Braden didn’t even offer to pay him for the ticket. He watched the ex-soldier till he was gone, then walked over to his saddle and carried it out to the coach. I could feel him right outside, but it bothered me that I hadn’t done anything. Or Russell hadn’t. I motioned him over to the counter and he came, taking his time and stepping out his cigarette.

“Listen,” I said, “shouldn’t we have done something?”

“It wasn’t my business,” Russell said.

“But what if he had taken your ticket?” I stared at him and this close you could see that he was young. His face was thin and you saw those strange blue-colored eyes set in the darkness of his skin.

Russell said, “You would have to be sure he was making it something to kill over.”

“He made it plain enough,” I said.

“If you were sure,” Russell said, “and if the ticket was worth it to you, then you’d do something to keep it.”

“But I don’t think that soldier even had a gun.”

Russell said, “That’s up to him if he doesn’t carry one.” Even the way he said it made me mad; so calm about it.

“He would have helped you and you know it,” I said.

“I don’t know it,” Russell said. “If he did, it would be up to him. But it wouldn’t be any of his business.”

Just like that. He walked back to the bench and just then Mendez came in. Now he was wearing a coat and hat and carrying a maleta bag and a sawed-off shotgun.

“Time,” Mendez said, sounding almost happy about it. He came through the gate to get something from his desk. That gave me the chance to tell what Braden had done, sounding disgusted as I told it so Mendez would have no doubt what I thought about Braden’s trick.

“Then we still have six,” Mendez said. That was all.

And that was the six-seven counting Mendez-who left Sweetmary that Tuesday, August 12.