Newton's eating places were not appetizing at best, but a meal could be
endured with less discomfort by night than by day, for at such times
most of the flies were on the ceilings. The restaurant Gray entered was
about what he had expected; along one side ran a quick-order counter at
which were seated several customers; across from it was an
oilcloth-covered table, perfectly bare except for a revolving
centerpiece--one of those silver-plated whirligigs fitted with a glass
salt-and-pepper shaker, a toothpick holder, an unpleasant oil bottle,
and a cruet intended for vinegar, but now filled with some mysterious
embalming fluid acting as a preservative of numerous lifelike insect
remains. Here, facing an elderly man in a wide gray-felt hat, Gray
seated himself.
Gray's neighbor was in no pleasant mood, for he whacked impatiently at
such buzzing pests as were still on the wing, and when a perspiring
Greek set a plate of soup before him he took umbrage at the presence of
the fellow's thumb in the liquid. The argument that followed angered
the old man still further, for it arrived nowhere except to prove that
the offending thumb was the property of the proprietor of the
restaurant, and by inference, therefore, a privileged digit.
When a departing customer left the door open, the elderly diner
grumbled bitterly at the draught and draped his overcoat over his bent
shoulders.
"Dam' Eskimos!" he muttered. "----raised in a chicken coop--Windy as a
derrick!"
Gray liked old people, and he was tolerant of their crotchets.
Irascibility indicates force of character, at least so he believed, and
old folks are apt to accept too meekly the approach of decay. Here was
a spirit that time had not dulled--it was like wine soured in an old
cask. At any rate, wine it had been, not water, and that was something.
Most of the counter customers had drifted out when, without warning,
the screen door banged loudly open and Gray looked up from his plate to
see his recent acquaintance of the gambling table approaching. This
time purpose was stamped upon the man's face, but whether it was
deliberate or merely the result of more drinking there was no telling.
He lurched directly up to the table and stared across at Gray.
"Slapped my face, didn't you?" he cried, after a menacing moment.
"I did, indeed," the speaker nodded, pleasantly.
"You ain't going to slap it again. You ain't going to slap anybody's--"
"What makes you think I won't?" Gray became aware as he spoke that his
elderly neighbor had raised to the intruder a countenance stamped with
a peculiar expression of incredulity, almost of anger, at the
interruption, and that the two remaining counter customers had turned
startled faces over their shoulders, while the proprietor, his arms
full of dishes, had paused beside the swinging door to the kitchen.
That which occurred next came unexpectedly. The stranger whipped out
from under his coat a revolver, at the same time voicing a profane
answer to the challenge. The proprietor uttered a bleat of terror; he
dropped his dishes and dived out of the room; the men on the stools
scrambled down and plunged after him.
As Calvin Gray rose to his feet it was with a flash of mingled anger
and impatience. This quarrel was so utterly senseless, it served so
little purpose.
"My friend," he cried, sharply, "if you don't put up that gun, one of
us will go to a hospital."
In spite of the intruder's haste in drawing his weapon, he appeared now
to lack the will promptly to use it--his laggard spirit required a
further scourge, so it seemed; something more to goad it into final
fury. It was a phenomenon by no means uncommon, for it is not easy to
shoot down an unarmed victim.
By way of rousing his savagery, the fellow uttered a bellow, then, like
a warrior smiting his shield with his spear before the charge, he swung
his heavy weapon, smashing at one blow that silver-plated
merry-go-round with its cluster of bottles.
A shower of toothpicks, fragments of glass, a spatter of oil and
vinegar covered the old man in the end chair, and he rose with a cry
that drew a swift glance from the desperado.
Gray was upon the point of launching himself over the table when he
witnessed a peculiar transformation in his assailant. The man's
expression altered with almost comic suddenness, he lowered his weapon
and took a backward step. Gray, too, had cause for astonishment, for
the elderly man was moving slowly toward the disturber, his overcoat,
meanwhile, hanging loosely from his left shoulder, like a mantle. His
gray face had grown white, malignant, threatening; he advanced with a
queer, sidling gait, edging forward behind the shelter of his garment
as if behind a barricade. But what challenged Gray's instant attention
was the certainty of purpose, the cold, confident menace behind the old
fellow's demeanor. There was something appalling about him; he had
suddenly become huge and dominant.
That he had been recognized was plain, for the armed man cried,
agitatedly: "Look out, Tom! I don't want any truck with _you_."
The deliberate advance continued; in a harsh voice Tom answered: "I
don't allow anybody to interfere with me when I'm eating!" For every
step he shuffled forward the man before him fell back a corresponding
distance.
Again the newcomer rasped out his warning, and Gray, too, added his
voice, saying: "Leave him to me, old man. This is my quarrel." As he
spoke he moved around the end of the table, but the mantled figure
halted him with an imperious jerk of the head. Without in the slightest
diverting his steady gaze, Tom snapped:
"Hands off, stranger! I won't have you buttin' in, either. I don't
allow anybody to interfere with me when I'm eating."
Gray was checked less by the exasperation, by the authority in the
speaker's tone, than by the fact that the entire complexion of the
affair had changed. The ruffian, who had entered so confidently, was no
longer the aggressor; a mere look, a word, a gesture from this aged,
unknown person had put him upon the defensive. More extraordinary still
was the fact that his power of initiative was for the moment completely
paralyzed, and that he was tortured by a deplorable indecision. He was
furious, that was plain, nevertheless his anger had been halted in
mid-flight, as it were; desperation battled with an inexplicable dread.
He raised his hands now, but more in a gesture of surrender than of
threat.
"Don't come any closer," he cried, hoarsely. "Don't do it, I tell you!
_Don't--do it!_'" There was no longer any thickness to his tongue; he
spoke as one quite sober.
When for the third time that malevolent voice repeated, "I don't allow
anybody to interfere with me when I'm eating," the solitary onlooker
felt an absurd desire to laugh. During intensely dramatic moments
nervous laughter is near the surface, and there was something rigidly
dramatic about the methodical, sidling advance of that man half
crouched behind his overcoat. Tom, as he had been called, gave Gray the
impression of Death itself marching slowly forward to drape that black
shroud upon his cowering victim.
Brief as had been the whole episode, already passers-by had halted,
staring faces were glued to the front windows of the cafe. Well they
might stare at those two tense figures, one advancing, the other
retreating, as if to the measures of some slow dance.
[Illustration: "DON'T COME ANY CLOSER. DON'T DO IT, I TELL YOU!"]
But the tempo changed abruptly. The desperado's back brought up against
the swinging kitchen door; it gave to his weight and decision was born
of that instant. With a cry he flung himself backward, the spring door
snapped to and swallowed him up with the speed of a camera shutter;
then followed the sound of his heavy rushing footsteps.
"Hell!" exclaimed the old man. "I had his buttons counted!" With the
words he let fall his overcoat, and there, beneath it, Gray beheld what
he had more than half suspected, what indeed was ample cause for the
quarrelsome stranger's apprehension. Held close to the owner's body was
what in the inelegant jargon of the West is known as a "dog leg." The
weapon, a frontier Colt's of heavy caliber, was full cocked under the
old man's thumb; the hand holding it was as steady as the blazing eyes
above.
With a smile Gray said, "Allow me to congratulate you, sir, upon a most
impressive demonstration of the power of mind over matter."
"A little killin' helps those scoun'rels," breathed the white-haired
warrior. "Surgin' around, wreakin' vengeance on vinegar bottles! And me
with a bad indigestion!"
"I don't often permit others to do my fighting. But you wouldn't let--"
"I don't allow anybody--" doggedly began the former speaker, but the
street door burst open, a noisy crowd poured into the room, a volley of
excited questions was raised. Amid the confusion Gray heard his own
name shouted, and found himself set upon by two agitated friends,
Mallow and Stoner. They had been combing Newtown for him, so they
declared, and were near by when attracted by the excitement on the
sidewalk. What was the trouble? Was Gray hurt?
He assured them that he was not, and explained in a few words the
origin of the encounter. But other concerns, it seemed, occupied the
minds of the pair, and before he had finished Mallow was dragging him
towards the door, crying, breathlessly: "Gee, Governor! You gave us a
run. We've been coming since noon."
"It was only by the grace of God," Stoner declared, "that we heard you
were out here and why you'd come. We managed to get a phone call
through to Jackson, but it was--"
"Jackson? I've been looking for him all the afternoon."
"Sure! Mallow swore he was all right, but Mac and I don't know him, and
we figured he might turn a trick. Anyhow, Mallow and I jumped the
Lizzie and looped it. Boy! I tramped on her some, until we hit bottom
the other side of Burk. Mallow went clean through the top. I guess I
smashed the whole rear end, but we couldn't wait to see. They'll have
her stripped naked, tires, cushions, and all, before we get back.
Motor, too, probably. We've been hitting it afoot, on wagons and pipe
trucks--managed to get a service car finally, but it fell open like a
book. Just one of those dam' unlucky trips."
"Jackson didn't get to you, did he?" Mallow inquired, anxiously.
"Get to me? No. Nor I to him." Gray spoke impatiently. "What is this
all about?"
"Simply this, Governor: Jackson's well is a 'set-up'! For Nelson! We
nearly dropped dead when we found out that Parker kid had laid _you_
against it. Why didn't you _tell us_--?"
"What are you saying? I don't--"
"The well's phony. Dry as a pretzel."
"In what way? I saw the oil--"
"Never mind. Lay off!"
"I think I'm entitled to an explanation."
"Well, then, it's salted!"
"Impossible! I saw it pumping."
"I'll say you did." Mallow chuckled. "Live oil, too; right out of old
Mamma Earth. Cheap lease at seventy-five thousand, eh? It's like this:
the pipe line of the Atlantic runs across Jackson's lease, and one dark
and stormy night he tapped it. It wasn't a hard thing to do; just took
a little care and some digging. Now he runs the oil in, pumps it out
and sells it back to them. He's a regular subsidiary of the great and
only Atlantic Petroleum Company. It can't last long, of course,
but--oh, what a well to hand Nelson! What a laugh it would have been!"
"Outrageous!" Gray exclaimed. "I can't believe you are in earnest."
"It _is_ shocking, isn't it? Such dishonesty is incredible. And what an
unhappy surprise for the company when they finally locate the leak!"
Gray clamped a heavy hand upon the speaker's shoulder; harshly he
inquired, "Do you mean to say that Miss Parker deliberately--"
"She don't know anything about it."
"You said she 'laid me' against it."
"No, no! I merely tipped her to it because she's one of Nelson's
brokers."
"She's his sweetie," Stoner added. "He's going to marry her, so Mallow
thought he'd surely fall for it, coming from her."
"You--you're not fit to mention that girl's name, either of you."
Gray's tone was one of quivering anger. "If you involve her in your
crooked dealings, even indirectly, I'll--God! What a dirty trick." He
flung Mallow aside in disgust. "You ought to be shot."
"Why, Governor! We wouldn't hurt that kid. She's aces."
"I told you my fight with Nelson was to be fair and square."
There followed a moment of silence. Mallow and Stoner exchanged
glances. "What percentage of that goes?" the former finally inquired.
"One hundred."
"So? Then it's lucky Nelson didn't fall. But there's no harm
done--nobody's hurt."
"It is lucky, indeed-for me. I'd have felt bound to make good his loss,
if you had hooked him. I presume I ought to expose this swindle."
"Expose Jackson?" Stoner inquired, quickly. When Gray nodded, there was
another brief silence before the speaker ventured to say: "I know this
bird Nelson, and, take it from me, you're giving him the best of it. If
I hadn't known him as well as I do, I wouldn't of put in with you to
break him. It's all right to trim a sucker once; it's like letting the
blood of a sick man--he's better for it. But to ride a square guy to
death, to keep his veins open--well, I ain't in that kind of business.
Now about this Jackson; you can land him, I s'pose, if you try, but it
would be lower than a frog's foot, after him playing square with you."
"What do you mean by that?"
"He could have stung you, easy, couldn't he? You surged out here on
purpose to buy the lease, but he hid out all afternoon to avoid you."
"He is a thief. He is stealing hundreds of dollars a day."
"Sure! From the Atlantic, that has stolen hundreds of thousands from
the likes of him--yes, millions. It was the Atlantic that broke the
market to sixty-five cents, filled their storage tanks and contracted a
million barrels more than they had tankage for, then gypped the price
to three dollars. I can't shed any tears over that outfit."
"Let's not argue the ethics of big business. The law of supply and
demand--"
"Supply and demand, eh? Ever strike you as queer that crude never
breaks as long as the big companies have got their tanks full? The
price always toboggans when they're empty, and comes back when they're
filled up. That's supply and demand with the reverse English, ain't it?
Say, the Atlantic and those others play with us outsiders like we was
mice. When their bellies get empty they eat as many of us as they want,
then they let the rest of us scurry around and hunt up new fields. We
run all the risks; we spend our coin, and when we strike a new pool
they burgle us over again." Stoner was speaking with a good deal of
heat. "Big business, eh? Well, here's some little business--dam'
little. The Atlantic leased a lot of scattered acreage I know about and
drilled it. Pulled off their crews at the top of the sand and drilled
in with men they could trust. It turned out good, but they capped their
wells, wrecked their rigs, and, of course, that condemned the whole
territory. Then they set about buying it all in, cheap--through
dummies. Double-crossed the farmers, see? Friend of mine took a chance;
put down a well on his own. The usual thing happened; they broke him.
It took a lot of doing, but they broke him. One little trick they did
was to cock a bit and drop it in the hole. That prank cost him sixteen
thousand dollars before he could 'side track' the tool. He quit,
finally, less 'n a hundred feet from big pay. Then, having bought up
solid for near nothing they came back and started business, laughing
merrily. That's the Atlantic."
"A splendid lecture on commercial honesty. I am inspired by it, and I
reverence your scruples, but--I grope for the moral of the story."
"The moral is, mind your own business and--and give a guy a chance."
"Um-m! Suppose we leave it at that for the present."
Mallow, who had remained silent during his friend's argument, greeted
this suggestion with relief. He was glad to change the subject. "Good!"
he cried, heartily. "I'd about as soon face Old Tom Parker, like that
fellow in the restaurant did, as to face Jackson. He'd sink a stillson
in my head, sure, if--"
"Parker? Was that old man Miss Parker's father?"
"Certainly! What d'you think ailed that gunman? D'you think he got the
flu or something, all of a sudden? There ain't anybody left tough
enough to hanker for Tom's scalp. He's pinned a rose on all of those
old-timers, and he's deadly poison to the new crop."
For the first time Calvin Gray understood clearly the reason for the
unexpected outcome of that encounter in the cafe. No wonder the
stranger's trigger finger had been paralyzed. Barbara's father, indeed!
How stupid of him not to guess. On the heels of his first surprise came
another thought; suppose that old Paladin should consider that he,
Gray, had shown weakness in allowing another to assume the burden of
his quarrel? And suppose he should tell his daughter about it! That
would be a situation, indeed.
"I must find him, quickly," Gray declared. "Perhaps he'll ride back to
town with us."
It was not a difficult task to locate the veteran officer, and Tom was
delighted at the chance to ride home with his new acquaintance.
That journey back to civilization was doubly pleasant, for Mr. Parker
cherished no such feelings as Gray had feared, and, moreover, he
responded quickly to the younger man's efforts to engage his liking.
They got along famously from the start, and Tom positively blossomed
under the attentions he received. It had been a trying day for him, but
his ill humor quickly disappeared in the warmth of a new-found
friendship, and he talked more than was his custom. He was even led to
speak of old days, old combats, of which the bloodless encounter that
evening was but a tame reminder. The pictures he conjured up were
colorful.
A unique and an engaging person he proved to be; an odd compound of
gentleness and acerbity, of kindliness and rancor; a quiet, guileless,
stubborn, violent old man-at-arms, who would not be interrupted while
he was eating. He was both scornful and contemptuous of evildoers. All
needed killing.
"Hard luck, I call it, for a budding desperado to wreck a career of
promise the way that wretched fellow did," Gray told him with a laugh.
"Out of all the men in Texas, to pick you--"
"Oh, he ain't a bud! He's quite a killer."
"Indeed?"
"He kills Mexicans and niggers and folks without guns, mostly. Low-down
stuff! He's got three or four, I believe. I never could see why the
Nelsons kep' him."
There was a brief silence. "I beg pardon?" said Gray.
"He's been on the Nelson pay roll for years--doing odd jobs that wasn't
fit to be done. But I guess they got tired of him, anyhow he's been
hanging around Wichita for the last two or three weeks. He's been in an
out of our office quite a bit."
"Your office? What for?"
"I dunno, unless he took a shine to 'Bob.'"
"Not--really?"
Mr. Parker uttered an unpleasant sound. "She never said anything about
it, but I suspicioned she had to order him out, finally. I'd of split
his third shirt button if he'd stood his ground. He knew I had
something on him, but he couldn't figure just what it was." Old Tom's
teeth shone through the gloom. "A man will 'most always act like that
when he don't know just where he's at. I knew where _I_ was at, all the
time, only I wanted to see that button plain. I allus know where _I'm_
at."
Later, when the journey was over and Tom Parker had been dropped at his
gate, Gray spoke to his two companions.
"Did you hear what he said?"
"We did."
"Do you believe I was framed?"
Both Mallow and Stoner nodded. "Don't you?" the former inquired. When
no answer was forthcoming, he said: "Better give us the flag, Governor.
We're rar'ing to go."
"You mean--?"
"You know what I mean. Nelson's so crooked his bedclothes fall off. We
pulled a boner this time, but Brick has got another window dressed for
him."
"I'll think it over," said Gray.