Old Tom Parker was a "type." He was one of a small class of men at one
time common to the West, but now rapidly disappearing. A turbulent
lifetime spent in administering the law in a lawless region had stamped
him with the characteristics of a frontier officer--_viz_., vigilance,
caution, self-restraint, sang-froid. For more than thirty years he had
worn a badge of some sort and, in the serving of warrants and other
processes of law, he had covered, first in the saddle or on buckboard,
later in Pullman car or automobile, most of that vast region lying
between the Arkansas and the Pecos, the Cimarron, and the
Sabine--virtually all of what is now Texas and Oklahoma. He still spoke
of the latter state, by the way, as "the Territory," and there were few
corners of it that he had not explored long before it ceased to be a
haven of hunted men.
That is what Tom Parker had been--a hunter of men--and time was when
his name had been famous. But he had played his part. The times had
caught up with and passed him, and no longer in the administration of
justice was there need of abilities like his, hence the shield of his
calling had been taken away.
Now Tom did not reckon himself obsolete. He was badger-gray, to be
sure, and stiff in one knee--a rheumatic legacy of office inherited by
reason of wet nights in the open and a too-diligent devotion to
duty--but in no other respect did he believe his age to be apparent.
His smoke-blue eyes were as bright as ever, his hand was quick;
realization that he had been shunted upon a side track filled him with
surprise and bewilderment. It was characteristic of the man that he
still considered himself a bulwark of law and order, a _de facto_
guardian of the peace, and that from force of habit he still sat facing
the door and never passed between a lighted lamp and a window.
Among the late comers to Wichita Falls, where he lived, Tom was known
as a quiet-spoken, emotionless old fellow with an honorable past, but
with a gift for tiresome reminiscence quite out of place in the new and
impatient order of things, and none but old-timers and his particular
cronies were aware of the fact that he had another side to his
character. It was not generally known, for instance, that he was a kind
and indulgent father and had a daughter whom he worshiped with blind
adulation. This ignorance was not strange, for Miss Barbara Parker had
been away at college for four years now, and during that time she had
not once returned home.
There was a perfectly good reason for this protracted separation of
father and daughter; since Old Tom was no longer on pay, it took all he
could rake and scrape to meet her bills, and railroad fares are high.
That Hudson River institution was indeed a finishing school; not only
had it polished off Barbara, but also it had about administered the
_coup de grace_ to her father. There had been a ranch over near Electra
with some "shallow production," from which Tom had derived a small
royalty--this was when Barbara Parker went East and before the
Burk-burnett wells hit deep sand--but income from that source had been
used up faster than it had come in, and "Bob," as Tom insisted upon
calling her, would have had to come home had it not been for an
interesting discovery on her father's part--_viz._, the discovery of a
quaint device of the law entitled a "mortgage." Mortgages had to do
with a department of the law unfamiliar to Tom, his wit, his
intelligence, and his dexterity of hand having been exercised solely in
upholding the dignity of the criminal branch, but once he had realized
that a mortgage, so called, was no more than a meaningless banking term
used to cloak the impulsive generosity of moneyed men, he availed
himself of this discovery and was duly grateful.
Tom carried on a nominal fire-insurance business, but as a matter of
fact the tiny two-roomed frame structure that bore his painted sign was
nothing more or less than a loafing place for him and his rheumatic
friends, and a place in which the owner could spend the heat of the day
in a position of comfort to his stiff leg--that is to say, asleep in a
high-backed office chair, his feet propped upon his desk. It was here
that Tom could usually be found, and when one of those hateful
statements arrived from the East he merely roused himself, put on his
wide gray hat, limped around to the bank, and pledged more of his oil
royalties or signed another mortgage. What insurance policies he wrote
were brought to him by his old pals; the money derived there from he
sent on to "Bob" with love and an admonition to be a good girl and
study hard and hurry home, because he was dying to see her. This
office, by the way, no longer suited Tom; it was becoming too noisy and
he would have sold it and sought another farther out had it not been
mortgaged for more than it was worth. So, too, was the house where he
lived amid the dirt and disorder of all bachelor establishments.
Now Old Tom would have resented an accusation of indolence; the bare
implication of such a charge would have aroused his instant
indignation, and Tom Parker indignant was a man to shun. As a matter of
fact, he believed himself sadly overworked, and was forever complaining
about it.
The time came, however, when he was forced to shed his habit of
slothfulness as completely as a snake sheds its skin, and that was
during the week before "Bob's" arrival. Then, indeed, he swept and he
dusted, he mopped and he polished, he rubbed and he scrubbed, trying
his best to put the house in order. Never in all his life had he
labored as he did then, for four years of "batching" will make a bear's
nest out of the most orderly house, but he was jealous of his task and
he refused to share it with other hands. Pots and pans, rusty from
disuse or bearing the accumulated evidence of many hastily prepared
meals, he took out in the back yard and scrubbed with sand, leaving his
bony knuckles skinned and bleeding from the process; he put down a new
carpet in "Bob's" room, no easy task for a man with an ossified knee
joint--incidentally, the "damn thing" kept him awake for two nights
thereafter; he nailed up fresh curtains, or they looked fresh to him,
at her windows, and smashed a perfectly good thumb-nail in doing so.
This and many other abominable duties he performed. But love means
suffering, and every pang gave Old Tom a thrill of fierce delight
for--"Bob" was coming. The lonely, hungry, aching wait was over.
Constant familiarity with the house had mercifully dulled the
occupant's appreciation of its natural deterioration and the effects of
his neglect, so when he finally straightened his aching back and
regarded the results of his heroic efforts, it seemed to him that
everything shone like new and that the place was as neat and as clean
as on the day "Bob" went away. Probably Hercules thought the Augean
stables were spotless and fragrant when he had finished with them. And
perhaps they were, but Tom Parker was no demigod. He was just a clumsy
old man, unaccustomed to indoor "doings," and his eyes at times during
the last few days had been unaccountably dim--as, for instance, while
he was at work in Barbara's chamber.
He did not sleep much on the night before the girl's arrival. He sat
until late with the framed photograph of Barbara's mother on his knee,
and tried to tell the dead and gone original that he had done his best
for the girl so far, and if he had failed, it was because he knew
nothing about raising girls and--nature hadn't cut him out to be a
father, anyhow. He had been considerably older than Barbara's mother
when he married her, and he had never ceased to wonder what there had
been in him to win the love of a woman like her, or to regret that fate
had not taken him instead of her. Heaven knows his calling had been
risky enough. But--that was how things went sometimes--the wheat was
taken and the chaff remained.
And in the morning! Tom was up before daylight and had his dishes
washed and his things in order long ere the town was awake. Then he
went down to the office and waited--with the jumps. Repeatedly he
consulted his heavy gold watch, engraved: "With the admiration and
gratitude of the citizens of Burlingame. November fifth, 1892." It was
still two hours of train time when he locked up and limped off toward
the station, but--it was well to be there early.
Of course he met Judge Halloran on the street--he always did--and of
course the judge asked when "Bob" was coming home. The judge always did
that, too. Old Tom had lied diligently to the judge every day for a
month now, for he had no intention of sharing this day of days with a
tiresome old pest, and now he again made an evasive answer.
"Mendacity is at once the lowest and the commonest form of deceit," the
judge indignantly announced. "You know perfectly well when she's
coming, damn you!"
"Honest, I don't--not exactly."
But the judge was unconvinced. "You've been as mysterious as a
bootlegger for the last week, but I could always read you like a book,
Tom Parker. You know, all right. Mrs. Halloran wants to come over and
fix things up for her. She said so this--"
"Oh, I got everything fixed," Tom hastily declared. "Ha! What did I
tell you?" The judge glared; Tom could have bitten his tongue for that
slip. "Your pitiful attempts to mislead Barbara's admirers expose you
to ridicule, and offend those of us who tolerate you out of regard for
her." (The judge had a nice Texas drawl, and he pronounced it
"reegy'ad.") "You're on your way to the train at this moment and--I
propose to accompany you."
"What would I be going to the train for, now?" Tom inquired, in a
deceitfully mild tone. Inwardly he was raging, and he cursed the judge
for a meddlesome old fool.
"Hm-m! Thought you'd sneak down there, unobserved, probably." There was
a pause; then the speaker went on in an altered tone: "D'you suppose
she has forgotten all her native accomplishments, Tom? I wonder if she
can still ride and rope and shoot, or if those thin-blooded Eastern
schoolma'ams have taught her that such things are unladylike and
coarse."
"Pshaw! You never forget how to do those things."
"She could handle a horse or a rope or a gun as well as you at your
best."
"_Better!_" Tom declared, with swelling pride.
Halloran wagged his white head in agreement, an unusual procedure,
inasmuch as he never agreed with Tom on any subject which offered
possible ground for disagreement. "A wonderful girl! And I'll wager
they haven't spoiled her. Even _you_ couldn't spoil 'Bob.'" He raised
his red, belligerent eyes and fixed them upon his old friend, but there
was now a kindly light in them. "You made a real son of her, didn't
you, Tom?"
"Almost. I was mighty disappointed because she was a girl, but--I don't
know as a boy could of turned out much better. Well, Judge, I got to be
moving."
"You are neither grammatical nor precise," snapped Judge Halloran. "You
mean _we_ must be moving." He linked arms with Tom and fell into step
with him; he clung to that rigid arm, moreover, despite Tom's surly
displeasure. Not until a friend stopped them for a word or two was the
distracted parent enabled to escape from that spidery embrace; then,
indeed, he slipped it as a filibustering schooner slips its moorings,
and made off as rapidly and as unobtrusively as possible.
Judge Halloran stared after the retreating figure, then he showed his
decayed teeth in a smile. "'Bob' is coming home to-day and the old
Mountain Lion is on edge," he explained. "I must warn the boys to stay
away from the station and give him his hour. Poor Tom! He has held his
breath for four years."
Tom Parker had heard of children spoiled by schooling, of daughters
educated away from their commonplace parents and rendered disdainful of
them, but never for one instant did he fear that his girl was that
sort. He just knew better. He could no more have doubted "Bob's" love
for him than his for her, or-God's love for both of them. Such love is
perfect, absolute. He took no thought, therefore, of the changes time
and poverty had wrought in his appearance: "Bob" wouldn't notice. He
bet she wouldn't care if he was plumb ragged. They were one and
indivisible; she was _his_, just like his right arm; she was his boy
and his girl; his son-daughter. The old gunman choked and his tonsils
ached abominably. He hoped he wasn't in for another attack of quinsy
sore throat. But--why lie to himself? The truth was, he wanted to cry
and he wanted to laugh at the same time, and the impulses were crossed
in his windpipe. He shook his watch like a child's rattle, to be sure
it was still running.
Barbara did not disappoint her father. On the contrary, she was perhaps
more deeply moved than he at their meeting. At sight of him she uttered
a strangled little cry, then she ran into his arms and clung there,
tightly, her cheek pressed against his breast. It was only upon
occasions like this that "Bob" kissed her father, for she had been
reared as a boy and taught to shun emotional display. Boys kiss their
mothers. She snuggled close, and Tom could feel her whole body shaking;
but she kept her head averted to conceal a distressingly unmasculine
weakness. It was a useless precaution, however, for Tom was blind, his
eyes were as wet as hers, and tears were trickling down the seams in
his wrinkled face.
"Oh, daddy, it has been a long time!" Those were the first words either
of them had spoken.
Tom opened his lips, then he closed them. He patted Barbara clumsily,
and finally cleared his aching throat with a loud "_Harrumph!_" He
dashed the tears from his eyes with the heel of one harsh palm, then
leveled a defiant glare over her head, directed at anyone who might be
looking on at his weakness. It was a blurry glare, however, and not
nearly so ferocious as he intended it to be. After several efforts he
managed to regain control of his vocal powers.
"Well, son!" he cried, huskily; then, "_Harrumph_!"
Barbara's clutch tightened appreciatively. "Such a long, long time!"
Still with her cheek pressed close against him, she ran a small gloved
hand into the pocket of his coat and brought forth a bandana
handkerchief which she thrust into his palm, saying: "It's a good thing
I'm home, for you've caught another cold, haven't you? Now blow your
nose."
Barbara was anything but boyish to look at; quite the opposite, in
fact. She was delightfully feminine from the crown of her smart little
traveling hat to her dainty French heels, and although her suit was not
expensive, it was worn with an air and was perhaps as fetching as any
that had ever come to Wichita Falls. It gave the impression of
perfectly setting off a figure and a personality that required no
setting off. She had the Parker eyes of quenchless blue.
"Well, son, there's a boom on and the town has grown some; but I guess
things here are about the same as when you left 'em." Tom spoke with
pride and satisfaction as he paid the driver, took Barbara's suitcase,
and opened the gate for her.
The girl turned from her first long, appraising gaze at the modest
home. No change, indeed! The paint on the house was peeling, gutters
had rusted out, some of the porch flooring had rotted through, the yard
was an unkempt tangle of matted grass and weeds and neglected
shrubbery. The sight of it was like a stab to her, for she remembered
the place as it had been, and the shock was akin to that of seeing a
loved one in the garb of a tramp. But she smiled up at the gray face
above her--Tom, too, was as seedy as the premises--and she nodded.
"It hasn't changed a mite," she said, bravely.
A moment later she paused upon the threshold, tense, thrilled,
apparently speechless. Tom was reminded of a trim little wren poised
upon the edge of its nest. This time it was more difficult to
counterfeit an exclamation of joy, but the catch in "Bob's" voice, the
moisture in her eyes, was attributed by her father to gladness at the
sight of old familiar things. This was pay for the thought and the love
and the labor expended, truly.
"Why, everything is right where it belongs! How _wonderfully_ you've
kept house! You must have a perfect jewel of a girl, dad!"
"I let Aunt Lizzie go 'bout three years back," Tom explained. "She
got--shiftless and I been sort of batching it since. Clean, though,
ain't it?"
Barbara turned; blindly she walked to the center table and buried her
face in a bouquet of wild flowers garnered from the yard. She held it
there for a moment before she spoke. "You--didn't even forget that I
love bluebonnets, did you, dad?"
"Pshaw! I 'ain't had much to do but remember what you like, son."
"What's the matter? Business bad?" "Bob's" face was still hidden.
"Oh no! I'm busy as usual. But, now you're home, I'll probably feel
like doing more. I got a lot of work left in me yet, now I got somebody
to work for."
"So you fixed everything with your own hands."
"Sure! I knew how you like the place to look, and--well, a man gets
used to doing without help. The kitchen's clean, too."
Side by side the two moved from room to room, and, once the girl had
regained control of herself, she maintained an admirable
self-restraint. She petted and she cooed over objects dear to her; she
loved every inch of everything; she laughed and she exclaimed, and with
her laughter sunshine suddenly broke into the musty, threadbare
interior for the first time in four years.
"Bob's" room was saved for the last, and Old Tom stood back, glowing at
her delight. He could not refrain from showing her his blackened
thumb-nail--the price of his carpentry--for he hoped she'd kiss it. And
she did. Not until she had "shooed" him out and sent him downstairs,
smiling and chuckling at her radiant happiness, did she give way to
those emotions she had been fighting this long time; then her face grew
white and tragic. "Oh, daddy, daddy!" she whispered. "What _have_ I
done to you?"
Tom Parker had raised his girl like a son, and like a son she took hold
of things, but with a daughter's tact. Her intuition told her much, but
she did not arrive at a full appreciation of the family affairs until
she had the house running and went down to put his office in order.
Then, indeed, she learned at what cost had come those four expensive
years in the East, and the truth left her limp. She went through Tom's
dusty, disordered papers, ostensibly rearranging and filing them, and
they told her much; what they did not tell her she learned from Judge
Halloran and other old cronies who came in to pay their garrulous
compliments.
Tom was mortgaged to the hilt, his royalties were pledged; a crow could
not pick a living out of his insurance business.
Such a condition was enough to dismay any girl who had never seriously
considered money matters and who had returned home to take up a life of
comparative ease and superlative enjoyment where she had left it off,
but "Bob" said nothing to her father. She knew every one of his
shortcomings, and they endeared him to her, quite as a son's faults and
failures deepen a mother's love, but she knew, too, that he was
cantankerous and required careful handling. Tom's toes were tender, and
he forever exposed them where they were easily trodden upon, therefore
the girl stepped cautiously and never even referred to his sacrifices,
which would have cruelly embarrassed both of them.
But something had to be done, and quickly; a new hand needed to mend
the family fortunes. Barbara determined to lend that hand.
A great change had come over the town and the whole country round
about, a change which the girl believed afforded her an opportunity to
prove that she was not a mere daughter, not an ornament and a drag, but
a real son-daughter such as Tom considered her. Wichita Falls was
overcrowded with oil men, drawn thither by the town-site strike at
Burkburnett, a few miles northwest, and excitement was mounting as new
wells continued to come in. Central north Texas was nearing an
epoch-making petroleum boom, for Ranger, away to the south, had set the
oil world by the ears, and now this new sand at "Burk" lent color to
the wild assertion that these north counties were completely underlaid
with the precious fluid. At any rate, the price of thirsty ranch lands
was somersaulting and prosperity was apparent in the homes of all
Barbara's girl friends. Her admirers of the opposite sex could talk of
little except leases and bonuses and "production"; they were almost too
busy making money to call upon her.
Barbara knew something about oil, for she had watched the drilling of
every one of those shallow wells that had kept her in college, and what
is more, she knew most of the property owners in this part of the
state. In that advantage she believed lay her chance of accomplishment.
After a fortnight of careful consideration she decided to enter the oil
business and deal in leases.
"Good idea," Tom declared, when she had made known her plan. "The
town's so full of scamps it looks like Rodeo Day, and most of 'em are
doing well. If they can make good, it seems like an honest firm could
do better."
"We'll be partners, dad. You run the insurance and I'll be the lease
hound."
"Say--" Tom's eyes brightened. "I'll put a desk right alongside of
mine--a little feller, just your size--and a nice lounge in the back
room, where you can lay down when you're tired. You been away so long
it seems like I can't have you close enough." Another thought presented
itself, and he manifested sudden excitement. "I tell you! I'll get a
new sign painted, too! 'Tom and Bob Parker. Real Estate and Insurance.
Oil Prop'ties and Leases.' _Gosh!_ It's a _great_ idea, son!" His smile
lingered, but a moment later there came into his eyes a half-regretful
light.
Barbara read his thought almost before he was aware of it, and, rising,
she laid her hand upon his shoulder. Wistfully she said, "I'm awfully
sorry, too, dad--"
"Eh?"
"--that I disappointed you so by not being a boy. But--it wasn't my
fault, and maybe I'll show you that a daughter can help as much as a
son."