Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“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.

No, Thatcher might not have recognized Mr. Henry Hobson Jr.

But Mr. Hobson recognized him.

His right eye was lit up with joy. He raised his right hand and reached out toward Thatcher. Although his countenance and reduced form were unfamiliar, Thatcher would have known that calloused, crusty hand anywhere. It had taught him how to rope and shoot and brand, how to pack a saddle bag, start a campfire and put it out safely, how to hold a poker hand, tie a necktie, and how to use his table manners. It had patted his shoulder in congratulations for achievements, and had squeezed it with encouragement following failures.

Just about anything worth knowing he had learned from Mr. Hobson, the principal lesson being that a man was only as good as his word. He crossed over to the bed and took Mr. Hobson’s hand in his. “I promised you I’d be back.”

* * *



In his mind, Thatcher had replayed the telephone conversation with Trey Hobson’s secretary, and realized how the condolences he’d extended had been misconstrued as a reference to Mr. Hobson’s debilitating stroke, not to his demise.

The Maxwells told him that following the major stroke, Mr. Hobson had suffered several minor ones, and that his doctor predicted a cerebral “event” from which he wouldn’t recover.

“Irma has nursing experience,” Mr. Maxwell explained. “Several years ago we began making our spare room available to patients in Mr. Hobson’s condition. When he was dismissed from the hospital, we had a vacancy and invited him to move in. His son agreed that being with us was preferable to a nursing home.”

And the kind couple were far preferable to Trey, Thatcher thought.

The Maxwells gave him a bedroom on the second floor and treated him like an honored guest, but largely he was left free to pass the time with Mr. Hobson.

His visit stretched into weeks.

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.