BACKFIRE (Continued from page 7) buck you ever saw showed me a silver ring, with a low mountain turquoise. Mighty pretty thing ought to sell for fifteen twenty dollars. Course, he don't know that proba-bly traded a beaded bag for it. It's a damned crying shame the conception that these Cheyennes have of the value of money." Much as he tried to repress it, Jeff's face* grew greedily eager as he listened to the account of Stinking Horse's latest acquisition. His expression was not lost on Harmony, who was watching him closely. Soon, Jeff broke in to ask, in a casually conversational tone, "By the way, jist as a mattah of curiosity, how d'you tell a real, good turquoise?" "Easiest thing in the world, Mister Davis. Just put a little oil on the stone. If she turns black, she's a real low mountain, and worth pretty good money." He glanced briefly at Jeff, who was slowly nodding his head and running his tongue around the edges of his yellow teeth. Harmony put out a big, bony hand, and Jeff gripped it absent-mindedly as Harmony remarked, "Gotta be gittin' on with the mail. See you again real soon. I know you'll have success here. Goodbye." He hurried out, and took the mail up to the agency. Then he saddled his nag and rode out on the reservation to find Stinking Horse. A couple of weeks afterwards, Jeff Davis, who "happened" to be riding the reservation, "happened" to stop in for a drink at the square unpainted little shack, where Stinking Horse existed with his fat, brown squaw and his seven fat, brown children. Stinking Horse was taking the sun. He sat on an old wooden beer case by the front door; his broad-brimmed hat with a scarlet band and a creaseless crown was pushed back on his slick, black hair, which hung in two long, tightly wrapped braids down the grimy front of his purple silk shirt. His bandy legs were bare, for his squaw sat just inside the door, making abortive attempts to sew a tiny patch over a great jagged hole in the seat of his only trousers. His face was like a rock. His nose was huge and flat, and his black eyes were lost in the oblivion of their great sunken sockets. His mouth, with its protruding lower lip and pulled down corners, gave a childish, pouting expression to his almost idiotically stupid face. On the little finger of a sun-blackened hand, that contrasted sharply with the white skin of the knee upon which it rested, was a silver ring with a turquoise setting. Jeff dismounted awkwardly, and sidled up to where Stinking Horse sat, like a stone image, on his beer case. Dropping his drawl in the face of such profound ignorance, Jeff addressed his red brother with condescending courtesy. "Could you give me a drink, my friend? Pretty hot riding today." His tone was growing oily. Stinking Horse spoke not a word, but made a peremptory motion toward his wife, who rose hastily and brought a cracked porcelain dipper full of lukewarm water. Jeff glanced at the dirty-mouthed children, turned the dipper round and drank with the handle in his left hand. He handed back the dipper and smiled gratefully at Stinking Horse, whose mouth twitched a little at the edges in a faint response. Encouraged, Jeff offered his hand and said, "I'm Jeff Davis. Many thanks for the drink." "I'm Stinking Horse," said the Indian briefly, as his expression began to melt into a semblance of friendship. "It's a pleasure to know you. Me, I'm a newcomer here. Pretty green, I guess. Don't know much about the people." "People here are easy to like," remarked Stinking Horse in a colorless monotone. Jeff nodded smilingly, looked at the Indian's hand, and, mustering a matter-of-fact-air, said, "That's a mighty colorful ring you're wearing. Ain't it wonderful how pretty this ten cent store jewelry is sometimes?" "This is Indian made. Friend of mine Apache brought it from Santa Fe. Gave it to me. And a bag of these green rocks." Jeff's heart jumped. A bag of turquoises. Probably five hundred dollars' worth. Maybe more. Probably more. But his voice was mild and uninterested. "That's foolish. What's the use of a lot of rocks if they ain't made into rings? Did you keep them?" "You bet!" Stinking Horse grinned. "They're real pretty. I hid 'em." Jeff was itching to see them, but he knew how to play his cards. "Well, time to get a goin'." He peered into the dimness of the shack. The squaw had given up her patching job, and was listlessly stirring something over an old wood stove. "If you can slip away from the little woman some night, might come in and see me. I have the jewelry store in Half Breed Crossing. Oh, and by the way, if you come, bring the green rocks. I ain't never seen any, and I bet they are kinda pretty." Jeff clambered into his saddle and plip-plopped away over the hard, dusty prairie. Stinking Horse sat, still grinning, and watched him fade out of sight among the scattered scrub-oak, and the tiny red whirlwinds of dust and grass that hurried, like whirling dervishes, over the reservation. Jeff's carelessly worded invitation bore an early harvest. Late the next afternoon, when he had closed his shop, and was sitting on the counter with his shoes off, blissfully scratching his toes, he heard a tap-tapping on the pane of the tiny dust covered window at the back of the building. He wiped a spot clean with his fist, and his gaze tumbled headlong into the cavernous sockets of Stinking Horse's black eyes Stinking Horse, who stood, swaying like an elephant, amidst the rusty cans, broken bottles, and dead cats that adorned the alley. He was gloriously and glamorously drunk drunk as only an Indian can be. Cavorting mentally at such unheard-of opportunity, Jeff forced open the back door and stood solicitously aside while Stinking Horse fell through the opening. He smiled mechanically at Jeff, wheeled unsteadily, lurched toward a stout old cane-bottomed armchair that stood in the filth of the rear of the shop, tumbled into it like a potato sack, and promptly passed out, slobbering abundantly at the corners of his thick mouth. On his finger was the turquoise ring, and tucked in his belt was a leather money-bag. Jeff wrung his hands with glee at his good fortune. He bent down, with trembling fingers, and tried to untie the bag from the belt where it had been so securely fastened. But the contact roused Stinking Horse, who muttered unintelligibly (Continued on page 22) Page Eighteen Page Nineteen