The others shuffled aside as Thatcher made his way to the raised tailgate and looked over it into the bed of the truck. Bill was lying on his back, sweating profusely and in obvious pain.
“What the hell, Bill? Doc’s got everything ready for you upstairs.”
“I need to talk to you. Get in. You others,” he said, raising his voice, “make yourselves scarce.”
Thatcher lowered the tailgate and stepped up onto it, saying over his shoulder, “Give us a few minutes.”
“Uh, Thatcher?”
He paused and looked back. Harold was threading the brim of his hat through his fingers. It seemed he’d been appointed the spokesperson. “We, uh. You did okay out there today. I mean, damn good.” The others nodded. “We’d all take you out for a beer, except, well, you know. This danged Prohibition.”
The awkward invitation was their way of apologizing for the slights. Thatcher bobbed his chin. “A beer would go down real good. Some other time.”
They all breathed a collective sigh. Scotty said, “We’ll wait over here.” They moved away as a group, giving Bill the privacy he’d asked for.
Thatcher hunkered down beside him. “What’s this bullshit about?”
“Leg’s hurting like a bastard.”
“Then let us get you in there so the doc can fix you up.”
“I’m scared of ether.”
“You’ll sleep it off.”
“I sent one of the men to tell Daisy. Hated to. Alice Cantor sent back word that she’s doing a lot better. Got some scrambled eggs down her. She’ll bring her to see me tomorrow.”
“That’s good news. Let’s go.”
Bill caught Thatcher by the sleeve.
“Something else.” He settled his head on the floor of the truck and stared at the tarpaulin stretched overhead. “Soon as I’m able, I’ll be turning myself in. I took Bernie’s bribes. Let Hiram…others…get away with murder. Like killing that boy Elray. He’ll be on my conscience for a long time.”
Thatcher wanted to say Mine, too, but Bill didn’t give him a chance.
“Being lax kept things peaceful. But I’m a crook, same as the rest. Past time I owned up to it.” He blinked sweat from his eyes and grimaced with pain.
“This confession can wait, Bill.”
“No, it can’t.” He returned his gaze to Thatcher. “If I were to die on that table, you’d never know unless I tell you now. And that would be a tragedy.”
“You’re not in your right head, Bill. You’re talking nonsense.”
He clutched Thatcher’s sleeve tighter.
“From the start, I saw in you…” He made a dismissive gesture. “I already told you why I wanted you to work with me. Tim. All that. I wanted it bad enough, I lied to keep you here.”
His face contorted, and it wasn’t sweat in his eyes, Thatcher now realized. It was tears.
He choked on his next words. “I told you that your Mr. Hobson had died.”
Sixty-One
The house was two-story, with a white clapboard exterior trimmed in sky blue. Thatcher was relieved to see that it was as nice a house as the growing city of Amarillo afforded.
He went through the gate of the iron picket fence and up to the front door. His knock was answered by a gray-haired gentleman with a benign smile and gentle brown eyes behind wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Thatcher had been told that he was a prosperous accountant.
“You must be Mr. Hutton.” He extended his right hand and shook. “I’m George Maxwell. We received your telegram yesterday afternoon. Ever since, he’s been watching the clock like a hawk.”
Thatcher was led through the main rooms of a house that smelled like lemon oil and homemade bread. The bedroom he was ushered into was bright with sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains.
A woman who was bent over the bed adjusting the covers straightened up and turned as she heard Thatcher enter. “Welcome, Mr. Hutton. My name is Irma.”
“Ma’am.”
“Would you care for something to drink?”
“Thank you, but I’m okay for now.”
She gave him an understanding smile. “Then I’ll leave you to your reunion.” As she passed him on her way out of the room, she said, “Bless you for coming.” She and her husband withdrew and closed the door behind them.
Thatcher almost wouldn’t have recognized the person on the bed. His memory was of an average-size man, but one who had seemed larger than life, a man robust enough to fit into the seemingly endless landscape that he’d lived on, worked on, and loved.
Propped against a stack of fluffy pillows, he looked diminished. The stroke had paralyzed his left side and distorted that half of his face. The eye was permanently closed, his mouth drawn downward.