looking after him, just so he could get well and stop drinking and . . ."
"Ma'am, he jus' likes a drink like anyone elst."
It suddenly occurred to me that I was carrying on like a fishwife right out in the wide-open spaces. It also occurred to me that it was now or never for dealing with Curly—now, when I'd caught him red-handed. By throwing a good scare into him we'd undoubtedly end up with a better wrangler than we'd started with and the Nameless family might possibly end up with a better heir. "Come into the house, Curly," I said. "I want to talk to you."
He shambled out of the car, leaving the motor still running.
"Just leave that bottle in the car, Curly," I said, "This is one package you're not going to deliver." With a stately toss of my head, I guided Curly up to the ranch house, sat him down in the empty lounge, and started my tem perance lecture. I also dragged in such tear jerkers as Duty to One's Employer, Honesty, One Lie Leading to a Thousand—oh, I was going great. So great, in fact, that Curly was close to tears and I shed a couple myself.
My spiel lasted the better part of an hour and it mightstill be going if I hadn't heard Murphy out in the driveway shouting, "Holymarymotheragawd! Junior!"
I rushed to the window just in time to see Junior, drunk as a lord, sitting in the car tipping the last of the gin to his lips. Then I saw Murphy dash out into the driveway, but not fast enough. With a roar of the motor, the Jaguar was off with Junior at the controls.
Curly and I raced out just as the car shot past. Junior screamed something that sounded like a Comanche war whoop and tossed the empty bottle out with a crash. Then he gunned the car and really roared up the driveway and out of sight around the back of the house.
"He ain't allowed to drive!" Murphy panted. "He's wrecked a dozen cars already!" Then Murphy got into the station wagon and tried to follow, but our old Ford was no match for the Jaguar.
Oddly enough, I had sufficient presence of mind to rush Curly down to close the front gate so that at least Junior would be confined to our ranch and wouldn't go killing any total strangers—just the guests and me. Then, having been almost knocked down by the station wagon, I got up on the terrace where I'd be a good deal safer than I was standing in the middle of the driveway. At first I philosophically thought it might be wiser to let Junior drive around the property until he got tired of it or ran into something and had to stop, or until he used up all the gas, or until the quart of gin had had its full effect and he passed out at the wheel. Whenever that might be. But just then I saw Bill, seven guests, and eight horses plodding over-the hill and my heart literally stopped beat ing. So, just to add to the general pandemonium, I joined in the melee, too. Better to leave Bill a widower on the ranch than to have him killed and be left there by myself, I thought as I joined in the chase.
Junior circumnavigated the house twice, with Curly and me chasing him and Murphy chasing us and the horses coining nearer and nearer. But I guess Junior was getting a little bored with that dull old gravelly driveway, because the third time around he didn't stick to the road. Instead, he swung sharply to the right and shot up the hill behind the house where there wasn't any road at all. Horrified, I saw his car leap up the hill between his house and the pump house. The snapping and splintering of our trees was almost deafening, and he'd started a minor landslide. Murphy, in the station wagon, was in hot pursuit, charging right up the hill behind Junior.
Rather selfishly, I yelled: "Don't take our car up that hill! You'll . . ."
My warning was drowned out by the loudest splash I've ever heard.
"Oh, dear," I whispered to nobody at all, "the swim ming pool!"
I raced up the hill just in time to see Junior float to the surface, a little like Vera Zorina in the Goldwyn Follies. Down in the bottom of our lovely turquoise
"Ma'am, he jus' likes a drink like anyone elst."
It suddenly occurred to me that I was carrying on like a fishwife right out in the wide-open spaces. It also occurred to me that it was now or never for dealing with Curly—now, when I'd caught him red-handed. By throwing a good scare into him we'd undoubtedly end up with a better wrangler than we'd started with and the Nameless family might possibly end up with a better heir. "Come into the house, Curly," I said. "I want to talk to you."
He shambled out of the car, leaving the motor still running.
"Just leave that bottle in the car, Curly," I said, "This is one package you're not going to deliver." With a stately toss of my head, I guided Curly up to the ranch house, sat him down in the empty lounge, and started my tem perance lecture. I also dragged in such tear jerkers as Duty to One's Employer, Honesty, One Lie Leading to a Thousand—oh, I was going great. So great, in fact, that Curly was close to tears and I shed a couple myself.
My spiel lasted the better part of an hour and it mightstill be going if I hadn't heard Murphy out in the driveway shouting, "Holymarymotheragawd! Junior!"
I rushed to the window just in time to see Junior, drunk as a lord, sitting in the car tipping the last of the gin to his lips. Then I saw Murphy dash out into the driveway, but not fast enough. With a roar of the motor, the Jaguar was off with Junior at the controls.
Curly and I raced out just as the car shot past. Junior screamed something that sounded like a Comanche war whoop and tossed the empty bottle out with a crash. Then he gunned the car and really roared up the driveway and out of sight around the back of the house.
"He ain't allowed to drive!" Murphy panted. "He's wrecked a dozen cars already!" Then Murphy got into the station wagon and tried to follow, but our old Ford was no match for the Jaguar.
Oddly enough, I had sufficient presence of mind to rush Curly down to close the front gate so that at least Junior would be confined to our ranch and wouldn't go killing any total strangers—just the guests and me. Then, having been almost knocked down by the station wagon, I got up on the terrace where I'd be a good deal safer than I was standing in the middle of the driveway. At first I philosophically thought it might be wiser to let Junior drive around the property until he got tired of it or ran into something and had to stop, or until he used up all the gas, or until the quart of gin had had its full effect and he passed out at the wheel. Whenever that might be. But just then I saw Bill, seven guests, and eight horses plodding over-the hill and my heart literally stopped beat ing. So, just to add to the general pandemonium, I joined in the melee, too. Better to leave Bill a widower on the ranch than to have him killed and be left there by myself, I thought as I joined in the chase.
Junior circumnavigated the house twice, with Curly and me chasing him and Murphy chasing us and the horses coining nearer and nearer. But I guess Junior was getting a little bored with that dull old gravelly driveway, because the third time around he didn't stick to the road. Instead, he swung sharply to the right and shot up the hill behind the house where there wasn't any road at all. Horrified, I saw his car leap up the hill between his house and the pump house. The snapping and splintering of our trees was almost deafening, and he'd started a minor landslide. Murphy, in the station wagon, was in hot pursuit, charging right up the hill behind Junior.
Rather selfishly, I yelled: "Don't take our car up that hill! You'll . . ."
My warning was drowned out by the loudest splash I've ever heard.
"Oh, dear," I whispered to nobody at all, "the swim ming pool!"
I raced up the hill just in time to see Junior float to the surface, a little like Vera Zorina in the Goldwyn Follies. Down in the bottom of our lovely turquoise
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