Learning of Mr. Hobson’s passing was dismantling enough, but Thatcher listened with disbelief when the sheriff told him that the ranch, his home for fifteen years, no longer existed. “Trey sold the ranch?”
“Not the land itself,” Bill explained, “but what’s under it. Oil leases. Dozens of them. Everybody’s punching holes in the ground up there, looking for oil.”
Thatcher couldn’t bear the thought of the sweeping plains being dotted with drilling derricks instead of beef cattle. But he wasn’t surprised that Henry III’s eye was on the future rather than the past.
Much to Mr. Hobson Jr.’s disappointment, his son never had desired to take over the ranch and had wanted nothing to do with the operation of it. When Thatcher had left for Europe in 1917, Trey had already moved to Dallas and was serving in a managerial capacity in a bank, on his way up.
“What happened to all the ranch hands?”
“I don’t know, Thatcher,” the sheriff replied. The intimate conversation had established a first-name basis between them. “I guess they scattered. The deputy who went out there said the place was deserted except for a dog that looked half wolf, and an old Mexican man.”
“Jesse,” Thatcher said. “He was born on the ranch. His daddy worked for the first Mr. Hobson, Henry senior. His mother cooked for the family.”
“Well, Jesse was still out there, living in the bunkhouse. He told the deputy he would stay until somebody forced him off, or he died. He preferred the latter.”
That sounded like Jesse.
“He was glad to learn that you’d survived the war,” Bill said. “He’s been safeguarding your trunk and saddle. He sent the trunk back to Amarillo with the deputy so he could put it on a train. He was reluctant to send the saddle, though. Didn’t trust it to arrive undamaged or not at all.”
Thatcher nodded absently. He would make arrangements to reclaim it later. In the meantime, he struggled to take in that Mr. Hobson was gone.
“I’m awfully sorry about this, Thatcher,” the sheriff said.
Thatcher replied by rote, “Thanks.”
He retrieved his duffel bag from the backseat of the sheriff’s car and returned to the boardinghouse. He hadn’t been back since being hauled out in handcuffs. He ignored Landlady May’s glare and the sidelong glances of the other boarders, and, skipping supper, went straight upstairs to his room, where he weathered a sleepless night remembering the kindness and generosity of the man under whose wing he had spent formative years of his life.
The next morning, shortly after breakfast when all the other boarders had cleared out, he used the telephone in the central hallway to place a long-distance call to the bank in Dallas where Trey Hobson worked. He had to wait for five minutes for the local telephone office to get through.
A lady with a smooth and polite voice answered with the name of the bank. Thatcher asked to speak to Mr. Hobson. “May I ask who’s calling?”
Thatcher gave her his name. “He knows me. Up till the war, I was a hand on his daddy’s ranch. I didn’t learn about Mr. Hobson till yesterday. I phoned to tell Trey how sorry I am.”
“Please hold on, Mr. Hutton. I’ll get him to the phone.”
She came back about a minute later, still smooth and polite. “Regrettably, he’s in a meeting, Mr. Hutton, and can’t talk right now, but he said to tell you that he’s relieved and glad to know that you made it back from the war, and that it was very kind of you to call about his father.”
“Okay. I have a number here, if he gets a chance to call me back. It’s in Foley.”
He gave her the information and hung up, disappointed but not surprised that Trey was unavailable to talk to him. Mr. Hobson had shared more interests with Thatcher than he had with his son. Although Trey never would have wanted to switch places with Thatcher, Thatcher felt he might have resented the relationship that had developed between Mr. Hobson and him. But then again, Trey had never warmed to any of the cowhands, regarding all of them as nothing more than hired help.
His trunk arrived two days later. Thatcher picked it up at the depot and opened it in the privacy of his room. He’d placed his most cherished possessions on top, so they were the first things he saw when he raised the lid: a tooled leather gun belt with holster and a shiny Colt revolver with a stag horn grip. They’d been Mr. Hobson’s gift to him on his eighteenth birthday. From that day forward, he’d strapped it on every day until he’d packed it in the trunk. The pistol had been what he’d reached for when he saw the rattlesnake poised to strike Harold.
For the next week, he went about his business, but without enthusiasm. He slogged through each day, the finality of his mentor’s death catching him at odd times, and he would experience the crushing impact of the news all over again.
The more permanent residents of the boardinghouse continued to be standoffish. He sensed that they still harbored doubts about his innocence regarding Mrs. Driscoll. He didn’t mind them keeping their distance. He didn’t feel like making meaningless conversation.
However, one evening after supper, he was invited to join a round of poker being played out on the porch. The stakes were diddly, but a dollar was a dollar, so he anted up. He won five hands straight. Then, to avoid antagonizing the others, he lost the next two hands on purpose before excusing himself.
The landlady made no secret of her dislike and mistrust of him, but she accepted his rent money for the second week.
* * *
Laurel was certain the preacher knew the appropriate scriptures by heart. He was old. No doubt he had performed this rite hundreds of times.
Nevertheless, he held his Bible open in the palm of one hand and pretended to read the passages. Although they
came from several books of both the Old Testament and the New, he never turned a single page. It would have been awkward for him even to try. In his other hand, he was holding an open umbrella above his head.