As he came up the walk he heard Paloma laugh, and his own face
lightened, for Paloma's merriment was contagious. Then as he
mounted the steps and turned the corner of the "gallery" he
uttered a hearty greeting.
"Dave Law! Where in the world did you drop from?"
Law uncoiled himself and took the ranchman's hand. "Hello, Blaze!
I been ordered down here to keep you straight."
"Pshaw! Now who's giving you orders, Dave?"
"Why, I'm with the Rangers."
"Never knew a word of it. Last I heard you was filibustering
around with the Maderistas."
Blaze seated himself with a grateful sigh where the breeze played
over him. He was a big, bearlike, swarthy man with the square-
hewn, deep-lined face of a tragedian, and a head of long, curly
hair which he wore parted in a line over his left ear. Jones was a
character, a local landmark. This part of Texas had grown up with
Blaze, and, inasmuch as he had sprung from a free race of
pioneers, he possessed a splendid indifference to the artificial
fads of dress and manners. It was only since Paloma had attained
her womanhood that he had been forced to fight down his deep-
seated distrust of neckwear and store clothes and the like; but
now that his daughter had definitely asserted her rights, he had
acquired numerous unwelcome graces, and no longer ventured among
strangers without the stamp of her approval upon his appearance.
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