Buddy Briskow had difficulty in getting out of the valley on his way
for a doctor, for never had the roads been like this. He drove
recklessly; where necessary he disregarded fences and pushed across
pastures that were hub deep; he even burst through occasional thickets
in defiance of axle and tire. It was a mad journey, like the ride in a
death-defying movie serial; only by some miraculous power of cohesion
did the machine hold together and thus enable him to keep it under way
and bring it out to high ground. Since he had not taken time before
leaving to change into dry clothing, he was drenched to the skin; he
was, in fact, sheeted with mud like the car itself.
To find a doctor, however, was a problem. Buddy tried first one camp,
then another, but without success. Meanwhile, the downpour continued
and the creeks rose steadily, obliging him to make numerous detours and
to follow the ridge roads wherever possible. He was aching in every
bone and muscle from the pounding he had received, his arms were numb,
his back was broken. He drowned his motor finally in fording a roily
stream and abandoned the car.
He came into Ranger that afternoon on the back of a truck horse that he
had borrowed--without the owner's consent. For a time it seemed that if
he got a doctor at all he would have to follow a similar procedure, but
the Briskow name was powerful, and Buddy talked in big figures, so
eventually he set out on the return journey--this time in a springless
freight wagon drawn by the stoutest team in town. A medical man was on
the seat beside him.
Progress was maddeningly slow, incredibly tedious; creek beds, long
dry, had become foaming torrents; in places even the level roads were
belly deep and the horses floundered. When one of them fell, it
required infinite labor and patience to get it upon its feet again.
It was after midnight when Buddy and his miserable companion gained the
comparatively easy going of the last ridge, that flinty range beyond
which lay the Briskow farm. Here they drove in the glare of lightning
and under a sky that rumbled almost steadily, for a frightful electric
storm had broken. Here it was that they saw what havoc was being
wrought--they counted several blazing wells ahead of them.
Buddy stopped at a drilling camp where lights showed the occupants to
be astir, and there he received confirmation of his fears. The flats
beyond were inundated to a depth rendering travel impossible, and
although some of the men stationed out there had managed to work their
way back, others were, for the time being, hopelessly cut off. What was
more alarming by far, in view of these blazing beacons, was the news
that a huge gusher on sixteen was wild and pouring its inflammable
flood out upon the surface of the water.
Buddy stood in the midst of a spreading puddle from his streaming
clothes, and through chattering teeth announced: "My sister and Mr.
Gray are out there. I _gotta_ get through!"
"How you going to get through, kid?" one of the drillers inquired. "Our
men had to swim in places."
"I guess I can swim, if I try. Feller can do 'most anything if he has
to. How about you, Doc?" Buddy turned to his traveling companion.
The latter shook his head positively. "You're crazy, Briskow. We'd
probably drown. If we didn't, we'd be burned alive when that loose oil
catches fire."
"Looks like it's bound to catch if this lightning keeps up," some one
declared. "Listen to that!"
Buddy cursed furiously and lurched toward the door. It took force to
restrain him from going.
That was indeed a night of terror in the oil fields, for destruction
was wholesale, and to those who were fortunate enough to be in no
danger it was scarcely less trying than for the luckless ones out in
the flooded area. Buddy Briskow was half demented. At one time it
seemed certain that the surface oil was aflame near his father's farm,
and the pictures he conjured up were unbearable.
The rain ceased with the passing of the electrical storm, but the late
hours of the night were thick and the fires continued to burn. It
seemed as if morning would never come. With the first light Buddy
mounted one of his horses, and, regardless of admonitions, set out. In
miles he had no great distance to go; nevertheless, it was midday
before he came in sight of his father's unpainted farmhouse, and when
he dismounted at the front porch he fell rather than walked through the
door.
He broke down and blubbered weakly when he saw Calvin Gray up and
around and apparently well. He collapsed into a chair and huddled there
in a wet heap, the while he sobbed and laughed hysterically. He was
considerably ashamed of his show of feeling.
Even after he had been helped into the kitchen and his wet clothes had
been stripped from him, he could tell little about his trip, but hot
food and drink brought him around and then, indeed, his story was one
that deeply touched the elder man.
Already the waters had ceased to rise, but Buddy's difficulty in
getting through proved the folly of attempting escape for the time
being; his horse had been forced to swim with him in more than one
place; in others he had waded waist deep, stumbling through thickets,
hauling the animal after him by main strength. There was nothing to do,
it seemed, but await a subsidence of the flood. Then, too, the boy was
half dead for sleep.
Under the circumstances it was not easy for the elder man to face this
delay. His affairs were in a precarious condition and more in need of
his immediate attention than ever before; to be cut off, therefore, to
be lost for several days at this particular time was more than a
misfortune--it was a catastrophe. Such vague plans as he had considered
he was now forced to abandon. He could see ruin ahead.
One purpose this enforced idleness did serve, however; it enabled
him--nay, it forced him--to evolve a new scheme of relief. Some minds
become paralyzed in moments of panic, others function with unexpected
clearness and ingenuity, and his was such a mind. An idea came to him,
finally, which seemed sound, the more he thought about it. Indeed, its
possibilities galvanized him, and he wondered why he had been so long
in arriving at it. It was spectacular, daring, it might prove to be
impossible of accomplishment; nevertheless, it was worth trying, and he
could scarcely wait for Buddy Briskow to wake up so that he could put
it to him.
Late that evening, after Allie had gone to bed, he had a long talk with
his young friend, during which he told him more about his affairs than
he had made known even to Roswell, the banker.
Buddy listened with the closest attention. He drew a deep breath at
last and said: "I knew you was in deep, but I thought it was just your
way. Now I _know_ it was Nelson's crew that fired our gasser. Why, they
might have cost us thousands--yes, hundreds of thousands--if it had
been the kind of a gusher we figgered on! Say"--the speaker's brows
drew together in an angry scowl--"what ails this Nelson, anyhow--tryin'
to get you shot, an' firin' your wells, an' everything?"
"He once did me a great injury."
"What kind?"
There was a pause. "I'd rather not go into that now, Buddy. To repeat
what I've been telling you, however, the situation is this: I've gone
as far as I can go with the backing I have, and I must make a quick
turn--strike one final blow or give up. Nelson and I are like two
wrestlers floundering on the mat. We're both tired, groggy, out of
breath. Whichever one gets the first hold will win, for the other lacks
strength to break it. Do you think your father would trust me? Do you
think he'd go it blind on my say-so?"
"If he won't, I will. I got money. So's Allie."
Gray declined this offer with a positive shake of the head. "It must
appeal to him on its merits. I wouldn't permit you to go contrary to
his judgment."
"Judgment? What's Pa's judgment worth? He knows it's no good, an' so do
we. Everybody's tryin' to do him up but you; you're the only one he
trusts. An' the same here. There's my bank roll--you can shoot the
whole piece. I don't care if it never comes back. Tryin' to get you
killed! An' spoilin' a well on me!"
"Thank you, Buddy! You--make me slow to trust my own judgment. I--I
seem to be developing a conscience. But I'm sure this is the thing to
do, for you and your father as well as for me. People can't stand
still; they must go forward. The Briskow fortune must grow or it will
crumble."
"I dunno if we've got as much in us as you seem to think," the boy
said, doubtfully.
"Look at Allie! And, you, too! You took hold of this field work and ran
it like a man. I said you'd make a hand, and you have. The day is
coming when people like you, who went from poverty to affluence
overnight, will retrace that journey. That's the time when the truly
dramatic story of the Texas oil boom will be written. Then will come
the real tragedy, and you mustn't be caught in it. Money isn't a
servant, Buddy; it is a master, and a mighty stern, relentless master,
at that. When your first well blew in, it didn't mean ease and
enjoyment, as you thought; it meant hard work for the rest of your
life."
"If you'd talked to me like this when I went off to school," the boy
said, after a moment of consideration, "mebbe I'd of made myself
swallow some more education, even if I had to take it out of a bottle
along with the little kids."
Gray smiled. "You have common sense, at least, and that's something you
can't get in school. Men wear smooth from contact with one another, and
it is time you got in touch with something bigger than mere drilling.
If you're willing, I'll take you to Wichita Falls with me."
"_Willing?_" Buddy's eyes sparkled. Guiltily he confessed: "It's been
pretty--lonesome out here with the scorpions. But I wanted to show you
I could make good."
"Do you drink any more?"
"Haven't touched a drop. I don't reckon I ever will, either. I don't
take to the idea of back-trackin' to this farm an' gettin' old in
overalls, like you say. I'm sort of penurious an' I aim to keep what
little sense I got. A feller as dull as I am can't afford to drink."
"One thing more." Gray nodded approvingly. "I want you to promise me
that you won't fall in love with the first woman you meet. I'd never be
able to lick you again."
Buddy showed his strong, white teeth in a broad grin. "I promise! That
boy with the bass voice cured me. I'm goin' to be a hermit."
News of the damage wrought by the recent storm was naturally of grave
concern to Henry Nelson, but owing to the fact that lines were down,
about his only source of information, during the days immediately
following it, was the press reports. He was reading the Dallas papers
with interest one morning when his attention was arrested by the name
of Calvin Gray. Now Gray's name in print affected the banker almost as
disagreeably as did a sight of the man himself; therefore it was with
intense resentment that he read the article in which it appeared. It
was a vividly written account of the former's experience during the
flood, and, due no doubt to Gray's personal touch, it read a good deal
like fiction. The man had a unique turn for publicity, a knack for
self-advertising that infuriated Nelson. To read this anybody would
think that he was one of the dominant figures in the oil industry, and
that his enterprises were immensely successful. With a sneer Nelson
flung the paper aside. So, that was how it had happened. The well had
been fired--Henry believed he could account for that--but a miracle had
quenched the flame. Falling drill stems! Who ever heard of such a
thing? Such luck was uncanny--enough to give one the creeps. If Gray
were tied hand and foot and thrown into a river, somebody would drag
him out--with his pockets full of fish! And to be marooned for days in
the midst of a blazing lake--Damnation! Well, luck like that was bound
to change. It had changed. The note of assurance in this self-edited
story was patently counterfeit, or so Henry told himself, for surely
the fellow must know by this time that his race was run. Probably this
was a desperate effort to secure further backing. If so, it would fail.
Henry believed that he had weakened his enemy's support so completely
that he would fall of his own weight; he considered it, in fact, about
the cleverest move he had ever made to dispose of a block of bank stock
in such a way as not only to tide him over his own difficulties, but
also to make allies of Gray's associates--the very men who had been
fighting him. Those men were through with the scoundrel now, and who
else could he appeal to, once they abandoned him? Nobody. No, the ice
had been thin, at times--Henry had felt it bending under him--but he
was safe at last. The crossing had been made.
So much accomplished; now that the fellow was down and could no longer
fight back, it was time to see that Barbara Parker learned the truth
about her gallant suitor. The next time Tom Parker came into the bank
Henry called him into his private office and had a talk with him.
Old Tom listened silently; nevertheless, it was plain that he was
deeply shocked.
"I s'pose you ain't lyin'," he said, coldly, when the banker had
finished.
"It's a matter of record, Tom. He can't deny it."
"Why did you--hold off so long?"
"We're not exactly friends. He foolishly believes that I had something
to do with his disgrace, and he has done his best to injure me. Under
the circumstances, I couldn't very well say anything. I wouldn't speak
now, except for the fact that 'Bob' is interested in him and--well, I'm
interested in 'Bob.'"
"She's been interested in him from the first. I don't see that the
circumstances are much different than they have been," Tom said, sourly.
"Put it down to jealousy, if you wish." Henry was impatient.
"And I don't know as 'Bob' ever encouraged you to think--"
"Perhaps not. But she is the only woman I ever saw that I'd make Mrs.
Nelson."
"What was it he did?"
"'Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman' is the way the record
stands. That covers a lot."
"Did he welch--quit under fire?"
"No."
"Steal something?"
"No."
"Woman scrape?"
"There was--a woman concerned. Pretty nasty mess, Tom. He's the sort of
man to intrigue any foolish woman. Women can't see far."
"I s'pose so." Mr. Parker rose stiffly. "But we don't have to worry
about 'Bob.' She ain't foolish and her eyesight is good. She's got more
sense than all three of us men." With this noncommittal remark the
father limped out.
But Tom was more deeply troubled than he had shown. Nothing to be said
against a man could have weighed more heavily with him than this
particular charge. To a man of his type dereliction of duty was a
crime; dishonorable discharge from the army of his country was an
appalling indictment implying utter moral turpitude. Tom had known more
than one fellow who was guilty of conduct unbecoming a gentleman--as a
matter of fact, he had reason to respect certain of them for some of
their ungentlemanly conduct--but conduct unbecoming an officer was
something altogether different. He had never met but one such, and he
had shot that fellow just above the bridge of the nose. A traitor to
his oath of office, a man who could dishonor his state, his country,
was worse than a renegade; his name was a hissing upon the lips of
decent people. Scalawags like that were not to be tolerated. It seemed
incredible that Gray could be one.
Yes, and "Bob" liked the fellow--but so did he, for that matter. In
great perturbation of spirit Tom consulted Judge Halloran.
The judge listened to him in astonishment; angrily he cried: "The idea
of his paying court to 'Bob'! The insufferable insolence of it! Why, I
consider it a personal affront."
"Where do _you_ come in to get all het up?" Tom growled.
"_What?_" Halloran's irascible face reddened. '"Where do I--'? My God!
Haven't I--? Don't I stand in _loco parentis_ to the girl?"
"You ain't as _loco parentis_ to her as I am. She's my son. Trouble is,
I like Mr. Gray. You don't think Henry could be lying?"
"He wouldn't dare. It is too serious. No, Tom, there's just one thing
to do; you and I will go directly to the scoundrel, tell him we are
aware of his infamy, and order him out of town. Ha! That's the way to
go about it; cut deep and quickly. Tar and feathers are too good for--"
"Trouble is," Tom repeated, with a reluctant sigh, "I like him and I
ain't sure--"
"The trouble is you're a weakling!" Halloran snapped. "You are
a--sentimentalist. You lack my stern, uncompromising moral fiber.
_Like_ him? Pah! What has that to do with it? I have no weakness, no
bowels of compassion. I am a Spartan. I am--"
"You're a damned old fool--if you think you can run _him_. He's liable
to run you."
Judge Halloran was furious at this; he was hurt, too. He sputtered for
a moment before managing to say: "Have it your own way. You are trying
to be unpleasant--not that it requires conscious effort--but I won't
argue with you."
"Don't! I hate arguments. That's why I don't like to talk this over
with Mr. Gray. When I'm mad enough to argue I'm mad enough to fight,
and I fight better than I argue."
If, indeed, Calvin Gray's affairs were in a condition as precarious as
Nelson believed, he showed no signs of it when he returned to Wichita
Falls. On the contrary, he was in an exultant mood, and even on the
train young Briskow, who accompanied him, was amazed at the change that
had come over his friend. With every mile they traveled Gray's buoyancy
increased and upon his arrival he trod the street to his office like a
conqueror. McWade and Stoner, who came in for a conference with minds
preoccupied and faces grave, left with a smile and a jest.
When they had gone, Gray rose with relief and surprised Buddy by
saying: "That's enough for now, thank goodness! Business is only one
side of life, my boy. You are going to make this city your home, so you
must begin by meeting the right people, the influential people. Nicest
people in the world right here, Buddy; nicest place in the world, too!"
Now to a youth who, for months, had been immured in the oil fields,
Wichita Falls did indeed resemble a city of marvelous portent.
Pavements, large buildings, bright lights, theaters--Buddy was
thrilled. He prepared himself for introduction to oil operators, to men
of finance sitting in marble and mahogany offices; he made ready to
step forth into the big world.
Great was his astonishment, therefore, when after a swift walk Gray
turned into a tiny frame insurance office on a side street. Funny place
to look for people of influence, Buddy cogitated.
A girl was seated at a desk; she rose at sight of Gray, and her face
broke into a smile. Her greeting was warm; her hand lingered in his;
for the moment neither of them seemed to remember Buddy's presence.
When she did hear his name, however, her face lightened and she gave
her hand to him as to an old friend. When she smiled at him, as she had
smiled at his companion, Buddy dropped his hat. He had never seen
anyone in the least like this creature and--she knew Allie! She knew
his mother! That was astonishing. He wondered why they had never said
anything about it. Before she had finished telling him about that
meeting in the store at Dallas, Buddy realized that here indeed was an
influential person, a citizen of supreme importance. He had missed her
name, but probably she owned that Dallas department store, or was the
Mayor of Wichita Falls. He had never before been so embarrassed.
Mr. Gray certainly was a wonderful man. His poise, his air of
respectful but easy familiarity with this--this angel raised him
immensely in Buddy's esteem. Think of joking, chatting, making pretty
speeches to an--an angel! That was going some. The gall of it!
They were talking about that big gasser of Gray's; the fire; the
overflow; and the melodramatic occurrences of the past fortnight. Gray
was telling her how Buddy had saved his life at the well, how he had
risked his own, later, in braving the flood, and she was listening with
eager smiles and nods and exclamations. When she turned admiring,
grateful eyes upon the hero of Gray's story--and the story had been
told in a manner to make Buddy no less--that youth felt himself
suffocating, burning up. Mr. Gray sure knew how to talk; he could sling
language. And _lie_--! Gosh, how beautifully he could lie! It was
splendid of him to exaggerate like this, so as to set him in solid with
the most important person in town. That was noble! People were awful
nice. And this certainly was a grand city. Buddy knew he was going to
get along fine; and he'd never forget Mr. Gray for this.
After a while, when the two men were on the street again, Buddy
inquired: "Who is that young lady? I mean--her name?"
Gray told him, then with a friendly twinkle: "Well, speak out! What do
you think of her?"
"Oh--_Gee_!" Buddy cried, breathlessly, whereupon his companion laughed
in perfect satisfaction.