Part 12 (2/2)
Jonesville proved to be a typical Texas town of the modern variety, and altogether different to the pictured frontier village. There were no one-storied square fronts, no rows of saloons with well-gnawed hitching-rails, no rioting cowboys. On the contrary, the larger buildings were of artificial stone, the sidewalks of concrete, and the store fronts of plate-gla.s.s. Arc-lights shed a bluish-white glare over the wide street-crossings, and all in all the effect was much like that of a prosperous, orderly Northern farming town.
Not that Jonesville would have filled an eye for beauty. It was too new and crude and awkward for that. It fitted loosely into its clothes, for its citizens had patterned it with regard for the future, and it sprawled over twice its legitimate area. But to its happy founder it seemed well-nigh perfect, and its destiny roused his maddest enthusiasm. He showed Dave the little red frame railroad station, distinguished in some mysterious way above the hundred thousand other little red frame railroad stations of the identical size and style; he pointed out the Odd Fellows Hall, the Palace Picture Theater, with its glaring orange lights and discordant electric piano; he conducted Law to the First National Bank, of which Blaze was a proud but somewhat ornamental director; then to the sugar-mill, the ice-plant, and other points of equally novel interest.
Everywhere he went, Jones was hailed by friends, for everybody seemed to know him and to want to shake his hand.
”SOME town and SOME body of men, eh?” he inquired, finally, and Dave agreed:
”Yes. She's got a grand framework, Blaze. She'll be most as big as Fort Worth when you fatten her up.”
Jones waved his buggy-whip in a wide circle that took in the miles of level prairie on all sides. ”We've got the whole blamed state to grow in. And, Dave, I haven't got an enemy in the place! It wasn't many years ago that certain people allowed I'd never live to raise this town. Why, it used to be that n.o.body dared to ride with me--except Paloma, and she used to sleep with a shot-gun at her bedside.”
”You sure have been a responsibility to her.”
”But I'm as safe now as if I was in church.”
Law ventured to remark that none of Blaze's enemies had grown fat in prosecuting their feuds, but this was a subject which the elder man invariably found embarra.s.sing, and now he said:
”Pshaw! I never was the blood-letter people think. I'm as gentle as a sheep.” Then to escape further curiosity on that point he suggested that they round out their riotous evening with a game of pool.
Law boasted a liberal education, but he was no match for the father of Jonesville, who wielded a cue with a dexterity born of years of devotion to the game. In consequence, Blaze's enjoyment was in a fair way to languish when the proprietor of the Elite Billiard Parlor returned from supper to say:
”Mr. Jones, there's a real good pool-player in town, and he wants to meet you.”
Blaze uttered a triumphant cry. ”Get him, quick! Send the bra.s.s-band to bring him. Dave, you hook your spurs over the rung of a chair and watch your uncle clean this tenderfoot. If he's got cla.s.s, I'll make him mayor of the town, for a good pool-shooter is all this metropolis lacks. Why, sometimes I go plumb to San Antone for a game.” He whispered in his friend's ear, ”Paloma don't let me gamble, but if you've got any dinero, get it down on me.” Then, addressing the bystanders, he proclaimed, ”Boys, if this pilgrim is good enough to stretch me out we'll marry him off and settle him down.”
”No chance, Uncle Blaze; he's the most married person in town,” some one volunteered. ”His wife is the new dressmaker--and she's got a mustache.” For some reason this remark excited general mirth.
”That's too bad. I never saw but one woman with a mustache, and she licked me good. If he's yoked up to that kind of a lady, I allow his nerves will be wrecked before he gets here. I hope to G.o.d he ain't entirely done for.” Blaze ran the last three b.a.l.l.s from a well-nigh impossible position, then racked up the whole fifteen with trembling eagerness and eyed the door expectantly. He was wiping his spectacles when the proprietor returned with a slim, sallow man whom he introduced as Mr. Strange.
”Welcome to our city!” Blaze cried, with a flourish of his gla.s.ses.
”Get a prod, Mr. Strange, and bust 'em, while I clean my wind-s.h.i.+elds.
These fellow-townsmen of mine handle a cue like it was an ox-gad.”
Mr. Strange selected a cue, studied the pyramid for an instant, then called the three ball for the upper left-hand corner, and pocketed it, following which he ran the remaining fourteen. Blaze watched this procedure near-sightedly, and when the table was bare he thumped his cue loudly upon the floor. He beamed upon his opponent; he appeared ready to embrace him.
”Bueno! There's art, science, and natural apt.i.tude! Fly at 'em again, Mr. Strange, and take your fill.” He finished polis.h.i.+ng his spectacles, and readjusted them. ”I aim to make you so comfortable in Jonesville that---” Blaze paused, he started, and a peculiar expression crept over his face.
It seemed to Law that his friend actually turned pale; at any rate, his mouth dropped open and his gaze was no longer hypnotically following the pool-b.a.l.l.s, but was fixed upon his opponent.
Now there were chapters in the life of Blaze Jones that had never been fully written, and it occurred to Dave that such a one had been suddenly reopened; therefore he prepared himself for some kind of an outburst. But Blaze appeared to be numbed; he even jumped nervously when Mr. Strange missed a shot and advised him that his chance had come.
As water escapes from a leaky pail, so had Jones's fondness for pool oozed away, and with it had gone his accustomed skill. He shot blindly, and, much to the general surprise, missed an easy attempt.
”Can't expect to get 'em all,” comfortingly observed Mr. Strange as he executed a combination that netted him two b.a.l.l.s and broke the bunch.
After that he proved the insincerity of his statement by clearing the cloth for a second time. The succeeding frames went much the same, and finally Blaze put up his cue, mumbling:
”I reckon I must have another chill coming on. My feet are plumb dead.”
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