I told him to cease and desist.
The big blow fell late one Thursday afternoon. Buck and Evangeline were off that day and Bill was taking the guests out on the ride, since Curly had a sick headache and was allegedly suffering in the bunkhouse. I was alone in the ranch house, and Junior and Murphy were dozing in the deck chairs on their terrace. At least, Murphy was asleep.
I was considering a little shut-eye of my own when I heard a car coming into the drive—and it wasn't exactly rolling in with the noise a regular car makes, but sort of sneaking in, if such a thing is possible for a car to do.
"Lord, who's this coming without a reservation?" I said to The Girls.
Neither cat answered.
I peeked out the window and noticed the gold of Junior's Jaguar and the fuchsia of Curly's new silk shirt. And I was boiling mad! Curly had claimed to have too severe a headache to take out the afternoon ride, leaving Bill to do it on cook's day off. Yet he now seemed perfectly able to get himself up in his new finery, borrow Junior's car, which I had told him not to do, and have a little outing all his own. But, as the car was moving so slowly and sur reptitiously behind the shrubbery, I had plenty of time to get out of the house and plant myself squarely in the middle of the driveway.
When Curly saw me he gave me a look that made me think he'd like to gun the car up full speed and flatten me, but I stood my ground and the car stopped just short of my skirt.
"Feeling better, Curly?" I asked him.
"Uh, yes, Ma'am," he mumbled. "A little."
"And you thought that a nice little spin in Mr. Name less' car—which I've told you sixteen times not to drive—would make you feel still better, didn't you?"
"Ma'am, I felt so poorly I just went inta.town to git me some cough medicine."
"I thought you had a headache, Curly," I said, edging around to the side of the car. "You even mentioned some thing about brain tumors running in your family. The distaff side, I believe you said."
"Well, I did, Ma'am," Curly stammered, "an' I drove in to git me some powders."
"You certainly got a lot of them, Curly," I said, snatch ing the package off the seat beside him. It contained a quart bottle of gin.
"Oh, I meant to tell yuh, Ma'am, I got that for Mister Bill. He tole me to."
"Mister Bill doesn't drink gin, Curly," I said, "and if he did, there's plenty of it in the house. Locked up." All of a sudden I was beginning to get the whole picture— Junior's decline and fall, Curly's new finery, his unex plained absences—and Curly, fuchsia silks and all, did not make a very pretty picture as an amateur bootlegger pandering to a hopeless alcoholic whose family was try ing to straighten him out.
"He tole me to git it in time for the cook-up, Ma'am," Curly said. "He wants it fer the barbecue sauce."
"My husband uses sherry in the barbecue sauce, Curly. He uses one tablespoon and we've got gallons of sherry in die house, too."
Curly was the color of his shirt, but he was steadfast in his big lie. "I don't know nothin' about that, Ma'am. Bill just tole me . . ."
"Did he ask you before he took the ride out this afternoon or when he got back?" I asked coldly.
"Just as soon as he came back, Ma'am," Curly said hurriedly, clutching at any straw. "He come inta the bunkhouse an' sez 'Curly, will you go inta town an' . . .' "
"Well, that is odd, Curly," I said, "because he isn't back yet. Now, stop lying to me and tell me the truth: You went out and got that gin for Mr. Nameless, didn't you?"
"Ma'am, I . . ."
"Didn't you?"
"Well, he did ask me to . . ."
"And you've been rumrunning for him for the last couple of weeks, haven't you?"
"Well, Ma'am, I did do a couple of little errands for him when he . . ."
"And. he's been paying you money—lots of money—to keep him supplied, hasn't he, Curly?"
"Miz Barbara, I on'y did what he . . ."
"Did it ever occur to you that he's a sick man, that liquor is poison to him, that his family sent him out here, with Murphy
The big blow fell late one Thursday afternoon. Buck and Evangeline were off that day and Bill was taking the guests out on the ride, since Curly had a sick headache and was allegedly suffering in the bunkhouse. I was alone in the ranch house, and Junior and Murphy were dozing in the deck chairs on their terrace. At least, Murphy was asleep.
I was considering a little shut-eye of my own when I heard a car coming into the drive—and it wasn't exactly rolling in with the noise a regular car makes, but sort of sneaking in, if such a thing is possible for a car to do.
"Lord, who's this coming without a reservation?" I said to The Girls.
Neither cat answered.
I peeked out the window and noticed the gold of Junior's Jaguar and the fuchsia of Curly's new silk shirt. And I was boiling mad! Curly had claimed to have too severe a headache to take out the afternoon ride, leaving Bill to do it on cook's day off. Yet he now seemed perfectly able to get himself up in his new finery, borrow Junior's car, which I had told him not to do, and have a little outing all his own. But, as the car was moving so slowly and sur reptitiously behind the shrubbery, I had plenty of time to get out of the house and plant myself squarely in the middle of the driveway.
When Curly saw me he gave me a look that made me think he'd like to gun the car up full speed and flatten me, but I stood my ground and the car stopped just short of my skirt.
"Feeling better, Curly?" I asked him.
"Uh, yes, Ma'am," he mumbled. "A little."
"And you thought that a nice little spin in Mr. Name less' car—which I've told you sixteen times not to drive—would make you feel still better, didn't you?"
"Ma'am, I felt so poorly I just went inta.town to git me some cough medicine."
"I thought you had a headache, Curly," I said, edging around to the side of the car. "You even mentioned some thing about brain tumors running in your family. The distaff side, I believe you said."
"Well, I did, Ma'am," Curly stammered, "an' I drove in to git me some powders."
"You certainly got a lot of them, Curly," I said, snatch ing the package off the seat beside him. It contained a quart bottle of gin.
"Oh, I meant to tell yuh, Ma'am, I got that for Mister Bill. He tole me to."
"Mister Bill doesn't drink gin, Curly," I said, "and if he did, there's plenty of it in the house. Locked up." All of a sudden I was beginning to get the whole picture— Junior's decline and fall, Curly's new finery, his unex plained absences—and Curly, fuchsia silks and all, did not make a very pretty picture as an amateur bootlegger pandering to a hopeless alcoholic whose family was try ing to straighten him out.
"He tole me to git it in time for the cook-up, Ma'am," Curly said. "He wants it fer the barbecue sauce."
"My husband uses sherry in the barbecue sauce, Curly. He uses one tablespoon and we've got gallons of sherry in die house, too."
Curly was the color of his shirt, but he was steadfast in his big lie. "I don't know nothin' about that, Ma'am. Bill just tole me . . ."
"Did he ask you before he took the ride out this afternoon or when he got back?" I asked coldly.
"Just as soon as he came back, Ma'am," Curly said hurriedly, clutching at any straw. "He come inta the bunkhouse an' sez 'Curly, will you go inta town an' . . .' "
"Well, that is odd, Curly," I said, "because he isn't back yet. Now, stop lying to me and tell me the truth: You went out and got that gin for Mr. Nameless, didn't you?"
"Ma'am, I . . ."
"Didn't you?"
"Well, he did ask me to . . ."
"And you've been rumrunning for him for the last couple of weeks, haven't you?"
"Well, Ma'am, I did do a couple of little errands for him when he . . ."
"And. he's been paying you money—lots of money—to keep him supplied, hasn't he, Curly?"
"Miz Barbara, I on'y did what he . . ."
"Did it ever occur to you that he's a sick man, that liquor is poison to him, that his family sent him out here, with Murphy
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