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