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.”