There are many arguments against industry; much is to be said against
its wholesale practice. For one thing, habitual diligence, of whatever
sort, begets other habits hard to break, habits that persist in
plaguing a man during his periods of indolence and perhaps during his
whole life. Early rising is one of the most annoying of these habits.
While it cannot be said that Tom Parker had ever labored arduously at
anything, nevertheless he had followed his calling faithfully, and the
peculiar exigencies of that calling had made of him a light and fitful
sleeper. He had so often used the earth as a mattress and his saddle as
a pillow, that sunup invariably roused him, and as a consequence he
liked to tell people that he could do with less sleep than any man in
Texas. That was, in fact, one of his pet complaints.
It was true that Old Tom never slept long, but it was also true that he
slept oftener than any man in Texas. He was up and dressed by daylight,
and until breakfast time he engaged himself in purposeless and noisy
pursuits. This futile energy, however, diminished steadily until about
nine-thirty, after which his day was punctuated by a series of cat
naps, as a broken sentence is punctuated by dots and dashes.
That small room at the rear of his office Barbara had cleared of its
dusty accumulations--of its saddles and saddle-bags, its rusty
Winchesters, its old newspapers and disorderly files--and had
transformed into a retreat for him. She had overcome his inherent
prejudice against innovations of any sort by arguing gravely that the
head of every firm should, nay must, have a private sanctum.
Tom approved of the change after he became accustomed to it, for he was
subjected to fewer irritating distractions there than elsewhere. Before
long, in fact, he acquired the ability to doze placidly through almost
any sort of business conference in the outer office. It was his
practice to sleep from nine-thirty until eleven, when "Bob" fetched him
a glass of orange juice with a "spike" in it. This refreshing beverage
filled him with new energy to tackle the issues of the day, and
thereupon began a routine as fixed as some religious ritual. First, he
smacked his lips, then he cleared his throat loudly several times,
after which his chair creaked as he massaged his rheumatic leg.
Promptly upon the count of twenty he emerged from the inner office,
slamming the door energetically behind him.
Whether "Bob" was alone or engaged with clients, Old Tom's air was
always the same; it was that of a busy man weighted with grave
responsibilities. He frowned; he muttered, hurriedly:
"Got to see a man; back in an hour. Anybody calls, tell 'em to wait."
This took him to the front door, which he also slammed behind
him--there being a certain force and determination to the sound of a
slamming door. Then he limped down the street to Judge Halloran's
office. The judge usually had the checkerboard out and set when Tom
arrived.
Afternoons passed in much the same manner, and night found Tom, if not
actually exhausted from the unceasing grind, at least pleasurably
fatigued thereby and ready for an after-dinner doze. He considered
himself seriously overworked.
This morning "Bob" was alone at her desk when he came out, and
something about her appearance caused the old warrior to look twice. He
was exactly on time, but the judge could wait. He was a cranky old
scoundrel anyhow, was Judge Halloran, and it would do him good to cool
his heels for a few minutes. Tom paused with his hand upon the door
knob.
"My goodness! son, you're all dressed up!" he said, as he noted "Bob's"
crisp white dress, the rose upon her bosom, the floppy hat that framed
her face. "Church sociable som'er's?"
"No, dad."
"What's going on?"
"Nothing in particular."
"You certainly are sweet." Tom's bleak, gray face softened, then some
vague regret peered forth from his eyes. "Certainly are sweet, but--"
"But what?" The girl smiled up at him.
"Oh, I don't know--seems like you ain't quite the same boy you was.
You're changing lately, somehow. Getting more like your mother every
week. I like that, of course," he said, quickly, "but--I'd like awful
well to see you in your ranch clothes again. I bet you've clean forgot
how to ride and rope and--"
"You know very well I haven't. I'm a little bit rusty, perhaps, but
remember I'm a pretty busy girl these days."
"I know." Tom sighed. "I'm wore out, too. What d'you say we close up
the ol' factory and take a rest? Let's get us a couple of broncs and go
up to the Territory for a spell. Used to be a lot of wild turkeys in a
place I know. It'd do us a lot of good."
"Why, dad, we can't do that! And, besides, those turkeys were killed
out years ago."
"Um-m! I s'pose so. Ain't much left to shoot at but tin cans, come to
think of it." There was a pause. "I don't reckon you could han'le a six
gun like you used to, 'Bob.'"
"You think not? Try me sometime and see," said the girl. Apparently Tom
believed there was no time like the present, for he slid his right hand
under the left lapel of his coat, and when he brought it away there was
a large single-action Colt's revolver in it--a massive weapon upon the
mother-of-pearl handle plates of which were carved two steers' heads.
Those steers' heads Tom had removed from a gun belonging to a famous
bad man, suddenly deceased, and there was a story that went with them.
"Now see here," "Bob" protested, "one of these new policemen will pick
you up some day."
"Pshaw! Nobody wouldn't pick me up, just for totin' a gun," the old man
declared. With practiced fingers he extracted the shells, one by one.
"I feel right naked without a six-shooter. I feel like I'd cast a shoe,
or something."
"I wish you'd give up carrying it."
"Lessee you do a few tricks,'Bob'. Do the roll. Remember she don't
stand cocked."
Miss Parker rose to her feet and took the weapon. She balanced it in
her hand, then she spun it, rolled it, fanned it, went through a
routine of lightninglike sleight-of-hand that Tom had taught her long
before.
"Lessee you do a few shots," her father urged, when she handed it back
to him.
"In _here_?"
"Sure! It's our shanty. Drive a few nails or--I'll tell you; kill that
bear and save that tenderfoot's life." Tom pointed to a Winchester
calendar on the rear wall, which bore the lithographic likeness of an
enraged grizzly upon the point of helping himself to a hunter.
"Why, we'd have the whole town running in."
"Go on, son. Make it speak. Bears is easy killed."
"Nonsense."
Reluctantly Tom reloaded his weapon and thrust it back into its
shoulder holster; regretfully he murmured: "Doggone! We never have any
more fun." He turned toward the door.
"Where are you going, dad?"
"I got to see a man; back in an hour. Anybody calls--"
"You know you won't be back in an hour. Where are you going?"
"I got to see--What is it?"
"Bob" hesitated. "I wish you'd stay here. I think Mr. Gray arrived this
morning, and I expect him in."
Tom decided that he had made Judge Halloran wait long enough. He should
have been in the old rascal's king row by this time. So he said,
briskly, "Wish I could, son, but I got to see a man."
"Mr. Gray was here several times before he went away, but you were
always out." When her father showed no inclination to tarry, Barbara
spoke with more impatience than she had ever used toward him. "I want
him to meet you, dad, for he has come back on purpose to take up that
Jackson well. If I devote all my time to business, it seems to me you
could afford to sacrifice an hour to it, just this once. That checker
game can wait."
Tom Parker stiffened. Sacrifice an hour to business, just once! That
_was_ a blow. As if his nose was not at the grindstone day in and day
out! As if he were not practically chained to this office! As if
unremitting application to business had not wrecked him--worn him to
the bone--made an insomniac of him! That was the worst about children,
boys especially; they twitted their elders; they thought they were the
whole works; they assumed undue importance. Tom was offended, and,
being a stubborn man, he bowed his back.
"Tell him to wait," he said, curtly. "I'll get around to it soon as I
can."
"Why, _dad_! He isn't a man who can wait. This deal won't wait, either."
"I been talking over that Jackson well with--with a man, and I got
him--"
"I asked you not to mention it--not to a soul. It is a very important
matter and--"
Now Tom had not discussed the Jackson well, except casually with Judge
Halloran, but every word that "Bob" spoke rankled, so he interrupted
with a resentful query:
"Ain't I equal to han'le an important deal?"
"Bob" acknowledged quickly that he was. She had not meant to criticize
his ability to conduct negotiations of the very highest importance, but
she was surprised, in view of her earnest request, that he had even
mentioned this particular matter to anybody. She reminded him that
insurance was his forte, and that their understanding had been that she
was to take exclusive charge of their oil business. While she was
talking, Tom realized with a disagreeable shock that of late there had
been no insurance written, none whatever. He had given the matter no
thought, but such was undoubtedly the case, and in his daughter's words
he felt a rebuke. Now he could not abide rebukes; he had never
permitted anybody to criticize him. For once that unconscious
irritation that had been slowly accumulating within him flamed up. It
was an irritation too vague, too formless to put into words, especially
inasmuch as words did not come easily to Tom Parker when he was mad.
Without further comment the old man pulled his gray wide-awake lower
over his eyes and limped out of the room. But he did not go to Judge
Halloran's office; he was too sore to risk further offense at the hands
of one who took malicious delight in antagonizing him, so he walked the
streets. The more he pondered "Bob's" accusation--and accusation it
surely was--the angrier he became; not at her, of course, for she was
blood of his blood, his other and better self; but angry at himself for
allowing the reins to slip out of his fingers. He was the head of the
firm. It was due to his ripe judgment and keen common sense that the
business ran on; his name and standing it was that gave it stability.
Perhaps he had permitted the girl to do more than her share of the
work, and hence her inclination to take all the credit for their joint
success was only natural, but it was time to change all that; time to
turn a big deal without her assistance. That was the thing to do,
handle the Jackson lease in his own way and turn it over for a price
far in excess of seventy-five thousand dollars. Anybody could sell
things for less than they were worth, but it took real ability to
realize their full value. Here was a snap, a chance to clean up big
money--"Bob" said so--why not, then, take over the lease for himself
and her, pay something down, hold it for a few weeks, and then resell
it at a staggering profit? Such things were being done--Tom did not
know just how, but he could easily find out--and there were several
thousand dollars in the bank to the firm's account. If that was not
enough to meet the first payment he could probably get Bell Nelson to
give him another mortgage on something. Or was it he that would have to
give the mortgage to Bell? It didn't matter. The thing to do was to
jump out to the Extension, buy the well, and show "Bob" that he was as
good a business man as she--better, in fact.
A bus was about to leave, so Tom clambered in.
Barbara Parker had to acknowledge that she was more than a little bit
thrilled at the prospect of seeing Calvin Gray again. She had assured
her father glibly enough that there was nothing "going on" that day,
but--there was. It was something to realize that a mere telegram from
her had brought a man of Mr. Gray's importance clear across the
country, and that he was coming straight to her. What mysterious magic
lay in the telegraph!
Ever since their first meeting he had awakened in her a sort of
breathless excitement, the precise significance of which she could not
fathom, and that excitement now was growing hourly. It could not mean
love--"Bob" flushed at the thought, for she had no intention of falling
in love with anybody. She was too young; the world was too new and too
exciting for that, and, besides, her life was too full, her obligations
were too many to permit of distractions, agreeable or disagreeable.
Nor, for that matter, was Gray the sort of man to become seriously
interested in a simple person like her; he was complex, many-sided,
cosmopolitan. His extravagant attentions were meaningless--And yet, one
could never tell; men were queer creatures; perhaps--
Little prickles ran over "Bob"; she felt her whole body galvanize when
she saw Gray coming.
He entered, as she knew he would enter, with the suggestion of having
been blown thither upon the breast of a gale. He was electric; he
throbbed with energy; he was bursting with enthusiasm, and his delight
at seeing her was boyish.
"Bob" colored rosily at his instant and extravagant appreciation of her
effort to look more pleasing than usual, but embarrassment followed her
first thrill. She could not believe his compliments were entirely
genuine, therefore she took refuge behind her coolest, her most
businesslike demeanor. For a while they talked about nothing, although
to each the other was eloquent, then "Bob" came as quickly as might be
to the matter she had wired him about.
He listened with smiling lips and shining eyes, but he heard only the
bare essentials of her story, for his thoughts were galloping, his mind
was busy with new impressions of her, other voices than hers were in
his ears. That was his rose at her breast. She had been pleased at his
coming, otherwise she would not have paid him the girlish compliment of
wearing her best. Evidently she cared for him--or was she merely
impressed, flattered? Women had called him romantic, whereas he knew
himself to be theatric; he wondered if she--
"I told Jackson you'd be out to look at the well and the books to-day,"
"Bob" was saying. "He won't wait an hour longer."
"Splendid! I came the instant you telegraphed--dropped everything, in
fact. Some of my men are waiting to see me, but I haven't even notified
them of my arrival. Important business, too; nevertheless, I hurried
right here. They can wait." Gray laughed gladly. "Jove! How becoming
that hat is. I hired the best-looking car I could find, and it will be
here in a minute. I told myself I had earned a day with you, and I
wouldn't spoil it by permitting you to drive. I've so much to talk to
you about--business of all sorts--that I scarcely know where to begin."
Now "Bob" had expected to drive to the Northwest Extension with Gray;
nothing else had been in her mind; her field clothing was even laid out
ready for a quick change, but a sudden contrariness took hold of her;
she experienced a shy perversity that she could not explain.
"Oh, I'm sorry! I--can't go. I simply can't," she declared.
He was so obviously disappointed that her determination gained
strength; she was surprised at her own mendacity when she explained the
utter impossibility of leaving the office, and told a circumstantial
fib about a title that had to be closed with people from out of town.
The more she talked the more panicky she became at thought of being for
hours alone with this forceful, this magnetic, this overwhelming
person. Strange, in view of the fact that she had been looking forward
to it for days!
In order finally to get him away before she could change her mind, she
promised to hurry through her affairs and then drive out and bring him
home. There was no time to lose; Jackson was growing impatient; it was
a wonderful deal; there were other days coming--
When Gray had gone and "Bob" was alone, she drew a deep breath. Her
pulse was rapid, she was tingling as if from some stimulating current.
What a man! What an effect he had upon people! What a fool she had been
not to go!
The road to Burkburnett is well surfaced for some distance outside of
Wichita Falls, therefore Gray leaned back with eyes closed as the car
sped over it, picturing again his meeting with Barbara, recalling her
words of greeting, puzzling over the subtle change in her demeanor at
the last. Perhaps he had frightened her. He was given to
overenthusiasm; this would be a lesson.
Queer how women interfere with business. Here he was going at things
backward, whirling out to the oil fields when he should be with McWade
and Stoner. They would probably be distracted at his nonarrival,
but--this was business, too. And she would drive out to get him. There
would be the long ride back. Far away across the undulating prairie
fields the horizon was broken by a low, dark barricade, the massed
derricks of the town-site pool. So thickly were they grouped that they
resembled a dense forest of high, black pines, and not until Gray drew
closer could he note that this strange forest was leafless.
By now the roads were quagmires, and the unceasing current of traffic
had thickened and slowed down until Gray's car rocked and plunged
through a hub-deep channel of slime. There was but one route to the
Extension, and it led through the very heart of Burkburnett; there were
no detours around the town, no way of beating the traffic, therefore
vehicles, no matter how urgent their business, were forced to fall in
line and allow themselves to be carried along like chips in a stream of
tar.
"Burk" was a one-story town, or at least most of its buildings
projected only one story above the mud, and that mud was mixed with
oil. Leakage from wells, pipe lines, storagetanks, had made the mass
underfoot doubly foul and sticky, and where it was liquid it shone with
iridescent colors. Mud was everywhere; on the sidewalks, inside the
stores, on walls and signboards, on the skins and clothing of the
people.
Through the main street the procession of cars plowed, then out across
the railroad tracks and toward the open country beyond. When it came to
a halt, as it frequently did, above the hum of idle motors could be
heard the clank of pumps, the fitful coughing of gasengines, the hiss
of steam. This, of course, was soon drowned in a terrific din of
impatient horns, a blaring, brazen snarl at the delay. The whole line
roared metallic curses at the cause of its stoppage.
Even the railroad right of way had been drilled. Switch engines shunted
rows of flats almost between the straddling derrick legs.
Gray's driver had been dumb thus far, now he broke out abruptly:
"Speaking about mud; I was crossing this street on a plank the other
day when I saw a bran'-new derby lying in the mud and picked it up.
Underneath it was a guy's head.
"'Hullo!' I said. 'You're in pretty deep, ain't you?'
"The feller looked up at me and said: 'This ain't bad. You'd ought to
see my brother. I'm standing on his shoulders!'"
The chauffeur laughed loudly at his own humor. "_Some_ country, I call
it! But the sun's out, so it will be blowing sand to-morrow."
When Burkburnett had been left behind, another and a vaster island of
derricks came into view. It marked the Burk-Waggoner pool, part of the
Northwest Extension, so called.
The car was waiting its turn to cross a tiny toll bridge spanning a
sluggish creek, the bed of which ran seepage oil from the wells beyond,
when the driver grumbled aloud:
"Four bits to cross a forty-foot bridge. There's a graft for you! One
old nester above here tore a hole in his fence opposite a wet place in
the road and charged us half a dollar to drive through his pasture. But
it was cheaper than getting stuck. He had to carry his coin home in an
oat sack. After a few weeks somebody got to wondering why that spot
never dried out, and, come to investigate, wha' d'you think?"
"I seldom think when I am being entertained," his passenger declared.
"Well, that poor stupid had dammed the creek, and every night he shut
the gate and flooded his road."
If the clustered derricks of the town-site pool were impressive, there
was something positively dramatic about the Extension. Burkburnett had
been laid out in lots and blocks, and the drilling had followed some
sort of orderly system; but here were no streets, no visible plan. This
had been a wheat field, and as well after well had come in, derricks,
drilling rigs, buildings, tanks, piles of timber, and casing had been
laid down with complete disregard of all save the owner's convenience.
Overnight new pipe lines were being laid, for hours counted here and
the crude had to find outlet--fuel had to be brought in. These pipe
lines were never buried, and in consequence the ceaseless flow of
traffic was forever forced to seek new channels. The place became a
bewildering maze through which teams floundered and motor vehicles
plunged at random.
Towns had sprung up, for this army of workers was isolated in a sea of
mud, but whereas "Burk" was more or less permanent, Newtown, Bradley's
Corners, Bridgetown, were cities of canvas, boards, and corrugated
iron. By day they were mean, filthy, grotesque; by night they became
incandescent, for every derrick was strung with lights, and the surplus
supply of gas was burned in torches to prevent it from accumulating in
ravines or hollows in explosive quantities. They were Mardi Gras cities.
Day by day this field spread onward toward the Red River; the whole
region smelled of oil.
Fire, of course, was an ever-present menace. Newtown, for instance, had
been wiped out several times, for it lay on a slope down which a broken
pipe line could belch a resistless wave of flame, and even yet the
place was a litter of charred timber, twisted pipe, and crumpled sheets
of galvanized iron. Owing to this menace the residents had taken the
only possible precaution. They had dug in. Behind each place of
business was a cyclone cellar--a bomb-proof shelter--into which human
bodies and stocks of merchandise could be crowded.
Gray drove directly to the lease he had come to examine, and was
disappointed to learn that the owner had just left. This was annoying;
"Bob" had assured him that he was expected. Inquiry elicited from the
surly individual in charge no more than the reluctant admission that
Jackson had been called to the nearest telephone, but would be back
sometime.
There was nothing to do but wait. Gray let his car go, then made a
cursory examination of the property. He could see little and learn
less. The caretaker agreed that the well was pumping one hundred and
fifty barrels a day.
Some evasiveness in this fellow's demeanor awoke Gray's suspicion. A
sudden telephone call. The owner's absence when he expected a
purchaser. Probably somebody else was after the property. It was
decidedly worth while to wait.
Gray was unaccustomed to inattention, incivility, and had anybody
except "Bob" Parker put him in this position he would have resented it.
Under the circumstances, however, he could do nothing except cool his
heels. As time passed he began to feel foolish; by late lunch time he
was irritable; and as the afternoon wore on he grew angry. Why didn't
"Bob" come, as she had promised? He had lost a day, and days were
precious.
Evening found him wandering about aimlessly, in a villainous mood, but
stubbornly determined to see this thing through at whatever cost. He
had no wish to spend a night amid these surroundings, for respectable
people shunned these oil-field camps after dark, and he knew himself to
be conspicuous. It would add a ridiculous climax to a trying day to be
"high-jacked"--to be frisked of his jewelry.
During the early dusk he returned to the lease, only to find even the
greasy caretaker gone. By this time Gray was decidedly uncomfortable,
and, to add to his discomfort, he conceived the notion that he was
being followed. On second thought he dismissed this idea, nevertheless
he took a roundabout course back toward the main street.
It seemed odd to be floundering through inky shadows, feeling a way
through this miry chaos, when aloft, as far as the eye could see, the
sky was lit. This phantom city of twinkling beacons gave one a sense of
acute unreality, for it was an empty city, a city the work of which
went on almost without the aid of human hands. The very soul of it was
mechanical. Only here and there, where a drill crew was at work, did an
occasional human figure move back and forth in the glare of low-hung
incandescents, nevertheless the whole place breathed and throbbed; it
was instinct with a tremendous vigor. From all sides came the ceaseless
rhythmic clank of pumps, the hiss of gas and steam, the gurgling flow
of liquid--they were the pulse beats, the respirations, the blood flow
of this live thing. And its body odor stung the nostrils. All night
long it panted with its heavy labors--as if the jinns that lifted those
giant pump beams were vying with one another in a desperate endeavor.
They were, for a fact. Haste, avarice, an arduous diligence, was in the
very air.
Gray stared and marveled, for imagination was not lacking in him. Those
derricks with their fires were high altars upon which were heaped ten
thousand hopes and prayers. Altars of Avarice! Towers of Greed! That is
what they were.
He marvelled, too, at the extremes these last few days had brought him;
at the long cry from the luxurious Burlington Notch to this primitive
land of fire worshipers. Here, only a few hours by motor from paved
streets and comfortable homes, was a section of the real frontier, as
crude and as lawless as any he had ever seen. Yonder, for instance, was
the Red Lion, a regular Klondike dance hall.
He looked in for a moment, but the sight of hard-faced houris revolving
cheek to cheek with men in overalls and boots was nothing new. It did
remind him of the march of progress, however, to notice that the
bartenders served coca-cola instead of "hootch." Hygienic, but vain, he
reflected. Not at all like the brave old days.
Farther up the street was a flaming theater decorated with gaudy
lithographs of women in tights. That awoke a familiar echo. The grimy
figures headed thither might well be miners just in from Eldorado or
Anvil Creek.
Gambling was practically wide open, too, and before long Gray found
himself in a superheated, overcrowded back room with a stack of silver
dollars which he scattered carelessly upon the numbers of a roulette
table. Roulette was much like the oil game. This was a good way in
which to kill an hour.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Gray paid little heed to those about him,
until a large hand picked up one of his bets. Then he raised his eyes.
The hand was attached to a muscular arm, which in turn was attached to
a burly stranger of unpleasant mien. Gray voiced a good-natured
protest, but the fellow scowled and refused to acknowledge his mistake.
Noting that the man was flushed, Gray shrugged and allowed the incident
to pass. This bootleg whisky from across Red River was of a quality to
scatter a person's eyesight.
For some time the game continued before Gray won again, and the dealer
deposited thirty-five silver dollars beside his bet. Again that
sun-browned hand reached forth, but this time Gray seized it by the
wrist. He and the stranger eyed each other for a silent moment, during
which the other players looked on.
Gray was the first to speak. "If you're not as drunk as you seem," he
said, easily, "you'll excuse yourself. If you are, you need sobering."
With a wrench the man undertook to free his hand; he uttered a
threatening oath. The next instant he was treated to a surprise, for
Gray jerked him forward and simultaneously his empty palm struck the
fellow a blinding, a resounding smack. Twice he smote that reddened
cheek with the sound of an explosion, then, as the victim flung his
body backward, Gray kicked his feet from under him. Again he cuffed the
fellow's face, this time from the other side. When he finally desisted
the stranger rocked in his tracks; he shook his head; he blinked and he
cursed; it was a moment before he could focus his whirling sight upon
his assailant. When he succeeded it was to behold the latter staring at
him with a mocking, threatening smile.
The drunken man hesitated, he cast a slow glance around the room, then
muttering, hoarsely, he turned and made for the door. He was followed
by a burst of derisive laughter that grew louder as he went.
Gray was in a better mood now than for several hours; he had vented his
irritation; the air had cleared. After a while he discovered that he
was hungry; no longer was he too resentful to heed the healthy warning
of his stomach, so he left the place.