It was Blaze Jones, one of the few county residents granted access
to Las Palmas, who first acquainted himself with the outcome of
Alaire's experiment, and it was he who brought news of it to some
visiting stock-buyers at Brownsville.
Blaze was addicted to rhetorical extravagance. His voice was loud;
his fancy ran a splendid course.
"Gentlemen," said he, "you-all interest me with your talk about
your prize Northern stock; but I claim that the bigger the state
the bigger the cattle it raises. That's why old Texas beats the
world."
"But it doesn't," some one contradicted.
"It don't, hey? My boy"--Blaze jabbed a rigid finger into the
speaker's ribs, as if he expected a ground-squirrel to scuttle
forth--"we've got steers in this valley that are damn near the
size of the whole state of Rhode Island. If they keep on growin' I
doubt if you could fatten one of 'em in Delaware without he'd
bulge over into some neighboring commonwealth. It's the God's
truth! I was up at Las Palmas last month--"
"Las Palmas!" The name was enough to challenge the buyers'
interest.
Blaze nodded. "You-all think you know the stock business. You're
all swollen up with cow-knowledge, now, ain't you?" He eyed them
from beneath his black eyebrows.
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