The land lay dead in the heat of the sun, bone dry and thick with greasewood and prickly pear and tall saguaro that looked like fence posts growing wild. Henry Mendez did a good job driving through this, but it took forever. You would look ahead and see an outcropping of rock or a scattering of Joshua trees that looked only a few hundred yards off, but it would take even an hour to reach them and after passing them there would be other marks on the land, like a strangely shaped giant saguaro or more Joshuas or yucca, that would take forever to reach and finally pass. There was nothing to look at, nothing to look forward to.
We stopped to alternate the horses once during the morning, discovering only two waterskins on the back end. We had left one, more than half full, at the San Pete mine.
We stopped again at noon, all of us standing by the coach waiting for the coffee water to boil, Mendez unhitching the teams and feeding them from morrals, Mendez probably waiting for one of the passengers to say this was crazy and why didn’t we go back to the stage road? Lose a day, but at least not have to put up with this. But no one said it.
It was strange. There was Mrs. Favor saying it was hot, saying it different ways, but not seeming to mind it. She would glance now and then at the McLaren girl, probably still wondering what the Indians did to her, then look at Braden who had turned quiet today and seemed a different person, as if the effects of whisky had worn off him (though I am not saying he showed any signs of drunkenness the day before). There was the McLaren girl, seeming to be the most patient, aside from Russell (how could it bother him to be out here), and Dr. Favor who watched Mendez, trying to hurry him with his eyes. Nobody asked Mendez if we might get lost or break down. Nobody seemed worried at all. Not even about having left some of our water behind at the San Pete.
We went on, and it was afternoon before we got out of that flat country. Mendez saw the road again up on the slope, a trace of it cutting through the brush, and headed for it. You could see the hills getting bigger and clearer as we approached, shadowed and dark with brush and washes, but up above the peaks looked bare and silent in the sunlight.
We got up to the road and followed it easily for a while, but then it started to climb again, getting higher up into the hills, and finally Mendez pulled in the team.
He leaned down and said, “Everybody takes a nice walk. To the top of the grade.”
We got out, all of us looking up, seeing a pretty steep section ahead. Russell was already walking up it, I guess making sure there weren’t any washouts we couldn’t see from here. The slope wasn’t too steep, but Mendez, you could tell, was thinking of the horses.
So we waited until the coach and trailing horses were past us a ways and then started up. Dr. Favor took his wife’s arm as if to help her walking, but I think it was so she wouldn’t wander off. Frank Braden stood there to make a cigarette, so I fell in with the McLaren girl, thinking hard of something to say. But I didn’t have to think for more than a few steps.
She said, “He doesn’t look Apache, does he?” as if she’d started right in the middle of her thoughts.
But even that abruptly I knew she was talking about Russell. No question about it. She was squinting a little in the sunlight, looking at him way up on the road.
“You should have seen him a few weeks ago,” I said.
She looked at me, waiting for me to explain, and I was a little sorry I’d said it. Still, it was a fact.
“He looked like any other Indian on Army pay.”
“Then he is Apache?”
“Well, maybe you can’t answer that yes or no.”
She was frowning a little. “Mr. Mendez said he isn’t. That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Well, he wasn’t born one. But he’s lived with them so long, I mean by his own choice, that maybe he is one by now.”
“But why,” she said, “would anybody want to be one?”
“That’s it,” I said. “Wanting to be one is just as bad as being one. Maybe worse.”
“But wanting to live the way they do,” she said.
“You’d have to see things with his eyes to understand that.”
“I think I’d be afraid to,” she said.
I wanted to say that I didn’t think she’d be afraid of anything after what she’d been through, but then thought it best to stay wide of that subject. It could be embarrassing for her. She had talked a little about it in the coach and hadn’t seemed embarrassed, but still there could be touchy things. It was like being with a person who has a great big nose or something. You don’t want to get caught looking at the nose or even saying the word. (I hope no one reading this who might have a big nose will take offense. I wasn’t making fun of noses.)
The trailing horses were still on the grade, but the coach had passed over the crest and stopped. You could only see the top part of it at first. The road leveled into pinyon and a lot of brush, and on the right side, slanting down at the coach, was a steep cutbank about seven or eight feet high.
“I guess we can get in again,” the girl said.
I heard her, but I was watching Mendez. He was looking up at the top of the bank.
We walked around the trailing horses and I looked up there too. My first thought was, what is Russell doing sitting up there? And where did he get the rifle?
Then I saw Russell, not on the cutbank but beyond the Favors and up by the teams. Near him, at the banked side of the road was another man, holding a revolver. I guess the McLaren girl saw them the same time I did, but she didn’t let out a peep.
What is there to say, for that matter? You walk up a road out in the middle of nowhere and there are two armed men waiting for you. Even though you know something is wrong, you act as if this happens every day and twice on Sunday. I mean you don’t get excited or act surprised. You just hold yourself in and maybe they will go away if you don’t admit they are there. You don’t think at the time: I am afraid. You are too busy acting natural.
The man on the bank came down to the edge and squatted there holding the rifle (it was a Henry) on us until we were up even with the coach. Then he jumped down to the road, almost falling, and as he stood up I recognized him at once.
It was the one named Lamarr Dean who rode for Mr. Wolgast. And the other one up by Russell, sure enough, was Early. The same two who had been at Delgado’s the first time I ever saw John Russell.
What if they recognize him, I thought. Not—what’s going on? Or what are they doing here? But—what if they recognize him? I couldn’t help thinking that first because I remembered so well how Russell had broken that whisky glass against Lamarr Dean’s mouth. Lamarr Dean must have remembered it even better. But he hadn’t recognized him. Early hadn’t either, else he wouldn’t have just been standing there holding that long-barreled revolver.
Mendez, looking down at Lamarr Dean, said, “You better think before you do something.”
“Step down off there and don’t worry about it,” Lamarr Dean said. Mendez climbed down and Lamarr Dean looked over toward us. He waited; I didn’t know why until Braden came up past us and Lamarr Dean’s eyes followed him. He said, “We like to not made it.”
“I kept thinking,” Braden said, “they got some catching up to do once they find the way.”
“When you didn’t come by the main road.” Lamarr Dean said, “we went back to Delgado’s early this morning. I said to him, ‘Are we hearing things or was that a coach passed us last night?’ He said, ‘You must have been hearing things; there was a coach but it wasn’t on the main road.’ ‘Which way did it go?’ I said and that was when he told me you’d taken this other way and I’ll tell you we done some riding.”
I kept looking at Braden all the time Lamarr Dean was talking. Maybe you aren’t surprised now why Braden took the stage in the first place and was so anxious to be on it when we left Sweetmary. It is easy to think back and say I knew it all the time. But I’ll tell you I couldn’t believe it at first. Braden was not a person you liked, but he was one of us, a passenger like everybody e
lse, and, when he showed himself to be part of this holdup, it must have surprised the others as much as it did me. Though at the time I didn’t look to see their reaction. Too much was going on.
Early came over, not saying anything, his face dark with beard growth. He was prodding Russell ahead of him.
Then another man appeared. He looked like a Mexican and wore a straw hat. He was mounted and walked his horse out of the trees, leading two other saddled horses, and stood there in front of the teams. I noticed he wore two .44 revolvers.
Lamarr Dean stood with his hand through the lever of the Henry, his finger on the trigger, but the barrel pointed down and almost touching the ground.
“Old Dr. Favor’s pretending he don’t see us,” Lamarr Dean said.
He moved me aside and motioned the McLaren girl over against the cutbank. “You all spread out so I can see my old friend.” Dean was looking directly at Dr. Favor then. “Things start to close in on you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid you’re beyond me,” Dr. Favor said, though not sounding surprised.
“Ahead of you,” Lamarr Dean said. “I’ve seen this coming for two, three months.”
“You’ve seen what coming?”
“Frank, he’s still pretending.”
Braden came up beside Lamarr Dean. “He’s used to it.”
“We’re going to Bisbee,” Dr. Favor said. “On business. We’ll be there two days at most.”
“No,” Lamarr Dean said. “You’ll be there just long enough to get a ride south. You’ll hole up in Mexico or else get a boat in Vera Cruz and head out.”
“You’re sure of that,” Dr. Favor said.
“That’s how it’s done.”
“And if I deny it, tell you we’re going back in two days?”
“What’s the sense?”
“He should be over here with a gun,” Braden said.
“No,” Lamarr Dean said. “He uses his ink pen. All you do is write down a higher beef tally than what comes in. Pay the trail driver U.S. government scrip for what’s delivered and keep the over-payment. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“Like he never saw you before,” Braden said.
Lamarr Dean looked at Mrs. Favor. “You pretending too?”
“I know you,” she said, pretty calmly, considering everything. “But I don’t remember him,” nodding to Braden.
“No, Frank wasn’t anywhere near. He was still in Yuma then.”
“I guess that’s enough,” Braden said. “We got things to do.”
“I was just trying to understand it,” Mrs. Favor said easily. Her eyes shifted to Lamarr Dean who she knew by now was the talker among them. “You were working for the man who had the contract to supply beef.”
“Mr. Wolgast.”
“And you found out about my husband.”
“Audra,” Dr. Favor said, sounding unconcerned but hardly taking his eyes from Lamarr Dean or Braden, while the rest of us couldn’t help but watch him. (My gosh, the things we were learning all of a sudden!) “Audra,” he said, “you know we don’t have to talk about our personal business to these people.”
Braden moved away. “Let’s get to it,” he said and nodded to Early who started unhitching the team horses. As he stripped off the harness and brought them out, slapping them and keeping them moving, the Mexican, who was still mounted, bunched the horses and started them along.
The road formed two tracks out across a grassy meadow that was wide, pretty wide across and stetched on at least a mile with slopes rising up on both sides. As soon as the Mexican was off a ways, Early mounted up again and started after him.
Braden was behind the coach now and we saw just part of him as he yanked down the canvas and started pulling the bags off.
Lamarr Dean started looking us over then, I mean to see if we were armed. He took a revolver from inside Dr. Favor’s coat, a small caliber gun that he studied for a minute then threw off into the brush on the other side of the road. He went on to Mendez, passing Mrs. Favor and the McLaren girl, and Mendez opened his coat to show he was unarmed.
“What about up in the boot?” Lamarr Dean asked.
“A shotgun,” Mendez said.
“See it stays there and you here,” Lamarr Dean said. He came on to me and I opened my coat as Mendez had done.
As Lamarr Dean looked me over Mendez said, “You think it’s worth it? You won’t be able to show your face again.”
“I appreciate it,” Lamarr said, “but don’t give me no advice please.”
“I would bet you’re dead or arrested in two weeks,” Mendez said.
Lamarr glanced at him now. “You won’t have nothing to bet with.”
“All right, then remember it,” Mendez said. “You already have witnesses.”
“I don’t see any,” Lamarr Dean said. Braden came from behind the coach with a leather satchel. “Frank, you see any witnesses?”
“Not here,” Braden said. He knelt down to open the satchel.
Lamarr Dean moved on to Russell. “This one doesn’t look like any witness to me. Mister,” Lamarr said, “are you a witness?” He pulled Russell’s Colt as he said it and flung it backhanded, high up so that it glinted with the sun catching it, and down the road, bouncing and skidding way down it.
But Lamarr Dean wasn’t watching the gun. He was staring at Russell, up close to him and squinting, looking right in his face.
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” Lamarr said. The way he said it you knew it bothered him. He waited for Russell to help him, but Russell didn’t say a word. They stared at each other and every second you expected Lamarr to remember that day at Delgado’s, and you could just imagine him suddenly swinging that Henry rifle up and giving Russell the same thing Russell gave him, or worse.
Or Braden might say something about “the Indian” and then Lamarr Dean would remember. You waited for that to happen too. But, when Braden looked up, the bag open on the ground in front of him, he said, “I’d say it was a good day’s pay.”
Lamarr Dean looked from Braden over to Dr. Favor. “How much you steal so we won’t have to count it?”
Dr. Favor didn’t say anything. He was a man in a dark suit and hat standing there watching, with one thumb hooked in a vest pocket and the other hand at his side. The McLaren girl, Mrs. Favor, Mendez, John Russell—all of them in fact just stood there patiently, as if they had stopped by to watch but didn’t have anything to do with what was going on.
“He figures he’s helped out enough without giving us a tally,” Braden said. He rose, handing the satchel to Dean who took it and transferred the currency to his saddlebags.
“About twelve thousand I figured,” Lamarr Dean said.
“Somewhere around it,” Braden said.
“He did all right,” Lamarr Dean said. “But I guess we did better.” He saw Braden looking at the two horses that still trailed the coach on a line. “What do you think?” he said then.
“I guess they’ll do.” Braden looked up at the coach. “And the two saddles.”
Lamarr Dean looked at him. “What do you need two for?”
“You’ll see,” Braden said. He motioned to me. “You get them down.”
That’s how I came to be up on the coach when they rode out. I threw down Braden’s saddle, then Russell’s, looking at him as I did.
Russell watched, not saying a word as Braden freed the line and pulled in the horses and slipped the hackamores off them. He put his own saddle on one horse and told Russell to put his on the other.
Right then I thought, they’re taking Russell along as a hostage. It made sense; they hadn’t bothered us up to now, but they certainly weren’t going to be so kind as to just ride off. Which turned out to be right. Only it wasn’t Russell they took.
It was Mrs. Favor. Braden brought the horse over to her and said, “I thought you’d come along with us a ways,” sounding nice about it.
And just as nice she said, “I’d better not,” as if they were discussing it and she had a choice.
“I’ll be all right here,” Mrs. Favor said.
Braden stared at her. “You’re coming, one way or the other.” And that was the end of the discussion.
He helped her up, Mrs. Favor holding the skirt to cover her legs as she sat the saddle, and they moved off down the road. Braden stayed close to her and neither of them looked back. We all kept watching, nobody saying anything. Dr. Favor in fact didn’t say anything even before, when Braden was forcing his wife to go with him.
Lamarr Dean mounted up then. He sat there cradling the Henry across his arms, looking down at the people there and finally up to me, thinking about something, maybe wanting to be sure he hadn’t made any mistakes.
He thought of one thing. “The shotgun,” he said. “Open it up and throw it away.”
I climbed down to the driver’s seat and did as I was told, emptying both shells before heaving the gun off into the brush. Lamarr Dean nodded. He wheeled around and took off after Braden and Mrs. Favor, not hurrying though.
By now Braden and Mrs. Favor were about a hundred yards off, out in the wide-open part of the meadow. Way off beyond them there was just dust to show that Early and the Mexican were up there somewhere driving the horse teams.
I felt the coach shake; I remember that. But I didn’t look around till a moment later. When I did, there was John Russell kneeling on the roof right behind me unbuckling the cartridge belt from his blanket roll. He glanced up, keeping an eye on Dean who was taking his time moving away from us. Russell slipped the Spencer out, looking at Lamarr Dean again, and that was when he spoke.
He said, “How do they get that sure of themselves?”
I didn’t know what he meant, and certainly couldn’t believe he intended to shoot Lamarr Dean. I said, “What?”
“How do they get that sure with the mistakes they make?” Already he was slipping a cartridge into the breech, loading it quick for single fire. I guess I didn’t say anything then.
He was busy and it was like he was telling it to himself. “Luck then,” he said. “They think they know how to do it, but it’s luck.” I saw him slip three cartridges from the belt and hold them in his left hand. All of a sudden he held still.
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