Hombre Page 2

  Mr. Mendez was standing there now. He said, “You’re going to do it?”

  “I’m going there to sell the place,” Russell said.

  Mr. Mendez seemed to stare at him for awhile, thinking or just looking, I don’t know which. Finally he said, “It’s up to you. You can be white or Mexican or Indian. But now it pays you to be a white man. To look like a white man for awhile. When you go to Contention, you say, How are you? I’m John Russell. I own the Russell place. Some people will remember you from before; some won’t. But they will all know you as John Russell who owns the Russell place. You look at it. If you don’t like it, sell it. If you like it, keep it, and see what happens and then decide.” Mr. Mendez almost seemed to smile. “Did you know life was that simple?”

  “I’ve learned some things,” John Russell said. “That’s why I sell it.”

  He left his roan horse in front and went with Mr. Mendez back across the street to the Alamosa Hotel. Mr. Mendez hadn’t bothered to introduce us. In fact he had not bothered to look at me at all. Which was all right.

  A little later this Mexican boy who worked for us took Russell’s horse around to the stable. I was in the office then, having given up on seeing the McLaren girl again. The boy came in through the back carrying Russell’s blanket roll and carbine and put them down on the passenger bench. I remember thinking, What will he do without the Spencer if Lamarr Dean or Early are over there at the Alamosa?

  I also remember thinking at the time that dressing like a white man and taking a white man’s name wasn’t ever going to hide the Apache in him. I don’t mean Apache blood. I just mean after the way he had lived, how was he even going to convince anybody he was a white man? He didn’t even prefer to speak English. It was things like that gave you the feeling he had no use for white men or our ways.

  According to Mr. Mendez he was most likely three-parts white, as I have said, and the rest Mexican on his mother’s side. John Russell himself had no memory of his father and only some memory of living in a Mexican village. Probably in Sonora. At that time they say the Apaches were forever raiding the little pueblos and carrying off whatever they needed, clothes, weapons, some women, and sometimes boys young enough to be brought up Apache-style. Which is what must have happened to John Russell. Piecing things together, he must have lived with them about from the time he was six to about age twelve.

  Here is where a James Russell, late of Contention, comes in. At that time he owned supply wagons contracted to the Army, and he was at Fort Thomas when this boy who was called Ish-kay-nay was brought in with some prisoners. The boy was assigned to a work detail under James Russell and that was how the two became friends. Just a month later, when James Russell sold his business and went to settle in Contention, he took the boy with him and gave him his American name, John Russell. Five years or so passed and the boy even went to school there. Then all of a sudden he left and went up to San Carlos and joined the reservation police as if to become Apache again. (Here they called him Tres Hombres, which I will try to tell you about later.)

  Now we are almost up to the present. He was with the police about three years, mostly up at Turkey Creek and Whiteriver. Then he moved again. Off on his own now as a mustanger. (I guess to break horses you don’t have to be halter-broke yourself, because he was pretty good at it Mr. Mendez said.)

  A month ago, then, when Mr. James Russell died, the word was passed to John Russell through Mr. Mendez that he had been left Russell’s place outside Contention. Mr. Mendez wanted to put him on a coach and send him down there in style, but Russell kept backing off. Finally, when he did show up willing, there were no more stagecoaches. As I have explained.

  Hatch & Hodges was leaving Sweetmary partly because there wasn’t enough business from here south; partly because the railroad was taking too much business other places. But that day, all of a sudden, you’d never know we were hard up for business.

  First the McLaren girl had come. Then John Russell. Then, right after he and Mr. Mendez left, a mustered-out soldier from Thomas came in looking for passage to Bisbee. He was going to get married in a week and anxious to get there. I told him how it was and he left, walking over to the hotel.

  It wasn’t long after that Dr. Favor came.

  I had never seen him before, but I had heard of him. So when he came in and introduced himself, I knew this was Dr. Alexander Favor, the Indian Agent at San Carlos.

  His name was heard because San Carlos was so close, but not too much. You heard of Indian Agents if they were very good, like John Clum, or if they were bad and got caught dealing poorly with the Indians for their own personal gain. You heard when they weren’t at the reservation anymore and you heard of the new man arriving. So I didn’t know much about Dr. Favor. Only that he had been up at San Carlos about two years and had a wife that was supposed to be very pretty and about fifteen years younger than he was.

  He came in so unexpectedly I probably acted dumb at first. He stood with his hands and his hat on the counter which separated the waiting room from the office part, looking straight at me and never away. He was a big man, not so tall but heavy, with kind of reddish-brown hair—what there was of it—and a finely-kept half-moon beard on his chin. But no mustache. You have probably seen the style I am talking about.

  He knew the stage line had stopped running. But what about hiring a rig and driver? I told him we were out of business, even for hiring. He said, but what was the possibility? We talked about that for a while and that was when I got the idea of using the mud wagon. Not just for him but for the McLaren girl too, and just like before I could see myself sitting in it with her.

  That’s when I started to get excited about the idea. I wanted to get away from here. Why not in the mud wagon? I could talk to Dr. Favor on the way to Bisbee, which was where he wanted to go, and ask his advice about what business to get into. A man like Dr. Favor would know, and maybe he would even have some good connections. Between that and the idea of seeing the McLaren girl, it sounded better and better and finally I got the Mexican boy, who was out front again, and sent him after Mr. Mendez.

  About fifteen minutes passed. Dr. Favor came through the gate at the end of the counter and sat at Mr. Mendez’s desk. We didn’t talk much and I felt dumb again. Finally Mr. Mendez came in.

  He came right through the gate. I introduced them and Mr. Mendez nodded. Dr. Favor didn’t rise or even reach out his hand.

  He said, “We’re talking about hiring a coach.”

  Mr. Mendez looked at me. “Didn’t Carl tell you? This office is closed.”

  “But you still have a coach here,” Dr. Favor said. “He called it a mud wagon.”

  “That.” Mr. Mendez leaned back against the counter. “We move our office records in it when we leave.”

  “Come back to get them,” Dr. Favor said.

  I said, “They have to be in Bisbee Friday.” That was in three days. I even added, “If they don’t get there, it’ll be too late.”

  Mr. Mendez just shrugged. “If I could do something—”

  I said, “Why not use the mud wagon and come back? We could do that without any trouble.”

  Mr. Mendez was probably already mad because I was talking up, but he still looked patient. He said, “And who would drive it?”

  “I could do it,” I said. Which just came to me that moment.

  “Do you think the company would put an inexperienced driver on a run like that?”

  “Well,” I said, “how do you get experience?”

  “All of a sudden you want to be a driver.”

  “I’m trying to help Dr. Favor. If he has to be in Bisbee, I think the company should see he gets there.”

  “Within the company’s power,” Mr. Mendez said, still patient. “I think you and I can discuss this another time, uh?”

  “That doesn’t help Dr. Favor any.”

  Dr. Favor said, “What if I’m willing to let him drive?”

  “You might also be willing to bring suit if something happens,
” Mr. Mendez said.

  “If I bought the rig?” Dr. Favor said.

  But Mr. Mendez shook his head. “It’s not mine to sell.”

  “Then if I paid more than just our fares.”

  “You’re anxious to get there,” Mr. Mendez said.

  “I thought you understood that.”

  Mr. Mendez nodded his head to the side. “Isn’t that your buggy by the hotel? Use that.”

  “It’s government property,” Dr. Favor said. “There’s a regulation about using it for private matters.”

  “We have regulations too.”

  “How much do you want?” Dr. Favor seemed just as patient as Mr. Mendez.

  “Well, if there was a driver here.”

  “Then it comes down to a driver.”

  “And horses. We would have to get four, six horses.”

  “All right, get them.”

  “But I couldn’t take responsibility for them,” Mr. Mendez said. “Now there are no change stations working. The same horses would have to go all the way.” Mr. Mendez shrugged. “If they don’t make it, who pays for them?”

  “I buy the horses,” Dr. Favor said.

  Mr. Mendez started to nod, very slowly, as if he was just understanding something. “You want to get there pretty bad, uh?”

  “I have a feeling,” Dr. Favor said, “you’re going to find a driver.” He pushed up out of the chair, his eyes on Mr. Mendez. “If I went over to the hotel now and had supper, that would give you about an hour to find a man and get ready. Say six-thirty.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll see,” Mr. Mendez said.

  “Do that,” Dr. Favor said. He moved through the gate, taking his hat from the counter.

  “But I won’t promise you,” Mr. Mendez said after him. The Indian agent just walked out, like it was settled.

  I said, soon as he was gone, “Mr. Mendez, I know I can drive it.”

  “Driving a stage isn’t something you know you can do,” Mr. Mendez said.

  “I’ve pulled the teams around from the yard plenty of times. And that mud wagon’s lighter than a Concord.”

  “The horses pull it,” he said. “Not you.”

  We argued some more, and finally I said, “Well, who else do you have?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “Well, I am worrying, because I want to go too.”

  He looked at me closely with those brown-stained eyes not telling anything, and I hoped my face was just as calm and natural.

  “To talk to this Favor, uh? Get to know him?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s all right, Carl.”

  “I was thinking of some others too,” I said. “An ex-soldier who was in here. And there’s the McLaren girl.”

  Mr. Mendez nodded again as if he was thinking. “The McLaren girl. Sure,” he said. “And maybe John Russell.”

  It was all right with me. “That would be five inside,” I said.

  “Six,” Mr. Mendez said.

  “Not if I’m driving.”

  Mr. Mendez shook his head. “You’re inside like a passenger. How does that sound?”

  “Well,” I said, “could I ask who’s going to drive it then?”

  “I am,” Mr. Mendez said. “Who else?”

  The way Mr. Mendez decided to go all of a sudden didn’t make any sense at all until I thought about it a while. And then I realized it might not have been so all of a sudden at that. He could have seen money in this right off and been leading Dr. Favor on, seeing to make about a month’s wages in three days if he kept all the fares; and why wouldn’t he? That was one thing.

  The other was John Russell being here. I think Mr. Mendez wanted to get him on his way before he had time to change his mind; before he spent another night staring at the ceiling and counting all the reasons why he shouldn’t go to Contention. Put him in a coach now and by morning Russell might be used to being close to white people again. But why Mr. Mendez bothered or cared was something else. Maybe because he was Mexican and John Russell was part Mexican. Does that make sense?

  There was a lot to do before six-thirty. I had the Mexican boy get his father; they’d take care of the coach and horses. Mr. Mendez said he would go to the hotel for John Russell and the McLaren girl and also try and find the ex-soldier. So he would see me later.

  Before he went though I reminded him I was going too, and he paid me my last wages. From then on I was no longer with Hatch & Hodges. It was a pretty good feeling, even not knowing what I was going to do in life now.

  First thing, I went to the boarding house where I lived and put on my suit. It was pretty old and too small now, making me look skinnier than I was, but it would be all right for the trip. I didn’t want to buy a new one in Sweetmary. I thought about buying a gun, but decided against that too; I’d be out of money before I left. I wrote to my mother who lived up at Manzanita with her sister, Mrs. R. V. Hungerford, telling her how I was leaving my position and would write again when I had found some place I liked. Then I rolled up my things in a blanket and went out and had something to eat. By the time I got back to the office it was almost six-thirty.

  John Russell was waiting. He was sitting on the bench along the wall on the left. His blanket roll, with the cartridge belt wrapped around it and the Spencer inside with part of the barrel and stock showing, was next to him.

  I’ll admit he gave me a start, because it was dim in the office and I didn’t expect to see anybody. I left my blanket roll by the door and went around behind the counter and started making out a passenger list and tickets. Might as well do it right, I thought. Then it started to feel funny, just the two of us there and nobody talking.

  So I said, “You ready for your stagecoach ride?”

  His eyes raised and he nodded. That was all.

  “What about your horse?”

  “Henry Mendez bought it.”

  “How much he give you?”

  “Ask him,” Russell said.

  “I just wondered, that’s all.”

  “Ask him,” Russell said again.

  Why bother? I thought, and went on making out the list. I put all the names down but the ex-soldier’s because I didn’t know his. I just put down Ex-Soldier and never did change it, even when he came in a couple of minutes later with this canvas bag on his shoulder. He swung it down, bouncing it off the counter, and reached into his coat pocket.

  “What’s the fare?”

  “I guess you saw Mendez,” I said, and told him how much.

  “I don’t know the whyfor,” he said. “But I’m for it.”

  He waited while I tore off one of the orange-colored tickets, then another one. “If any stops are open on the way, show this for meals. Drinks are extra. You hand it in when you reach your destination. The other one’s for him.” I nodded to Russell. “You want to hand it to him?”

  The ex-soldier looked at the ticket as he walked over to the bench. He was a heavy man and his coat was tight-smooth across the back. I would judge him to have been about thirty-seven or -eight. “I see you’re going to Contention,” he said, handing the ticket to Russell. “I change there for Bisbee. Yesterday I was in the Army. Next week I’m a mining man and the week after I’ll have a wife, one already arranged for and waiting. What do you think of that?”

  John Russell pulled the blanket roll toward him as the man sat down, propping his feet on his canvas bag. “You saving your lamp oil?” the ex-soldier said to me.

  “I guess we can spare some.” I came around and put a match to the Rochester lamp that hung from the ceiling. Just then I heard the coach and I said, “Here it comes, boys.”

  You could hear the jingling, rattling sound coming from the equipment yard next door. Then through the window you could see it—smaller than a Concord and almost completely open with its canvas side-curtains rolled up and fastened—just turning out of the yard, and the next moment the jingling, rattling sound was right out front. Four horses we
re pulling the mud wagon; two spares were on twenty-foot lines tied to the back end.

  The ex-soldier said, “I wouldn’t complain if it was an ore wagon all loaded.”

  “It’s mainly just for rainy spells,” I explained. “Sometimes a heavy Concord gets mired down; but three teams can pull a mud wagon through about anything.”

  The Mexican boy and his father were both up on the boot. Then Mendez, who must have just crossed the street, was standing there. “Everybody’s going,” he said. Then looked at John Russell. “Your saddle is on the coach. Now I go up and get myself ready.”

  I waited till we heard him on the stairs, then told them how I had offered to drive this run, but now that I was a passenger it would be against the rules. “There’s rules about who can ride up with the driver,” I said, looking at John Russell and wondering if he had any ideas. But that was all the farther I got.

  The man who came in was wearing range clothes and carrying a saddle which he let go of just inside the door and came on, looking straight at me, but not smiling like he was ready to say something friendly.

  He was tall by the time he reached the counter, with that thin, stringy look of a rider and the ching-ching sound of spurs. Even the dust and horse-smell seemed to be still with him, and he reminded you of Lamarr Dean and Early and almost every one of them you ever saw: all made of the same leather and hardly ever smiling unless they were with their own look-alike brothers. Then they were always loud, loud talking and loud laughing. This one had a .44 Colt on his hip and his hat tipped forward with the brim curled almost to a point, the hat loose on his head but seeming to be part of him.

  “Frank Braden,” he said. His hands spread out along the edge of the counter.

  I said, “Yessir?” as if I still worked for Hatch & Hodges.

  “Write it down for that coach out front.”

  “That’s a special run.”

  “I heard. That’s why I’m going on it.”

  I looked down at the four orange cards on the counter, lining them up evenly. “I’m afraid that one’s full-up. Four here and those two. That is all the coach holds.”