He and his mentor spent hours together in the homey bedroom. For the most part, Mr. Hobson stayed in bed, but occasionally Thatcher would move him into a chair where he had a better view out the window. He couldn’t converse, but he was an attentive listener and expressed himself eloquently by using his right hand to gesture and his right eye to blink twice for yes, once for no.
Thatcher read to him daily, either from the newspaper or from the dime novels he loved about the wild West, cattle drives, and shoot-’em’-ups. Thatcher shared war stories, some funny, some harrowing.
He told Mr. Hobson about his jump from the freight train and the unpredictable turn his life had taken since. He described in detail all the people with whom he’d become involved to one degree or another.
As he talked about them, Thatcher realized that even those with whom he’d barely crossed paths and would never see again had been woven tightly into his memory and would stay there forever.
He got angry all over again when he told Mr. Hobson about Bill’s deception, the selfishness behind it, the betrayal of a man he’d come to respect. Mr. Hobson didn’t immediately respond, and then he moved his right hand laterally, parallel to the ground, as though saying Let it pass.
And of course, Thatcher talked about Laurel. He described her physically but was frustrated by the inadequacy of his words. He groused about her stubborn streak but admitted to Mr. Hobson that he’d lost his heart to her sassiness. He could have sworn the old man chuckled.
Often Thatcher just sat with him, saying nothing, hoping that Mr. Hobson was as content simply being in his presence as much as Thatcher was simply being in his. It was during those quiet times that Thatcher reflected on his experience of the past several months, and began to realize that there might have been a purpose behind everything that had happened, a governing why for that he hadn’t perceived while he was living it.
He wondered if Mr. Hobson, somehow, even in his limited capacity, had influenced that insight.
* * *
One morning, Thatcher asked Mr. Maxwell if he could borrow his car. “I’d like to drive out to the ranch.”
Having spotted the car’s wake of dust from a mile away, Jesse was waiting for it outside the bunkhouse, holding a shotgun across his chest. The dog, who was part wolf, sat growling at his side.
When Thatcher stepped out of the car, Jesse dropped the shotgun, called off the animal, and, although he was well past seventy, ran out to embrace him, thumping him on the back and laughing.
They opened a contraband bottle of mescal and spent the day sharing it and recollections. They laughed with hilarity over some. Others made them pensive or downright sad.
Thatcher was reunited with his saddle. It was on a stand inside the bunkhouse. Thatcher ran his hand over the smooth leather. “It’s never looked better, Jesse. Thank you for keeping it in good condition.”
When the old ranch hand asked about his former boss, Thatcher told him he’d considered packing Mr. Hobson into the car and bringing him along.
“But I think he’s too frail to have made the drive out here.” Thatcher gazed off into the distance, past the empty corrals and cattle pens where the dust had settled for good, and the whoops and hollers of rowdy cowboys would never be heard again. The magnificent span of the Panhandle’s horizon was now interrupted by the silhouettes of drilling rigs. Thatcher added, “And it would have broken his heart.”
When it came time for Thatcher to leave, his double-handed handshake with Jesse held for a long time in an unspoken acknowledgment that this was goodbye.
* * *
One afternoon Irma Maxwell knocked softly on the bedroom door then came in carrying a plate with a sandwich on it. “Since you didn’t come to the table for lunch…” She halted midway across the room.
Thatcher’s chair was pulled up close to the bed. His hand was wrapped around Mr. Hobson’s. “He passed.” He cleared his husky throat. “About ten minutes ago. No event. It was dignified and peaceful.”
* * *
He spent that night with the Maxwells, but in the morning he came downstairs carrying his duffel bag already packed. He wanted to make a clean break before Trey arrived. Yesterday when notified of his father’s death, he’d told Mr. Maxwell that he “couldn’t get away” until this morning.
Thatcher didn’t think he could be civil to the self-centered bastard, and it would be disrespectful to Mr. Hobson to create tension or cause a scene. Besides, attending a stuffy funeral, Mr. Hobson in a casket, him in a pew, didn’t seem a fitting end to these meaningful weeks they had spent in each other’s company.
He declined the Maxwells’ offer of breakfast before he left. “Thank you, but there’s a train at nine-forty. I’d like to make it.”
“Before you go.” Mr. Maxwell went over to a chest and took a shoe box from one of the drawers. “When Mr. Hobson was moved in here with us, this was among his things.”
He handed the box to Thatcher. His name was written on top in Mr. Hobson’s bold scrawl. Before he raised the lid, Thatcher heard the familiar jingle and knew what he would find inside: Mr. Hobson’s spurs, still dirt-encrusted from his last ride.
Sixty-Two
Not entrusting his saddle to the baggage car, Thatcher boarded the train with it on his shoulder. He set it in the seat in front of him where he could keep an eye on it. He took the seat next to the window.
To discourage interaction with other passengers, he pulled his cowboy hat over his eyes, slumped in his seat, and pretended to be asleep. The train chuffed out of the station.
He must have dozed, because he was roused by someone asking, “Is this seat taken?”