The Night the White Deer Died Read Online Free PDF Page A

making things almost visible so that the words seemed to come to life. “I saw you in the plaza when you saw me but didn’t call and went into the eating place. You watched me through the window while you ate.”
    She started. “I didn’t think you saw me. I mean …”
    “That night I got some wine from Corky, and me and two other fellas we sat down by a little water, and we got drunk and sang, all down by the creek between town and the pueblo.” His eyes perked, took on a half-sideways, wizened look. “Maybe so if you’d talked to me in the park, I wouldn’t have gone down by the creek and gotten drunk on the cheap wine with the fellas.”
    “Oh, no.” Janet shook her head. “I’m not going for that. It’s not my fault you got wine and got drunk—not at all.”
    He smiled. Suddenly a quick jerk of his lips—out and back. “Come. Let’s walk.”
    Before she could answer, he started off down the road, not toward town but away, and without knowing for certain why she was doing it, Janet opened the gate on the courtyard and followed him. It was hot now, very hot, and his step-shuffle kicked up small puffs of dust with each step, and she caught herself staring down at them as she followed him.
    He walked that way for nearly a quarter of a mile without speaking to her, and Janet was on the edge of getting angry when he stopped and turned so fast she nearly bumped into him.
    “You ever been to the pueblo?” He pointed with a graceful wave on down the road where the pueblo lay, about two miles out of town. “You ever see where Indi’n live?”
    She shook her head. “Well, once. I almost forgot. When we first came to Tres Pinos, Mother and I drove out there to take some pictures, but there was some kind of dance or celebration going on and we couldn’t get in because … because we’re white. Anglo.”
    “No.” He shook his head. “Not because you’re Anglo.”
    “Yes …”
    “No! It was because you’re
not
Indi’n that you couldn’t come in. There’s a big difference.”
    He turned and shuffled off again in the direction ofthe Indian town, and Janet followed, exasperated. He had the most maddening way of stopping in what seemed like the middle of a discussion, stopping when he’d finished talking and not waiting to see what she had to say about it.
    “You’re pretty,” he said suddenly over his shoulder without stopping or turning. “You know that?”
    “I … I never really thought about it before.”
    “That’s a lie.”
    “Well—what did you expect me to say? That’s kind of a strange thing to say, isn’t it? Right out of the blue like that.”
    “Don’t lie. You know you’re pretty, say it. You never have to lie.”
    “All right! I’m pretty—I guess. There, are you satisfied?”
    “Not for me,” he said, still over his shoulder while he walked. “For you. You got pretty hair. Long, straight.”
    When he didn’t say anything further, Janet thought he expected an answer, and she fairly yelled at him.
    “I
know
I’ve got pretty hair. I comb it every morning. Yes, it’s pretty hair.”
    “Pretty chin, too.”
    “I
know
I’ve got a pretty chin.…”
    “No. Too square. Don’t lie. Think. Your chin isn’t pretty, just your hair.”
    She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have heard a faint chuckle before he resumed silence andthe quick little steps that took them on out of Tres Pinos on a narrow road lined with tall cottonwoods dropping fluff and coolness on them as they moved. When it seemed to Janet that she couldn’t go much farther, he stopped.
    “See? Indi’n house, where I live.”
    Janet pulled up and looked, and sure enough, they were at the entrance of the pueblo. The two miles had taken practically no time to cover, and she wasn’t even breathing hard—though she was perspiring heavily.
    The pueblo was beautiful, ancient and beautiful sitting in the hot sun. It was made all of adobe construction, and the color was a subtle beige-red earth