"I'm moody, depressed; I'm getting so I imagine things. By and by I'll
begin to think I'm persecuted--I believe that's how it works. Already I
have hallucinations in broad daylight, and I'm afraid of the dark.
Fancy! I don't sleep very often, and when I do I wake up in a puddle of
sweat, shivering. And dreams! God, what dreams! I know they're dreams,
now, but sooner or later I suppose I'll begin to believe in 'em." Dave
sighed and settled lower in his chair. "I--I'm mighty tired."
Ellsworth clapped him on the back. "Come, now! A perfectly healthy man
could wreck his reason this way. You must stop it. You must do
something to occupy your mind."
"Sure. That's what brings me home. I'm going to the front."
"To the war?"
"Yes. They're recruiting a rough-rider regiment in San Antone. I joined
yesterday, and I've come to get my horse."
After a time Ellsworth said, "Alaire has commenced her action." Dave
took a deep, sharp breath and began to tremble weakly. "I didn't tell
her, but--you must. We can't go on like this."
"Suppose I just go to war and--and don't come back?" thickly inquired
the sufferer.
"That won't do. You won't get killed--fellows like you never do.
Wouldn't you rather have her know the truth than believe you to be a
quitter?" Ellsworth waited a minute. "Do you want me to tell her for
you, Dave?"
Law shook his head slowly, wearily. "No, I'll do it. I'm game. I'd
rather she heard it from me."
Blaze Jones took the San Antonio paper out upon the porch and composed
himself in the hammock to read the latest war news. Invasion! Troops!
The Stars and Stripes! Those were words that stirred Jones deeply and
caused him to neglect his work. Now that his country had fully awakened
to the necessity of a war with Mexico--a necessity he had long felt--he
was fired with the loftiest patriotism and a youthful eagerness to
enlist. Blaze realized that he was old and fat and near-sighted; but
what of that? He could fight. Fighting, in fact, had been one of his
earliest accomplishments, and he prided himself upon knowing as much
about it as any one man could learn. He believed in fighting both as a
principle and as an exercise; in fact, he attributed his good health to
his various neighborly "unpleasantnesses," and he had more than once
argued that no great fighter ever died of a sluggish liver or of any
one of the other ills that beset sedentary, peace-loving people.
Nations were like men--too much ease made them flabby. And Blaze had
his own ideas of strategy, too. So during the perusal of his paper he
bemoaned the mistakes his government was making. Why waste time with
ultimatums? he argued to himself. He had never done so. Experience had
taught him that the way to win a battle was to beat the other fellow to
the draw; hence this diplomatic procrastination filled him with
impatience. It seemed almost treasonable to one of Blaze's intense
patriotism.
He was engaged in laying out a plan of campaign for the United States
when he became conscious of voices behind him, and realized that for
some time Paloma had been entertaining a caller in the front room.
Their conversation had not disturbed him at first, but now an
occasional word or sentence forced its meaning through his
preoccupation, and he found himself listening.
Paloma's visitor was a woman, and as Blaze harkened to her voice, he
felt his heart sink. It was Mrs. Strange. She was here again. With
difficulty Blaze conquered an impulse to flee, for she was recounting a
story all too familiar to him.
"Why, it seemed as if the whole city of Galveston was there, and yet
nobody offered to help us," the dressmaker was saying. "Phil was a
perfect hero, for the ruffian was twice his size. Oh, it was an awful
fight! I hate to think of it."
"What made him pinch you?" Paloma inquired.
"Heaven only knows. Some men are dreadful that way. Why, he left a
black-and-blue mark!"
Blaze broke into a cold sweat and cursed feebly under his breath.
"He wasn't drunk, either. He was just naturally depraved. You could see
it in his face."
"How DID you escape?"
"Well, I'll tell you. We chased him up across the boulevard and in
among the tents, and then--" Mrs. Strange lowered her voice until only
a murmur reached the listening man. A moment, then both women burst
into shrill, excited laughter, and Blaze himself blushed furiously.
This was unbearable! It was bad enough to have that woman in
Jonesville, a constant menace to his good name, but to allow her access
to his own home was unthinkable. Sooner or later they were bound to
meet, and then Paloma would learn the disgraceful truth--yes, and the
whole neighborhood would likewise know his shame. In fancy, Blaze saw
his reputation torn to shreds and himself exposed to the gibes of the
people who venerated him. He would become a scandal among men, an
offense to respectable women; children would shun him. Blaze could not
bear to think of the consequences, for he was very fond of the women
and children of Jonesville, especially the women. He rose from his
hammock and tiptoed down the porch into the kitchen, from which point
of security he called loudly for his daughter.
Alarmed at his tone, Paloma came running. "What is the matter?" she
asked, quickly.
"Get her out!" Blaze cried, savagely. "Get shed of her."
"Her? Who?"
"That varmint."
"Father, what ails you?"
"Nothin' ails me, but I don't want that caterpillar crawlin' around my
premises. I don't like her."
Paloma regarded her parent curiously. "How do you know you don't like
her when you've never seen her?"
"Oh, I've seen her, all I want to; and I heard her talkin' to you just
now. I won't stand for nobody tellin' you--bad stories."