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?”
Damn. Thatcher shook his head. “No.”
“Aw, good. The cars are crowded.”
The passenger settled into the seat. “Where are you headed?”
So much for discouraging conversation. Thatcher took off his hat and placed it on his knee. He put his thumb and middle finger into his eye sockets and rubbed them. “Abilene. Then east from there.”
“Back to Foley?”
Surprised by that response, Thatcher glanced at his seat partner, did a double take, then his right hand automatically went for his pistol.
“You’re not wearing your gun belt. I checked as you boarded. I didn’t want you to shoot me before I could explain myself.”
The smile he flashed was not that of a pimp. In place of the gold tooth was a normal white molar. “You thought you’d seen the last of Chester Landry, didn’t you? Well, you have. And, God, what a jerk he was. I’m glad to be shed of him.”
He had medium brown hair that was wavy and loose, not slicked back with pounds of pomade. He was dressed in a conservative dark suit, with a pinstripe vest and unremarkable necktie.
Thatcher looked around to see if they were being observed, possibly to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming. No one was paying him any attention except the man seated next to him. Thatcher said, “Who the hell are you?”