. It will be good summer and winter.' He hobbled the horses. 'There is not much grass by that spring; we shall have to find pasture.'
'There is a little pasture just down there you can use. You must not let the horses run all over the place; this is American country. The Navajo country begins across the railroad track. There is good pasture just this side of Natahnetinn Mesa, enough for many horses. You must keep them up there.'
She lit a fire in front of the house.
'You have no loom. There is no sheep-pen.'
'I have been alone. I have had no one to weave for, and no sheep.'
'How do you live?'
She was laying the big logs over the first flame.
'I work a little bit, now and then, for the missionary's wife in the town. She is a good woman. Now I am going to set up a loom, and you shall have a forge.'
He thought that something was wrong. Her face was too blank. 'Not all missionaries are good, they say. There used to be a bad one at T'o Nanasdési, they say.'
'No, not all of them are good; but this one is.' She spoke musingly. 'His wife pays me much money. She is not strong; I am.'
Her strange, pensive smile troubled him. He thought how beautiful she was. He thought again of the magician's daughter. He did not care what bad magic she might do to him; just she was worth all other things.
Sprawled out on his saddle-blanket, he watched as she brought food from the house and began to prepare it. Her movements were like grass in the wind. He eyed a banquet of luxuryâcanned goods, tomatoes, fruit.
'Perhaps when we go into the town to-morrow we can buy some candy.'
She thought, he must be kept away from town. I must think of something. 'I have a little here.'
'Sticks with stripes on them?'
'Yes.'
He sighed luxuriously. The food on the fire smelt good. It was cool. With a couple of ditches one could make a good cornfield by that spring, and plant peaches, perhaps. If they were to have food like this all the timeâIt was important to find that pasture for the horses, he must tend to it to-morrow. The town could wait. A swift movement caught his eye, lifting the coffee-pot aside.
Ei!
she was beautiful.
Â
V
Â
They talked as they ate, lounging,
hotel-station, the green strip behind it, yellow-grey sand, and farther, dancing buttes in the mirage.
Laughing Boy's attention was divided. 'Do these iron paths run all the way to Washindon? That is a beautiful place; there must be much water there. I have never seen so many houses; how many are there? Five hundred? I should like to go there. Are there many trading posts, or just one? Those are rich fields. Can one come here and see the iron-fire-drives?' He silenced himself, ashamed at having shown himself so carried away.
'Let us not go there now,' she told him quickly; 'it is better that we go first to my hogahn. The horses are tired.'
'You are right. Are there more than five hundred houses?'
'Yes, a few more. The iron-fire-drives goes by many times a day; it goes that way to Washindon and that way to Wide Water. Any one may see it. Come now.'
They gave the town a wide berth, trotting east past the end of the irrigated land along a trail between two buttes. About three miles farther on, where the clay walls widened again to face the southern desert, an adobe shack stood in the shadow of one wall. Behind it a tiny spring leaked out. Here they dismounted.
'But this is not a hogahn, it is a house. Did an American make it?'
'No, a Mexican built it. He went away to herd sheep, and I took it.'
He stepped inside. 'It does not smell like Mexicans.'
'I have been here a long time. Yellow Singer made the House Song for me. Is it not good? The door is to the east, like a hogahn.'
'Yes, it is good. It is better than a hogahn, I think; it is bigger and the rain will not come through. It will be good summer and winter.' He hobbled the horses. 'There is not much grass by that spring; we shall have to find pasture.'
'There is a little pasture just down there you can use. You must not let the horses run all over the place; this is American country. The Navajo country begins across the railroad track. There is good pasture just this side of Natahnetinn Mesa, enough for many horses. You must keep them up there.'
She lit a fire in front of the house.
'You have no loom. There is no sheep-pen.'
'I have been alone. I have had no one to weave for, and no sheep.'
'How do you live?'
She was laying the big logs over the first flame.
'I work a little bit, now and then, for the missionary's wife in the town. She is a good woman. Now I am going to set up a loom, and you shall have a forge.'
He thought that something was wrong. Her face was too blank. 'Not all missionaries are good, they say. There used to be a bad one at T'o Nanasdési, they say.'
'No, not all of them are good; but this one is.' She spoke musingly. 'His wife pays me much money. She is not strong; I am.'
Her strange, pensive smile troubled him. He thought how beautiful she was. He thought again of the magician's daughter. He did not care what bad magic she might do to him; just she was worth all other things.
Sprawled out on his saddle-blanket, he watched as she brought food from the house and began to prepare it. Her movements were like grass in the wind. He eyed a banquet of luxuryâcanned goods, tomatoes, fruit.
'Perhaps when we go into the town to-morrow we can buy some candy.'
She thought, he must be kept away from town. I must think of something. 'I have a little here.'
'Sticks with stripes on them?'
'Yes.'
He sighed luxuriously. The food on the fire smelt good. It was cool. With a couple of ditches one could make a good cornfield by that spring, and plant peaches, perhaps. If they were to have food like this all the timeâIt was important to find that pasture for the horses, he must tend to it to-morrow. The town could wait. A swift movement caught his eye, lifting the coffee-pot aside.
Ei!
she was beautiful.
Â
V
Â
They talked as they ate, lounging,
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