The packers, their eyes closed and their bodies tight against the mules while the firing was going on, smiled at John Russell and laughed with relief at their fear when it was over. And, when they returned to the main column, they told how this one had fought like three men against ten times as many of the barbarians. From then on, among the Apache Police at San Carlos, the trackers at Fort Apache and Cibucu, John Russell was known as Tres Hombres.
But knowing all this wasn’t the same as seeing things through his eyes. Maybe his past relations with white people explained why he acted the way he did, why he didn’t speak up now, but I’m not sure. Maybe you can see it.
It was colder later on, so I got the two robes from the floor and handed one of them to Dr. Favor. He took it and his wife spread it out so it would cover Frank Braden too. I unfolded the other robe for our seat. There was the soft clicking sound of the McLaren girl’s beads as she raised her hands. She gathered the end of the robe close to her, wedging it against her leg and not offering any of it to John Russell. I even had the feeling she had moved closer to me, but I wasn’t sure.
I heard Dr. Favor say something to his wife; the sound not the words. She told him not to be silly. I asked the McLaren girl if she was comfortable. She said, yes, thank you. Mostly though, no one spoke. It was a lot colder and the canvas curtains, that were all the way down now, would be flat one minute, then snap and billow out with the wind and through the opening you could see the darkness and shapes now and then going by alongside the road.
Frank Braden had eased lower in the seat and his head was very close to Mrs. Favor’s. He said something to her, a low murmur. She laughed, not out loud, almost to herself, but you could hear it. Her head moved to his and she said one word or maybe a couple. Their faces were close together for a long time, maybe even touching, and yet her husband was right there. Figure that one out.
We came in to Delgado’s Station with the slowing, braking sound of the coach coming off the slope that stretched out toward a wall of trees and the adobes that showed faintly against the trees. The coach kept rolling slower and slower and slower, with the sound of the horses getting clear and heavy, and finally we stopped. We sat there in silence and when Mrs. Favor said, “Where are we?” in just a whisper, it sounded loud inside that coach in the darkness. No one answered until we heard Henry Mendez outside.
“Delgado!” he yelled.
Then close on it came the sound of his steps and the door opened. “Delgado’s Station,” Mendez said. He stood there holding his leather bag. Beyond him, a man was coming out of the adobe carrying a lantern.
“Mendez?” The man raised the lantern.
“Who else?” Mendez said. “You still got horses?”
“For a few more days,” Delgado, the station-master, answered.
“Change them for these.”
“You got a stage?”
“A long story,” Mendez said. “Get your woman to make coffee.”
Delgado was frowning. He wore pants with striped suspenders over his underwear. “How do I know you’re coming?”
“Just move your people,” Mendez said. He turned to the coach again. “You wash at the bench by the door. You follow the path around back for other things.” He offered his hand and Mrs. Favor got out. Then the McLaren girl.
“Twice in one night,” Delgado said. “An hour ago we are in bed and three men come by.”
“You should have stayed up,” Mendez said.
Mr. Favor was just getting out of the coach. “Did you know them?” he asked.
“Some riders.”
“But did you know them?”
Delgado looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think they work for Mr. Wolgast.”
“Is that usual,” Dr. Favor said, “them coming by this time of night?”
“Man, it happens,” Delgado said. “People go by here.”
By the time I went around back and came out again, just Mendez and Russell were standing there. Mendez took a bottle that looked like brandy out of his leather bag and both of them had a long drink.
Two boys, in shirts and pants but barefooted, came out of the adobe. Both of them smiled at Mendez and one of them called, “Hey, Tio, what have you got?”
“Something for your grease pails,” Mendez said, “and the need of clean horses.” The boys ran off again, around the adobe, and Mendez turned to John Russell again.
“How do you like a mud wagon?”
Russell said something in Spanish.
“How do you like it in English?” Mendez said.
“That again,” Russell said.
“Practice, uh? Then you get good.”
“Maybe if I don’t speak it’s better.”
“And what does that mean?” Mendez asked.
Russell didn’t say anything. One of the boys came running out again with a bucket and Mendez said, “Paint them good, chico.”
“This costs more at night,” the boy said, still smiling, as if still smiling from before.
“I’ll pay you with something,” Mendez said. He took a swipe at the boy with the leather bag, but the boy got past him. Then he offered the brandy to Russell again. “For the dust,” he said. “Or whatever reason you want.”
While Russell was taking a drink, Mendez saw me and offered me one, so I joined them and had a swallow. It was all right, except it was so hot. I don’t know how they took the big swigs they did. Mendez took his turn then handed the bottle to Russell and went into the adobe.
The Mexican boy with the grease pail was working on the front wheels now. The other boy had unhitched the lead team and was taking the horses off. We watched them a while. Then I said, “How come you didn’t tell them?”
He looked at me, holding the bottle. “Tell them what?”
“That you’re not what they think.”
His eyes looked at me another second. Then he took a drink of the brandy.
“You want to go in?” I said. He just shrugged.
We went in then-into a low-ceilinged room that was lighted by one lantern hanging from a beam; the lantern had smoked and there was still the oil smell of it in the room.
The Favors and the McLaren girl and Braden were sitting at the main table, a long plank one in the middle of the room. Mendez stood there like he had been talking to them. But he moved away as we came in and motioned us over to a table by the kitchen door. Delgado’s wife came out with a pot of coffee, but went over to the main table before pouring us some. Mendez waited, looking at Russell all the while, until she went out to the kitchen again.
“They think you’re Apache,” he said.
Russell didn’t say anything. He was looking at the brandy bottle as if reading the small print. Mendez picked up the brandy and poured some of it in his coffee.
“You hear what I said?”
“Does it make a difference?” Russell said then.
“Dr. Favor says you shouldn’t ride in the coach,” Mendez said. “That’s the difference.”
Russell’s eyes raised to Mendez. “They all say that?”
“Listen, you wanted to ride with me before.”
“Do they all say I shouldn’t be in the coach?”
Mendez nodded. “Dr. Favor said they agreed to it. I said this boy isn’t Apache, did you ask if he was? Did you ask him anything? But this Favor says he isn’t going to argue about it.”
Russell kept looking at Mendez. “What did you say?”
“Well-I don’t know,” Mendez said. “Why have people unhappy? Why not just”-he shrugged-“let them have their way? It isn’t a big thing. I mean I don’t know if it’s something worth making trouble about. He’s got this in his mind now and we don’t have time to convince him of the truth. So why should we let it worry us, uh?”