Parker Lowe borrowed one of Mose Doolittle's mules Monday evening, and
rode from Temecula to Jake Levison's saloon at Maravilla. It was
understood when he left the thresher's camp that he would probably "make
a night of it," and Mose gave him a word of friendly warning and advice.
"You want to remember, Park, that the old man is down on the flowing
bowl; an' from what I've heard of the family I think it'll pay you to
keep yourself solid with the old man."
"I'm a-goin' up to the drug-store to get some liniment for Dave
Montgomery's lame shoulder," returned Parker, with a knowing wink at
his companion, as he flung himself into the saddle; "but I hain't signed
no pledge yet--not by a jugful," he called back, as the mule jolted
lazily down the road.
It was a warm night, and half a dozen loafers were seated on empty
beer-kegs in front of Levison's door when Parker rode up. Levison got
up, and began to disengage himself from the blacksmith's story as he saw
the newcomer dismount; but the blacksmith raised his voice insistently.
"'There don't no dude tell me how to pare a hoof,' says I; 'I'll do it
my way, or I don't do it;' an' I done it, an' him kickin' like a steer
all the time"--
"Who?" asked one of the other men.
"Barden."
"What was he doin' down here?"
"He came down for Doc Patterson. That teetotal wreck on the west side o'
the lake took a hem'ridge--I furget his name, somethin'-weather: pretty
dry weather, judgin' from what I hear."
"Starkweather?"
"Yes, Starkweather; I guess he's pretty low."
Parker started back to the post where his mule was tied. Then he turned
and looked into the saloon. Levison had gone in and was wiping off the
counter expectantly.
"It won't take but a minute," he apologized to himself.
It took a good many minutes, however, and by the time the minutes
lengthened into hours Parker had ceased to apologize to himself, and
insisted upon taking the by-standers into his confidence.
"I'm--I'm goin' to sign the pledge," he said, with an unsteady wink,
"an' then I'm goin' to get merried,--yes, sir, boys; rattlin' nice girl,
too,--'way up girl, temperance girl. But there's many a cup 'twixt the
slip and the lip--ain't there, boys? Yes, sir, 'twixt the cup and the
slip--yes, sir--yes, sir--ee." Then his reflections driveled off into
stupor, and he sat on an empty keg with the conical crown of his old
felt hat pointed forward, and his hands hanging limply between his
knees.
When Levison was ready to leave he stirred Parker up with his foot, and
helped him to mount his mule. The patient creature turned its head
homeward.
It was after daybreak when Parker rode into the Starkweather ranch, and
presented himself at the kitchen door. The night air had sobered him,
but it had done nothing more. Idy was standing by the stove with her
back toward him. She turned when she heard his step.
"Why, Park!" she said, with a start; then she put up her hand. "Don't
make a noise. Pappy's sick."
He came toward her hesitatingly.
"So I heard down at Maravilla last night, Idy."
Her face darkened.
"And you been all night gettin' here?"
He bent over her coaxingly.
"Well, you see, Idy"--
The girl pushed him away with both hands, and darted back out of reach.
"Parker Lowe," she said, with a gasp, "you've been drinkin'!"
Parker hung his head sullenly.
"No, I hain't," he muttered; "not to speak of. Whose horse is that out
'n the corral?"
The girl looked at him witheringly.
"I don't know as it's any of your pertic'lar business, but I don't mind
tellin' you that horse b'longs to _a gentleman_!"
"A gentleman," sneered Parker.
"Yes, _a gentleman_; if you don't know what that is you'd better look in
the dictionary. You won't find out by lookin' in the lookin'-glass, I
can tell you that."
"Oh, come now, Idy, you hadn't ought to be so mad; I hadn't signed the
pledge yet."
He took a step toward her. The girl put out her hands warningly, and
then clasped her arms about herself with a shudder.
"Don't you come near me, Parker Lowe," she gasped. "What do I care about
the pledge! Didn't you _tell_ me you'd stop drinkin'? Won't a man that
tells lies with his tongue tell 'em with his fingers? Do you suppose I'd
marry a man that 'u'd come to me smellin' of whiskey, an' _him_ lyin'
sick in there? Can't you see that he's worth ten thousand such folks as
you an' me? I don't want a man that can't see that! I'm done with you,
Parker Lowe,"--her voice broke into a dry sob; "I want you to go away
and stay away! It ain't the drinkin'--it's _him_--can't you understand?"
And Parker, as he climbed toward his lonesome cabin, understood.