“He promised Ish-kay-nay that he would return with the full moon,” said the old man, “but the time is almost gone and nothing has been heard of him. Perhaps he will not return.”
Cunning, unscrupulous, Juh seized upon his opportunity. “He will not return,” he said. “Shoz-Dijiji is dead.” The old man looked pleased. “In Sonora he was killed by the Mexicans. There we were told that a young warrior had been killed while attempting to drive off a bunch of horses. We did not know who he was until we found his pony. It was lame. We brought it with us. Talk with the girl. If she will feed and water my pony, come to me. Juh will give the father of Ish-kay-nay fifteen ponies.”
“The other was to have given me fifty,” said the old man.
Juh laughed. “That was talk,” he said. “How could he give you fifty ponies when he had but three? I have fifteen ponies; that is better than fifty that do not exist.”
“You have more than fifteen ponies,” the old man reminded him.
“Yes, I have many more, and I am a great chief. Juh can do many things for the father of Ish-kay-nay.”
“Twenty-five ponies,” suggested the other, preferring twenty-five ponies to the chance that Juh would forget the less concrete suggestion of future obligation.
“Fifteen ponies and five mules,” said Juh.
“Twenty-five ponies. The girl is a good daughter. My heart will be heavy with sorrow when she is gone.”
“Twenty ponies and five mules,” snapped Juh with finality, turning upon his heel.