Kathleen said, “You guys were tight as tight and then gone.”
“I know all about it,” he said. “But sometimes I wonder if anyone else does.”
“Frank does. The band was big for him, maybe the biggest thing. You know when he started in on it? When he was drunk. He’d get drunk and start on the various gigs. The road trip back from . . .”
“Cheyenne, when the blizzard crossed us north of Ardmoor and we stayed at that place—” Mason stopped and dropped his chin to think.
“The dude ranch and their last customers in the lodge.”
“The Wooden Star, it was.” He looked at her. “It was not a small place—buffalo heads, a stone chimney three stories. That ranch is still there. God, what a night. We had about four times like that—when the world seemed like it was just made for four kids from Oakpine.” He smiled at her.
“You never talked to Frank about it when you were up doing paperwork, those deeds or whatever?”
“We’re men—we don’t talk. We did the deals Frank needed. I never talked in my life, really. I did some business, and I’ve got a vocabulary for my work, but I have never, ever talked.”
• • •
Mr. Sturges had all his hair, and he was dressed in a dark blue robe over a set of light blue pajamas. He had lived in Wyoming all his life, yet he had always radiated a sense that he was visiting from a larger world, come to civilize the children of the frontier. He had called the students mister and miss, and all through his forty-one-year teaching career, he had worn ties with white shirts and tweed sport coats.
“Mrs. Gunderson,” he said, standing from the easy chair in his room. “Mr. Kirby. How kind of you to come. Sit down.” Two folding chairs had been set up for the occasion, and as Kathleen and Mason sat, a nurse appeared at the door and greeted them.
“Tea all around?” Mr. Sturges said.
“Perfect,” Mason said, and the nurse disappeared.
“Well,” the older man continued. “How goes the profession of the law?”
“Just as the papers have it,” Mason responded. “Stalled by self-serving sycophants, such as myself. Justice held hostage.”
Mr. Sturges laughed. His smile when it came showed the small s of stroke on the right side. “That’s not what I’ve heard, but you tell me. Which law do you practice?”
“I started a small firm in Denver, and we’re primarily doing industrial claims.”
“And he’s selective,” Kathleen added.
“I’m sure he is.”
“If you mean I don’t advertise on television,” Mason joked. The nurse returned with a tray, and Mason poured three cups of tea, stirring sugar into Kathleen’s. “But I think we’ve been able to help some people. I still harbor the sense that we are doing the right thing.” He examined his cup and toasted his old teacher. “Real china,” he said.
“This is a civilized place for keeping the likes of me,” Mr. Sturges said. “I’m glad to hear that, Mason,” he said. “You were a bright light that year.”
“Who do you think had the hardest time doing the right thing?” Mason asked. “From history.”
Mr. Sturges sipped his tea. “They’re easy to spot in the history books. Anybody killed in his prime. We made it easy to kill people in this country. There’s no cure for it, except mediocrity.” He smiled again, and his lip fell down. “Listen to me. I sound like I’m eighty again.”