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.”