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better.”
    “And what does that mean?” Mendez asked.
    Russell didn’t say anything. One of the boys came running out again with a bucket and Mendez said, “Paint them good, chico .”
    “This costs more at night,” the boy said, still smiling, as if still smiling from before.
    “I’ll pay you with something,” Mendez said. He took a swipe at the boy with the leather bag, but the boy got past him. Then he offered the brandy to Russell again. “For the dust,” he said. “Or whatever reason you want.”
    While Russell was taking a drink, Mendez saw me and offered me one, so I joined them and had a swallow. It was all right, except it was so hot. I don’t know how they took the big swigs they did. Mendez took his turn then handed the bottle to Russell and went into the adobe.
    The Mexican boy with the grease pail was working on the front wheels now. The other boy had unhitched the lead team and was taking the horses off. We watched them a while. Then I said, “How come you didn’t tell them?”
    He looked at me, holding the bottle. “Tell them what?”
    “That you’re not what they think.”
    His eyes looked at me another second. Then he took a drink of the brandy.
    “You want to go in?” I said. He just shrugged.
    We went in then—into a low-ceilinged room that was lighted by one lantern hanging from a beam; the lantern had smoked and there was still the oil smell of it in the room.
    The Favors and the McLaren girl and Braden were sitting at the main table, a long plank one in the middle of the room. Mendez stood there like hehad been talking to them. But he moved away as we came in and motioned us over to a table by the kitchen door. Delgado’s wife came out with a pot of coffee, but went over to the main table before pouring us some. Mendez waited, looking at Russell all the while, until she went out to the kitchen again.
    “They think you’re Apache,” he said.
    Russell didn’t say anything. He was looking at the brandy bottle as if reading the small print. Mendez picked up the brandy and poured some of it in his coffee.
    “You hear what I said?”
    “Does it make a difference?” Russell said then.
    “Dr. Favor says you shouldn’t ride in the coach,” Mendez said. “That’s the difference.”
    Russell’s eyes raised to Mendez. “They all say that?”
    “Listen, you wanted to ride with me before.”
    “Do they all say I shouldn’t be in the coach?”
    Mendez nodded. “Dr. Favor said they agreed to it. I said this boy isn’t Apache, did you ask if he was? Did you ask him anything? But this Favor says he isn’t going to argue about it.”
    Russell kept looking at Mendez. “What did you say?”
    “Well—I don’t know,” Mendez said. “Why have people unhappy? Why not just”—he shrugged—“let them have their way? It isn’t a big thing. Imean I don’t know if it’s something worth making trouble about. He’s got this in his mind now and we don’t have time to convince him of the truth. So why should we let it worry us, uh?”
    “What if I want to ride in the coach?” Russell said.
    “Listen, you wanted to ride with me before. Why all of a sudden you like it inside now?”
    It was the first time I ever saw Mendez look worried, like something was happening that he couldn’t handle or have an answer for. He drank some of his coffee, but looked up quickly, holding the cup, as Braden and Dr. Favor rose from the table. Braden went outside. Dr. Favor went over to the bar where Delgado was, and Mendez seemed to relax a little and sip his coffee.
    “Is it worth arguing about?” Mendez said. “Getting people upset and angry? Sure, they’re wrong. But is it easier to convince them of it or just forget about it? You understand that?”
    “I’m learning,” Russell said.
    Right there, again, I’d like to have seen what was going on in his mind, because you certainly couldn’t tell from his tone. He had such a quiet way of speaking you got the feeling nothing in the world