Part 58 (1/2)

”You're taking me to your ranch!” she gasped. ”_Me?_”

He nodded. ”You, n.o.body else.”

She laughed harshly without a note of hysteria. ”You're two hundred years behind the times. Men don't carry off their women any more.”

”Here's one that will,” he told her. ”You're going with me, y'understand. And you needn't stop to wash your face or change into petticoats either. I'm not letting you out of my sight. If you wanna take any extra duds along, you can wrap 'em up. What's the answer--you going willing or will I have to tie you up in a bundle?”

”You idiot, even your friends wouldn't stand you turning such a trick as this! I'll bet you couldn't get your own men to help you. That's why you had to come alone.”

His suddenly bloating features gave evidence that her shot had told.

Bending down, he shook her shoulder roughly. And now for the first time she smelt his breath. It was rank with the raw odor of whisky.

So that was what had given him the wild idea of carrying her off by force. The man was drunk. Sober, he was bad enough. Drunk, he was capable of anything.

She reached stoveward for the lid lifter. Rafe seized her wrist and jerked her sidewise.

”None of that!” he snarled. ”Gonna get your clothes or not?”

”I'll get them,” she said calmly. ”Let go of my wrist.”

If she could win into the next room where the six-shooter was hanging on the wall, it might be possible to--but he did not release her wrist.

”I'll go with you,” he told her with a leer. ”You're too slippery a customer to trust alone.”

As he turned with her, the lamplight fell full on his face, and she saw that his eyes were bloodshot! He also saw something that had hitherto escaped his notice. He saw the whisky bottle on the shelf in the cupboard. She had neglected to close the cupboard door.

”I'll have a short drink first,” he said, and dragged her to the cupboard.

He was holding her left-handed. She was on the wrong side to reach his gun. Nevertheless she swung her body in front of him and s.n.a.t.c.hed wildly at the pistol b.u.t.t.

He did not divine her intention but thought she was trying to keep him away from the whisky. The result was the same, for he wrenched her back with a twist that started the tears in her eyes.

Holding the bottle in one hand, he drew the cork with his teeth, spat it out and applied his lips to the bottle neck. He swallowed long and generously. Hazel saw his Adam's apple slide up and down a dozen times. At such a rate the man would be a fiend in no time.

”Let me get my clothes,” she begged.

Anything to get him away from the liquor. But Rafe was not so easily separated from his old friend.

”Wait a minute,” he said peevishly, lowering the bottle and fixing her with his bloodshot gaze. ”Don't be in such a hurry. Here, have one yourself.”

He thrust the bottle toward her. She took it from him, held it to her mouth and then the bottle seemed to slip from her fingers. She s.n.a.t.c.hed at it, juggled it a split second and--the bottle smashed in bits on a corner of the stove.

”Oh, I'm so sorry!” she cried, quite as if she had not contrived the catastrophe on purpose.

”I'll make you sorrier!” Rafe exclaimed and without more ado cast both arms around her.

He was striving to kiss her and she, face crushed against his rough s.h.i.+rt, fought him like the primeval female every woman becomes in like circ.u.mstances. Her right hand clawed upward at his face. Her left arm, doubled between their two bodies, she strove to work free so that she could grab his gun.

Rafe received three distinct clawings that considerably altered the appearance of one side of his face, before he was able to confine those active fingers.